#i want that man psychologically tormented

[jungkoode]

CODE : EPITAPH | 01

“perfect match, death protocol”

"You've always known how you'd die. Not the when or the where—just the how. The Consortium would catch you. They'd execute you. What you never counted on was this precise flavor of fucked."

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˗ ✦ chapter details ✦ ˗

word count: 4.2k

rating: mature

content: 100% genetic matching, forced proximity, rebel capture, & that bone-deep certainty you're trapped with the architect of your nightmares

|| veyrah sectors || consortium territories || the verge wastes ||

˗ ✦ author's note ✦ ˗

Ohhhhh boy. Ohhhhhh Kiki Nation. You thought I was done tormenting you? Foolish. Delusional. Have you met me? You really thought I’d let Jungkook carry all the emotionally constipated weight of fanfic war crimes on his impossibly broad back? No no no. It’s Namjoon’s turn, baby. That’s right. Brainy. Brutal. Built like the consequences of my own unresolved issues. The man is a walking philosophical contradiction in tactical gear and I said, “Yeah. I’m gonna ruin him.”

So welcome to whatever the hell this is.

First of all, let’s just get one thing out of the way: this story is NOT set on Earth. I made up a planet. A sexy, miserable, tragic one. Aurora cycles? Check. Weird tectonic atmospheric vents? Obviously. Heat cycles??? Look. Listen. It’s not ABO. I’m not an animal. But also… smut. And Namjoon. And a knife against your throat at a molecular compatibility clinic. You get it. This fic is rooted in completely unhinged planetary science that exists only because I had a horny idea and then overcommitted to the worldbuilding.

And that’s not even the most psychotic part.

Combat pheromones.

Yes. I said it.

Combat. Pheromones.

Did I take the concept of primal attraction and militarize it like an emotionally damaged sci-fi gremlin? Absolutely. Did I then pair it with a death countdown, political rebellion, algorithmic executions, and a traumatic proximity-monitoring setup? You bet your ass I did. Because nothing—and I mean nothing—gets me going like forced emotional vulnerability under survival pressure. I wanted a story where “I hate you” and “I want you” and “I might die because of you” are all part of the same sentence. I wanted two people so viscerally repelled by what the other represents they can’t even breathe in the same space without getting physically affected… and then I made them share tactical missions. :)

This fic is… well. It’s messy. It’s brutal. It’s horny in the way trauma sometimes is. Namjoon here is not the safe space. He’s the algorithm. The architect. The man who built a machine that decides who lives and who dies—and now he has to sit across from the one person who might break the whole system. And Y/N? She’s not soft. She’s not gentle. She’s angry and calculating and hanging on to her humanity by a thread that keeps fraying every time Namjoon opens his perfectly calibrated mouth.

So yeah. Sixty days until one of them dies. Or both of them fall apart trying not to.

This is not FMU. This isn’t “oops we’re roommates and now I hate how hot you are.” This is “I will gut you if I get the chance but god help me I want to kiss you in the fallout bunker.” This is my love letter to high-stakes intimacy, psychological warfare, and the terror of being seen by the one person who was never supposed to matter. If FMU is messy 20s trauma rom-com, this is “what if Romeo and Juliet had access to explosives and machine learning?”

I am not well. But I am writing.

So buckle in. Because it’s going to get real nasty real fast. And I love that for us. Let the mutual destruction begin.

Love,

Kiki (who clearly has a god complex and no intention of using it for peace)

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You've always known how you'd die. Not the when or the where—just the how.

The Consortium would catch you. They'd execute you. Public, probably. They like the spectacle of rebels bleeding out under aurora light.

What you never counted on was this precise flavor of fucked.

The readout on the terminal blinks, sixty seconds of staring doing nothing to change the numbers: 100%. A perfect match. The first in recorded history.

You rip the connector from your wrist, the medical port leaving a perfect circle of blood welling up where the needle pulled free. The diagnostic bay smells like antiseptic and metal—the universal scent of bad news.

"Run it again," you tell Yoongi, who's hunched over the stolen medical interface like it might suddenly bite him.

"Wouldn't make a difference." His voice carries that particular Hollow Crest flatness—half sarcasm, half resignation. "System's triple-verified the sample against the database. It's real."

You pace the cramped confines of the abandoned medical outpost. Three steps. Wall. Three steps. Wall. The ceiling leaks something dark that's not quite water, hitting the concrete in a rhythm that matches the pounding in your skull.

Through the cracked viewport, the atmospheric glow shifts from deep blue to amber. Kindle's ending early today.

Fuck.

That means Wane in two hours, maybe less. The tunnels turn into hunting grounds when the light dies.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is who you’ve been paired to by the Epitaph System.

Perfect genetic match with Commander Kim Namjoon. The fucking architect himself.

The man who built the algorithm that decides which matched pair lives through Transference and which one dies. The machine that's slaughtered thousands while claiming to save the species from Veris. The coldest bastard in the Consortium's command structure.

And apparently, your genetic twin. Your perfect fucking match.

"This is a joke, right?" Your laugh scrapes raw from your throat. "The great rebel hacker and the Consortium's prize tactician? What, did they manipulate my profile in the database?"

Yoongi doesn't bother looking up, fingers skimming over the interface. His hands are scarred from years of working with explosives, chemical burns mapping a history of missions across his skin. 

“Database is clean. This is a primary pull, not from the central network. Direct sample comparison."

The reality sinks teeth into your gut. "He'll know."

"Already does." Yoongi's voice drops lower. "Alert went system-wide the moment the match registered. They'll be hunting you."

"They've been hunting me for years." 

You check your gear reflexively—blade at your hip, pistol in its holster, backup knife in your boot. The weight is familiar, comforting in its lethality. 

"This just changes the price on my head."

"This isn't a bounty adjustment." Yoongi finally looks up, and the rare direct eye contact makes your spine stiffen. "This is different. The Consortium needs you alive now. Intact. For Transference."

The word hangs between you like a death sentence, which it is. 

One match survives the procedure. One dies. 

The Epitaph Algorithm determines which—its selection criteria known only to Namjoon himself.

"I'm not surrendering to that death lottery," you say, checking the ammunition counter on your pistol. "Especially not with him on the other end."

"Not asking you to." 

Yoongi rises, tucking the portable interface into his pack. You catch the faint scent of explosives that always clings to him, metallic and sharp. 

"But Jimin's on his way with news. High-level Consortium chatter. We need to know what we're dealing with."

Your jaw tightens. "We're dealing with me on a countdown to either execution or unwanted immunity."

The door to the outpost slides open with a pneumatic hiss, admitting a gust of cold air that tastes like steel and chemical runoff—the familiar breath of Hollow Crest's lower levels. 

Jimin steps through, silver-blonde hair stark against his stealth gear. Despite the urgency, he moves with no wasted energy.

One look at his face tells you everything.

"They've adjusted the standard protocols," he says, not bothering with greetings. "Consortium's deploying specialized units. They want you within the hour."

"They can keep wanting." You check your comm unit, scanning frequencies for Consortium chatter. "I'll be halfway to the Scorch Rift by then."

Jimin's hand closes around your wrist, his grip stronger than his frame suggests. "You don't understand. They've instituted a Protection Protocol. Anyone harboring you is marked for immediate execution. Anyone helping you escape—the same. They've already deployed squads to known Shroud safehouses."

The implications wash over you like acid. 

"They're forcing allies to become hunters."

"It gets worse." 

Jimin releases your wrist, pulling up a projection from his own comm unit. A holographic map of Hollow Crest shivers to life between you, red markers pulsing at key tunnel junctions. 

"They've sealed all primary exits. Secondary routes are being patrolled by drones. They're not just hunting you—they're burning the entire sector to flush you out."

"Because of a blood match?" Your voice sharpens. "They've never gone this far for a Transference capture."

"You've never seen a 100% match before." Yoongi's voice drops like a stone. "Nobody has. The implications for the Epitaph System itself..."

The words die as a distant boom shakes dust from the ceiling. Proximity charges. Consortium's getting closer.

"We need to move," Jimin says, already gathering his pack. "Safe route through maintenance shaft C4 is still clear. We've got maybe twenty minutes before they sweep this sector."

You grab your gear, muscle memory taking over while your mind races. "Where's Jungkook? And Taehyung?"

"Jungkook's creating diversions near the border checkpoints," Jimin answers, checking the seal on his mask. "Taehyung was on a supply run when the alert went out. Still no contact."

Something cold settles in your stomach. 

Taehyung going silent during a crisis never ends well.

The three of you move into the tunnel, the faint blue-green phosphorescent fungi that crawls along the walls providing just enough light to navigate by. The air grows thicker as you descend, way too dense woth mineral dust and the peculiar damp of Hollow Crest's recirculated atmosphere.

"Wait." 

You freeze, one hand raised. The tunnel ahead is silent—too silent. Even the distant hum of ventilation systems seems muffled. 

“Something's wrong."

Yoongi's hand goes to the explosive charges at his belt, a reflex born from years of narrow escapes. 

Jimin pulls a scanner from his jacket, checking for life signs.

"Clear readings," he whispers, "but something's interfering with—"

The wall to your right explodes inward, chunks of concrete and metal rebar ripping through the air. The concussive force throws you against the opposite wall, your shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. 

Through dust and debris, armored figures pour into the tunnel—Consortium Purifiers, their masks filtering the dust, weapons raised.

You draw your pistol in one fluid motion, muscle memory overriding the pain screaming through your shoulder. 

Two shots—the first catches a Purifier in the neck joint of their armor, the second misses as the tunnel fills with suppression gas. 

Yoongi hurls something toward the breach, a small device that clatters among the Purifiers' feet. 

“Down!" he shouts, and you have just enough time to cover your face before the flashbang detonates, momentarily blinding your attackers.

Your blade finds the gap in a Purifier's armor as they stumble. Jimin is now using his modified medical tools as weapons, striking pressure points. Yoongi creates chaos, small charges blasting debris to create cover.

But there are too many. 

For every Purifier that falls, two more push through the breach. 

Your lungs burn from the suppression gas, vision narrowing as your body fights the sedative compounds. 

Beside you, Jimin staggers, his reactions slowing.

A voice cuts through the haze—amplified, cold, and terrifyingly familiar even though you've only heard it through propaganda broadcasts.

"Stand down." 

Commander Kim Namjoon steps through the chaos, flanked by elite guards. 

The architect of the Epitaph System himself—a tall figure in black tactical gear that absorbs the meager light. 

His eyes are obsidian dark and assessing as they lock onto you. A streak of white cuts through his otherwise black hair—a genetic marker you've seen in Consortium propaganda. 

The mark of exceptional neural development.

"Rebel." 

The word sounds wrong in his mouth. 

"Resistance will only result in collateral damage to your associates. The Transference Protocol has been initiated."

You raise your pistol, aiming directly at his head. 

"Then why don't I save us all the trouble and put a bullet in your skull right now? No match, no protocol."

He doesn't even blink. "Because the Consortium has already deployed Purification squads to three rebel safehouses. Your cooperation ensures their survival. Your resistance guarantees their execution."

Your finger hovers on the trigger, hatred a physical pressure behind your eyes. 

You could do it. End the architect of so much suffering with a single shot. 

But the calculation is clear—he wouldn't be here without insurance policies in place.

"You're lying," you snarl, but doubt creeps in—because you know the Consortium would absolutely slaughter innocents to secure a prize like you.

"I don't lie when the truth is more effective." He responds monotonically. "Sixty days. The standard countdown for all matched pairs before Transference. Cooperate, and no one else dies today."

Beside you, Jimin struggles to stand, the suppression gas taking its toll. Yoongi has gone completely still.

"And if I refuse? If I put a bullet in your brain right now?" 

"Then you eliminate the only person with authority to call off the Purification squads." 

His lips curve in what might be a smile on anyone else. 

On him, it's just another weapon. 

"Your reputation suggests you're many things, but not someone who sacrifices innocents for personal vendettas."

The worst part is he's right. You've spent years ensuring your actions hurt the Consortium, not its victims. 

Still, your finger remains on the trigger, the temptation almost overwhelming.

Namjoon extends a hand, palm up. Empty. A gesture that should appear peaceful but somehow reads as the most threatening thing you've ever seen.

"Sixty days. Then the Epitaph Algorithm determines our fate. Until then, neither side benefits from pointless casualties."

You lower your weapon slowly, hate burning cold in your chest. 

“When this is over, only one of us walks away." 

"Indeed. Those are the terms of Transference."

As Purifiers move to secure you, you lock eyes with Yoongi. A slight nod passes between you—the signal established years ago. 

This isn't surrender. It's tactical repositioning. You'll find another angle, another weakness to exploit. 

You always do.

The Commander steps closer, and you catch his scent—cold stone and mineral water, like a mountain stream in winter. Nothing warm or human. It fits.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program, rebel."

You bare your teeth in what no one would mistake for a smile. 

"Looking forward to watching you die, Commander."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes—the first genuine reaction you've seen. Good. You've found a nerve. You'll need every advantage for what's coming.

Because one thing is certain: in sixty days, either Commander Kim Namjoon dies, or you do.

And you've never been good at dying.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You're seated across from the man who built the machine that's going to kill one of you in sixty days. 

Or part of it. Not that you care what his stupid fucking job really entails.

The transport vehicle reeks of fear and industrial disinfectant, and the restraints around your wrists are some kind of adaptive metal—tight enough to cut circulation if you struggle, loose enough to maintain the illusion that cooperation might earn you breathing room.

It won't.

Commander Kim Namjoon hasn't looked at you since the Purifiers loaded you into the back of this armored carrier. He's reviewing something on a tablet, stylus moving across the screen. 

That silver strand of hair stands out like a scar, and you imagine pulling it out. 

You inwardly promise yourself one day you’ll do it.

You then catalog details because that's what keeps you alive. Emergency release on the restraints—magnetic, probably voice-activated by his authorization. Door mechanism—sealed from the outside, no manual override. Two Purifiers flanking the exit, weapons drawn but not aimed. They're confident you're contained.

Fucking amateurs.

The vehicle hits a pothole, jarring your shoulder against the metal wall. The impact sends fire down your arm where you took that hit during the tunnel breach. You don't let the pain show on your face.

Never give them ammunition.

"Impressive response time," you say, breaking the silence because you need to understand his operational patterns. "From match notification to capture—what, forty-seven minutes? Someone's been planning for contingencies."

He doesn't look up from his tablet. "Standard protocol accounts for high-value targets attempting immediate extraction."

"High-value." You test the word, find it bitter. "That what I am now?"

"You are a 100% genetic match." His voice carries no inflection, like he's reading from a technical manual. "The first documented case in Epitaph Program history. Your research value exceeds your threat designation."

Research value. 

Like you're a fucking specimen.

You lean forward as much as the restraints allow, forcing him to acknowledge your presence. 

“Let me guess—you're going to poke and prod and analyze every cell in my body to figure out why the great Algorithm paired us up. See if you can replicate the conditions."

That gets a reaction. His stylus stops moving. His eyes lift from the screen to meet yours, and for a split second you see something flicker behind the cold assessment—irritation, maybe. Or calculation.

"The Algorithm doesn't make errors," he says. "If we're matched, there's a biological imperative the system recognized that we haven't yet identified."

We. Like you're partners in this.

"Sorry to break it to you, Commander, but the only biological imperative I have regarding you is figuring out which vital organ to perforate first."

He sets the tablet aside, giving you his full attention for the first time since the capture; and the weight of his focus is unsettling—like being examined by something predatory that's deciding whether you're worth the effort to kill.

"Your reputation suggests tactical intelligence despite emotional volatility," he says. "The Algorithm factors psychological compatibility alongside genetic markers. There must be structural similarities in our cognitive architecture."

The clinical way he dissects the situation makes your skin crawl. 

"Structural similarities. Right. Because we're both such charming personalities."

"Neither of us appears capable of forming conventional emotional attachments. We prioritize mission objectives over personal sentiment. We've both sacrificed individuals we were responsible for when strategic necessity demanded it."

The observation hits like a blade between ribs. 

Too accurate. Too specific.

"Sounds like you've done your homework."

"I researched your operational history after the match registered. Hollow Crest tunnels, Mournwell extraction, the data theft from Virex Shard. Your tactical approach is methodical. Ruthless when required." His head tilts slightly, studying you like a particularly interesting equation. "Not what I expected from rebel psychological profiles."

"Disappointed I don't fit your propaganda?"

"Intrigued that you understand the necessity of calculated sacrifice."

The words land where he wants them to, and you realize he's testing you. 

Probing for reaction points. 

Two can play that game.

"Calculated sacrifice," you repeat, letting mockery creep into your voice. "Is that what you call the thousands who've died in your Transference chambers? Calculations?"

Something shifts in his expression—subtle, but you've spent years reading micro-expressions in combat situations. His jaw tightens by maybe half a millimeter.

"Every death serves species survival. Individual casualties are regrettable but necessary to prevent extinction-level population decline."

"How convenient that you get to decide who's expendable."

"The Algorithm decides."

"You built the Algorithm."

"I built a system that makes optimal choices without emotional compromise."

You lean back, studying him. "And what happens when the system decides you're expendable? When we're strapped into those chairs and your precious Algorithm picks me to survive?"

For several seconds, he doesn't respond. It’s just your breathing, his, and the vehicle’s engine.

"The Algorithm doesn't account for personal preference," he finally says. "If it selects you, the result serves optimal biological continuation."

"That's not what I asked."

His fingers drum once against his knee—such a small gesture you almost miss it. "I've prepared for all possible outcomes."

Bullshit. Nobody prepares to die, not really. 

And especially not someone who's spent years playing god with other people's lives.

You're about to press the point when the vehicle lurches to a halt. The Purifiers straighten, hands tightening on their weapons.

Through the small reinforced window, you catch a glimpse of Valis Core's outer ring—towering spires of black stone and steel that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. 

The architecture is designed to intimidate, and you hate that it's effective.

"Welcome to your new accommodations," Namjoon says, rising as the rear doors unlock. "I trust you'll find them... sufficient."

The way he says sufficient makes it sound like a threat.

One of the Purifiers moves to release your restraints, and you resist the urge to test their reflexes. 

Not yet. 

You need to understand the lay of the land first, map escape routes, identify weaknesses.

Patience. Even when everything in you screams to fight.

"After you," you say as the metal cuffs retract. "Wouldn't want to miss the grand tour."

He steps aside to let you exit first, a gesture that might seem polite if not for the armed guards surrounding the vehicle. 

The Epitaph Citadel looms ahead, its central spire disappearing into the aurora-streaked sky. 

Somewhere inside that building is the machine that will determine which of you dies.

Sixty days.

You step forward, boots ringing against polished stone, and don't look back to see if Commander Kim Namjoon is following.

He is, of course. 

You can feel his presence like static electricity—a constant, irritating awareness that prickles along your spine.

This is going to be a very long sixty days.

But you've survived worse odds before. And if the Algorithm thinks it can break you down into components and variables, it's about to learn something new about what happens when you back a Hollow Crest tunnel rat into a corner.

You don't go quietly. You bring the whole fucking place down with you.

Your boots hit the ground with excessive force once you make it to the Citadel.

It’s obscenely loud, in comparison to the city. 

But that’s good. They should know you're not going quietly.

The atmosphere is sterile, a half-hearted attempt at breathable. Your lungs reject it on instinct, tasting the air in all its hollow decadence—too clean, too wrong, stripped bare.

You take three steps toward the massive entrance before Commander Kim falls into step beside you. 

Then ahead of you.

The audacity.

He walks like he owns every molecule of air in this place, shoulders straight, pace measured. Like you're supposed to follow him like some obedient fucking pet.

You stop walking.

The sudden halt makes the Purifiers behind you tense, hands shifting on their weapons. But you're not looking at them. You're staring at the back of Namjoon's head, at that streak of silver cutting through black hair.

"Is there an issue?" He doesn't turn around. Doesn't even slow his stride.

"Yeah, actually." Your voice carries across the courtyard. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

Now he stops. Turns. Those dark eyes scan you like you’re a broken system readout—something in need of diagnostics.

"To show you your living arrangements."

Living arrangements.

“Be deadass right now."

A slight head tilt. That’s all you get while he tries to decrypt whatever ‘deadass’ means.

And failing, because apparently fluency in rebel sarcasm isn’t part of the Citadel curriculum.

"The Transference Protocol requires proximity monitoring. You'll be housed in the Citadel for the duration of the countdown."

Housed. 

Like livestock.

Your feet plant themselves against the stone, rooted by pure stubborn fury. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Your preferences are irrelevant." He states it like a law of physics. "The sixty-day monitoring period begins immediately."

"Monitoring—" 

The word sticks in your throat like glass. 

Because now you understand. 

This isn't just imprisonment. They're going to watch you. Study you. Document every heartbeat and breath and moment of weakness while you wait to die.

"No." The word tears out of you, rough and raw. "Absolutely fucking not."

One of the Purifiers steps forward, clearly interpreting your refusal as a threat. Namjoon raises a hand—barely a gesture—and the guard freezes.

"Resistance will not alter the Protocol," he says. "Your genetic compatibility requires observation to understand the unprecedented synchronization patterns. This is not negotiable."

The clinical way he dissects your future makes your skin crawl—as if you're already dead, just a collection of data points waiting to be analyzed.

"I'd rather take my chances in the execution chamber."

"That option is no longer available."

The Purifier behind you moves—not threatening, but positioning. Ready to assist if you decide to bolt. 

Your muscles coil instinctively, mapping distances, calculating angles.

Could you take three armed guards? Probably not without significant injury. Could you reach a weapon? Maybe, if you were fast enough and lucky enough and willing to sacrifice—

"Walk," Namjoon says, and somehow that single word carries more menace than any threat. "Or be carried. Your dignity is the only variable you control."

Dignity.

The bastard knows exactly which nerve to hit.

You force your feet to move, each step feeling like capitulation. But you're not surrendering. You're adapting. Learning the terrain. 

Finding the cracks you'll eventually exploit.

Namjoon resumes walking, and you fall into step beside him—not behind, because fuck him and his superiority complex—matching his pace. 

If he notices the aggressive mirror of his movement, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"The monitoring period involves shared tactical exercises," he continues, voice neutral as he explains your nightmare. "Joint mission parameters across multiple sectors. Physiological compatibility assessments every forty-eight hours."

Shared tactical exercises. Joint missions.

The implications hit like hammer blows.

"You're saying we're going to be—" Your voice catches. Clears. Continues with forced steel. "Working together."

"The Protocol requires operational cooperation. Your survival skills complement my strategic analysis. The Consortium benefits from the collaboration while studying our genetic synchronization."

Our. Like you're a team. Like you've chosen this.

"And if I refuse to cooperate?"

He stops again, turning to face you fully. 

For the second time since the capture, you have his complete attention. It feels like standing in the path of an avalanche.

"Then you remain confined to observation chambers while your rebel associates face the consequences of harboring a Priority Target."

The threat lands exactly where he aimed it. 

Yoongi. Jimin. Even Jungkook, wherever he is. 

Your cooperation isn't just about your own survival—it's about keeping the Consortium from turning their very considerable attention toward hunting down everyone you've ever worked with.

Checkmate in three fucking moves.

You want to hit him. Want to drive your fist into that perfectly composed face and watch him bleed. Want to see if anything human exists behind those calculating eyes.

Instead, you smile. Sharp enough to cut.

"How thoughtful of you to give me such compelling motivation."

"I find practical incentives more effective than ideological appeals."

"Right. Because you're such a practical man." 

He turns and continues walking toward the Citadel's entrance—a massive archway that seems designed to swallow people whole. You follow because the alternative is being dragged, and you'll be damned if you give him that satisfaction.

But with every step, rage builds like pressure behind your ribs.

Sixty days of this. Sixty days of shared missions and proximity monitoring and having to look at his face while he calmly explains how one of you is going to die.

Sixty days of pretending cooperation while planning his destruction.

The entrance hall is honestly ugly—all polished black stone and cold light, very Citadel vibes. The sound of your booths get swallowed by the vast empty space.

"Your quarters are on Level Seven," Namjoon says as you walk. "Adjacent to the monitoring facilities. Meals are provided at scheduled intervals. Personal effects will be processed and returned based on security assessment."

Adjacent to monitoring facilities. Of course.

"And you?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "Where are your quarters?"

He glances at you—a quick, measuring look. "Level Eight. Protocol requires close proximity without direct cohabitation during the initial assessment period."

One floor up. Close enough to respond to any emergency, far enough to maintain the illusion of separate accommodation.

Your laugh scrapes raw from your throat. "How considerate. Wouldn't want to make this too uncomfortable."

"Comfort is not a consideration. Operational efficiency is."

You turn back to face him, noting the way he’s positioned himself just outside striking distance. Like he’s calculated exactly how far your reach extends if you actually wanted to drag his stupid face through the ground.

Probably has.

“You think you’re clever.” Your voice comes out rougher than intended. “Backing me into corners, limiting my options. Playing chess while I’m stuck playing checkers.”

His head tilts again—that same assessment that makes your skin crawl.

“I think you’re more intelligent than your file suggests. And far more dangerous than standard containment protocols account for.” His eyes never leave yours. “Which is why we’re having this conversation instead of proceeding with unconscious transport to a restraint chair.”

The casual mention of restraints sends ice through your veins. “So kind of you.”

“Practical.” He gestures toward the door again. “As I said, entirely your choice. Cooperation with dignity, or compliance without it.”

Choice. Like either option doesn’t end with you trapped in his maze.

But he’s right about one thing—your dignity is all you have left. And you’d rather walk into hell on your own terms than be dragged.

You step toward the door, noting the way he doesn’t relax until you’re moving in the right direction.

Smart man. You are exactly as dangerous as he suspects.

Maybe more.

The biometric scanner reads your palm print, and the door slides open. 

The room beyond is… not what you expected. Clean. Comfortable. Almost pleasant, if you can ignore the complete absence of windows or any view of the outside world.

“Welcome to your new home,” Namjoon says from behind you. “I trust you’ll find it adequate.”

You step inside, already cataloging the space. Bed. Desk. Small attached bathroom. No obvious surveillance equipment, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

“When do these interaction periods start?” 

You don’t turn around, afraid you’ll throttle him if you see his expression once more.

“Tomorrow. After you’ve had time to… acclimate.”

The pause before acclimate tells you everything you need to know. They expect you to break down. To crack under the pressure of isolation and impending death.

They’re going to be utterly, vastly disappointed.

You turn to face him one last time before the door closes between you.

“See you tomorrow, Commander.”

His eyes meet yours, and for just a moment, something passes between you. 

Recognition, maybe. 

Or the acknowledgment that this is going to be a very long sixty days for both of you.

“Indeed.”

The door slides shut with finality that feels like a coffin lid closing.

You’re alone. Trapped. 

Sixty days from either death or unwanted salvation.

But you’re still breathing. Still thinking. Still planning.

And Commander Kim Namjoon has no idea what he’s just locked himself in close proximity with.

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[minnadekanpai]

if alan does not end up covered in blood during this chapter like he always does i will crash out

[apheliia]

Dude... let’s kill the clown

IM SO TIRED, APHE 😭😭

I can’t escape the shadowvanilla no matter how much I filter the tag and no matter what I put in my DNI 🪦 I think we're alone in our struggle...

SO REALLLLLLL I'M CRUMBLING HIM AS WE SPEAK!!!!!!! no one gets it like we do i fear 💔💔💔 it's ok though. even if we are the only haters in the entire fandom, we still get it. we must stick together 🤝🤝

[lycheebloom]

mania : short whippet of yan. shadow milk cookie (pre. corruption & post corruption)

tw : yandere shadow milk cookie, light/heavy psychological & physical manipulation, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, violence, potentially ooc

"Put your trust in me, for none will deceive you as long as I am here."

♡ You first meet him in a period where he was yet to be touched by greed and trickery. A humble cookie you were, innocently strolling amidst the streets of your home kingdom until you stumbled across him.

♡ He was nothing short of humble and truthful as the rumors had entailed—polite with a well-mannered tone and gracious in his deeds of honesty for all. As if woven by fate itself, your coincidental encounters with him grew more and more common, until a bond began to flourish. Little promises and giggles were shared, fondness bloomed between stories and tales.

♡ The man was often teased by his peers for his fondness towards you, yet he didn't mind. Unbeknownst to them, a darker truth was veiled beneath the surface. Keeping his hands clasped together with yours for just a second longer than normal, neglecting his duties at times just for another moment to bask in your presence—Ah, the list could really go on and on.. But it was alright. It was just a small, little secret. A white lie that couldn't hurt anybody. He'd shoulder the truth of this minuscule act.

♡ "(Name) Cookie, over here! I have to share with you this interesting moment that happened in the court.."

♡ And so, it would continue this way, until something changed.

♡ He began to grow less benevolent. Fatigue was evident through the eyebags his form now carried, his caring tone strained. The everlasting truth in his words withered, falsehoods spilling out from his mouth that caused chaos and harm to break out within kingdoms. Especially the one you dwelled in.

♡ As his behavior towards common cookiekind warped, so did his towards you. His actions grew obsessive, arms clinging onto you at every instance as though you would dissolve if he were to let go. Even you weren't safe from the deceit that had tore through his heart, the cookie whispering sweet lies into your ears.

♡ The well being of the other cookies didn't matter to him anymore, why should he bother? Their foolishness bound them to a terrible fate from the very start, he should've given up on them sooner. Too long had he and the other heroes tolerated their exploitation! But oh, dear you..

♡ You were an exception from his all-consuming resentment towards those that had taken advantage of him and his comrades. Poor, poor you. Having to associate with these wicked folk, such a kind soul you had...! Of course, he couldn't stand by idly and let your torment continue.

♡ "Ah—(Name) Cookie, don't struggle.. This is for the greater good, I promise you." He coaxed softly, one hand gently stroking the back of your head as the other restrained you. He would bring you salvation, away from those filthy brethren that you called your 'friends'.

♡ Yet you continued to struggle, restlessly moving as you tried to free yourself of the binds. Your resistance only complicated and extended the process of renewal, but he didn't blame you; no, he could never! The other cookies have merely brainwashed you. That must be it. You would never gaze at him with such fear in your eyes, you wouldn't tremble at his touch.

♡ Your hostility only solidified his view on the others. They were irredeemable!—Not only had they used him and the other heroes, but they even turned you against him! Outrageous!

♡ Your coldness wounded his heart, yet he didn't falter. He was sure he could break through such a silly perspective they had influenced you into.

♡ "(Name)~ Don't fight me.." He sighed, fingers benignly clasping your face when you tried to turn your head away. The cold sensation sent tremors down your spine. "I know they've conditioned you into this, but I assure you, I only want the best for you.." He cooed, pulling you in closer. An arm was firmly wrapped around your waist, as he traced small circles onto your back with his free hand.

♡ How much longer would it take until you finally gave into his advances? He pouted at the thought, opting to bury his head into your shoulder. The sweet scent of you drove him insane. Yes, everything would be just fine.. As long he had you with him.

♡ Yet his whole world crashed down on him one day. Pinned down by the fork those witches had dared to cast down on him; his vision tuned out the other forms of his friends being restrained, all he could focus on was your figure.

♡ Your disappointed frown with somber eyes. Why were you staring at him with that expression? Where are you going? Wait! No, don't go! His expression twisted into one of desperation, arms sprawling out towards your retreating figure. No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. You.. You can't leave him here!

♡ "(Name), (Name) Cookie, wait! No, no no COME BACK! Please, please, please.. Don't go, you can't go, you're not supposed to—I need you..!"

♡ As you stopped in your steps and turned around, a glimmer of hope shone within his heart. Yet it crumbled just as fast as you looked away, continuing to walk away. Away from him. To leave him. Why? Why had you discarded him? Had he not done so much to prove his love and adoration to you..? He cast his head down, thoughts swarming his head in a frenzy.

♡ "(Name).."

♡ You were all he wanted. Why couldn't he have you?

♡ His vision went black.

.

.

♡ How long had it been? He was unsure.

♡ You continued to linger in his thoughts even after he had been trapped in the Silver Tree, becoming the only source of solace in his seemingly-endless solitude. He was uninterested in talking to his 'friends', their bond growing more strained as each day passed. He couldn't understand how he got along with them back then. Corruption seeped and curled within his being, infecting his mind and very essence. It fed on his despair and longing, clouding the last traces of lucidity and truth.

♡ He just wanted you back. He made a vow to himself.

♡ Once he has you again, he'll never let you go.

.

.

.

"Seriously, who can say no to a pinch of good old Deceit?"

♡ "Oh, finally some fresh air!" Shadow Milk Cookie exclaimed with a sigh, stretching his arms. Being in that cramped tree didn't help his joints at all, hopefully he didn't catch a case of arthritis! A wide grin was on his face as he peered down on the cookies that had been so, so stupid that they thought they could delay his arrival! He scrutinized their forms, yet his eyes lit up at a familiar sight.

♡ You.

♡ "Ah, (Name) Cookie!~♡" Shadow Milk Cookie was quick to pick you up, ignoring the screams of horror that the other pesky little cookies let out—who he presumed were your friends. Two fingers were clasped around your form, as he dangled you in the air. If he wasn't giddy before, he definitely was now.

♡ Shadow Milk Cookie smiled ear to ear, admiring your form in his clutch for a few moments further before he glanced back at your noisy friends, his smile dropping as the light in his eyes faded.

♡ He turned his gaze back towards you, his frown changing into a smile once more.

♡ "Truly, you couldn't begin to comprehend how much I've missed you!.." Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, leaning his face closer towards your tiny figure. "We have soooo much to catch up on..~" He gave an half-lidded smile.

♡ "But first.." He eyed your peers. "Let's go somewhere where these little.. 'friends' of yours won't disturb us." With a snap of his fingers, your surroundings changed.

.

♡ What.. was this place? Everywhere you looked, only strained your vision. It felt unreal, as though you were in another dimension entirely. Eyes of all azure shades stared back at you, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

♡ "Tada!~ My special little world, what do you think of it?" Shadow Milk Cookie smiled happily, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shuddered at the touch, hurriedly stepping away from the madman that you were trapped with.

♡ "Hm? Don't you know it's rude to stareeee..?" Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head, bending it at an unnatural angle. He stepped closer towards you with every step you took back, quickly closing the distance. He latched his hand out, gently tilting your chin up.

♡ "Still resisting now are we? Oh, silly, silly (Name)..!" He broke out into giggles, then chuckles, before it warped into full-blown laughter. "Ah, your shenanigans never fail to amuse me!~" He wiped a stray tear, grinning as one of his hands pulled you into his embrace.

♡ His lips grazed over the exposed surface of your neck, biting down into soft flesh as jam spilled out from the wound—to which he quickly lapped it up, leaving a soft kiss as an apology. He only pulled back when he deemed there were sufficient marks, a smile on his face as he took in your shaky breath and unfocused gaze. You really were just the cutest..! "You see.. Time works differently in this little place I created."

♡ "Hmm.. For example, I could make it so that.. the equivalent of merely a second in the outside world could amount to a year in here! Or a decade! Or even a century, the possibilities are ENDLESS!" The pitch of his tone raised, delighting in your unnerved expression.

♡ "Anywho, what I'm trying to get across is that we have alllll the time in the world, my sweet (Name)~.." His tone dropped to a mere whisper, his smile fading as though the deceit within him was unraveling before you. Deep in his eyes swirled a whirlpool of something far darker than you could ever understand.

♡ "So let's see how long this little charade of yours will last. ♡"

♡ After all, he's waited eons for you in that damned tree. He can wait a little longer for you to break.

[sixeyesonathiel]

marriage is a battlefield, and satoru gojo refuses to lose. not to burnt toast. not to your gremlin hoodie theft. and definitely not in this petty domestic deathmatch where the first to file for divorce admits defeat. unfortunately, you're cute. and evil. and he’s starting to like it.

wc — 1.3k | masterlist.

satoru wakes up to the smell of something burning. which would be alarming if it hadn’t happened every single day since the government decided two powerful jujutsu clans should seal their fragile alliance with the unholy sacrament of marriage. his marriage. to you. a domestic horror show.

at first, he’d entertained the possibility that you were just a bad cook. a humble menace, if you will. but by day four of waking up to incinerated toast and the smoke alarm going off like a cursed tool crying for help, he’d realized the truth: you were doing this on purpose. and worse—you were good at it. eerily consistent. you even timed the alarm to scream exactly one minute before his dream about vacationing in okinawa could finish.

and satoru, being satoru, found that infuriatingly hot. which was, frankly, a problem. one he refused to admit, even as he glared at the ceiling and considered if his dignity had also melted in the toaster.

he pads into the kitchen wearing socks, judgment, and a grudge. the tile is cold beneath his feet, and his hair is sleep-ruffled in that charmingly tousled way that only makes his frown more dramatic. it flops over his eyes like he’s a suffering poet. your back is to him. the toaster is on fire. again. you’re humming the melody of satan—some j-pop tune suspiciously upbeat for a war crime. your robe is pink and fuzzy and has a suspicious stain he suspects you’ve preserved out of pure spite. maybe you even gave it a name. his left eye twitches like a cursed seal unraveling.

“you know,” he says, leaning against the doorframe like he’s posing for a sad husband magazine cover shoot, one arm braced overhead for effect, face set in weary suffering, “some husbands wake up to kisses. or, like, edible food.”

“then you should’ve married someone else,” you chirp, devil incarnate that you are. you don’t even look up. you just stir your suspiciously dark coffee with the spoon that clinks against the chipped mug like a ticking time bomb, and let the toaster burn like a war crime. your foot taps along to your little murder melody. casually. as if you weren’t desecrating breakfast.

“i’m starting to think you burned the prenup too,” he deadpans.

you finally glance at him. eyes sparkling like you were born to torment him specifically. and unfortunately, it’s doing things to him. terrible, weak-willed things. his stomach flips. he blames the smoke.

“i taped it to your mirror,” you say sweetly. “next to the note that said ‘cry about it.’ did you not find it?”

his soul leaves his body. he gasps. dramatically. insulted on a spiritual level. how dare you. he clutches at his chest like a betrayed prince in a historical drama. he stumbles back half a step, just for theatrics.

“you are trying to get me to file for divorce,” he hisses, holding up a spoon like a cursed weapon of vengeance. it glints under the kitchen light like it has seen war. “don’t lie to me. you want out so badly you’re staging breakfast-related psychological warfare.”

“oh, sweetie,” you coo, flipping blackened toast onto a plate with the smugness of a cat knocking a glass off a table. the plate already holds two other casualties. “i don’t want out. i want you to want out. i’m playing the long game.”

long game. she says. like this is chess. like she’s some evil strategist in a romance anime and he’s the fool who underestimated her power. (he did. and he regrets it daily.) his eye twitches again. he’s starting to suspect it’s permanent.

he sits down at the kitchen table like it personally offended him. he folds his arms with the poise of a man entering battle. he makes eye contact with the toast. it stares back, dark and crispy, like it knows what it did. like it enjoyed it.

revenge mode: activated.

by noon, he’s already replaced all the sugar with salt. moved your favorite mug to the top shelf—the one that says “world’s okayest spouse.” changed your alarm to 5:47am because that’s a cursed time. a liminal hour where nothing good happens. he even puts the bathroom mirror slightly off-center just to watch you suffer.

you retaliate by vacuuming at 3am. with jazz music. loudly. wearing heels that click like tiny war drums. you twirl the vacuum cord like a lasso and blow him a kiss when he opens the door, eyes bloodshot and betrayal deep in his bones.

he retaliates by changing your ringtone to a baby crying and calling you ten times in a row during your nap. it echoes through the apartment like a banshee. a cursed infant banshee.

you steal his hoodie. his favorite hoodie. the one that makes him feel safe. the one that smells like peace. and you wear it. with confidence. standing on the kitchen counter, sipping from the mug he moved, like a gremlin goddess claiming her throne. your ankles swing above the sink, feet bare, expression smug. your hair is messy, the hoodie swallowing you whole, sleeves flopping every time you lift your arm.

he walks in, sees you perched there, and feels something in his soul crack like bad porcelain. he’s still holding a toothbrush. his mouth is half-foamed. betrayal stings.

“that’s mine,” he says, offended. his hair is damp from the shower, sticking to his forehead in adorable defiance of gravity.

“we’re married,” you reply, sipping obnoxiously. “congrats. you played yourself.”

he dies a little. again.

she’s small. and evil. and currently drowning in his hoodie like some kind of adorable demon. and he hates it. he hates how cute you are. how tiny. how you always stand on tiptoe to reach things and refuse to ask for help because you’d rather fall off the counter than give him the satisfaction. your brows furrow every time you climb something. your nose scrunches when you pretend you’re fine. you grunt when you jump down like a dramatic toddler.

he buys a second stool just so he can hide the first one every morning. he even installs a mini security cam to watch you suffer in 1080p.

you retaliate by labeling all his skincare with wrong steps. “cleanser” is now “serum.” “toner” is now “shampoo.” he puts eye cream on his elbows and screams into the void. his pores are crying. his dignity is gone.

one day, he finds the marriage license in the freezer.

“why is this next to the fish sticks?”

“because that’s where frozen mistakes go.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to strangle you or kiss you or both. probably both. he’s losing.

he’s losing the war. the bickering, the pettiness, the coordinated chaos—it’s becoming a rhythm. something domestic. something dangerous. he starts waking up early just to watch you frown at the crooked painting he moves an inch every day. he hides the remote. you hide his socks. he calls you a gremlin. you call him a manchild. and the weirdest part?

he starts to like it.

the apartment smells like incense and burnt toast and cheap citrus cleaner. your slippers are always one step behind his on the welcome mat. there’s a pile of throw pillows you both pretend you don’t use but secretly nest into like raccoons. his sunglasses are missing again. you’re hoarding them. he knows it.

one day, he watches you pick a fight with the rice cooker because it beeped at you too aggressively, and something in him just clicks. you stab the buttons with a butter knife and hiss at it like a possum. your hair is sticking up from static. your sleeve is falling into the rice bowl. you’re swearing under your breath in three different dialects.

he’s doomed.

he’s going to fall in love with you. hard. embarrassingly. and when he does, you’re going to laugh in his face and steal the last dumpling. and he’ll let you. he’ll even give you dipping sauce.

but not yet.

because tomorrow, he’s painting your shampoo bottle with disappearing ink. and you’re going to hide his blindfolds. and maybe—just maybe—he’ll look forward to waking up to the smell of toast on fire again.

[hotvintagepoll]

LAST POLL OF ROUND 4

Danny Kaye (The Court Jester, The Inspector General)—Danny Kaye, idol of my childhood, maker of the weirdest faces! This man SETS HIMSELF ON FIRE and then puts himself out in a bucket in a movie based on a Gogol short story. In the same movie (Inspector General), he flirts by playing a carrot as a musical instrument. In Wonder Man, he's brilliant but struggles with things like riding buses. I have been envious of his fake Italian/French/German/Spanish monologues in The Court Jester for the past three decades. As Walter Mitty, he is SUPREMELY SILLY yet also somehow manages to be a comic foil for none other than Boris Karloff. All this is to say nothing of The William Tell Song (TV, thus not linked, but great.) I adore him.

Donald O'Connor (Singin' in the Rain, Francis, Call Me Madam)— LOOK AT HIM. Those giant blue peepers. Those tappy tappy little feet that don't quit. The ears that stick out like little wings, ready to lift him up to goofy heaven. The way his face contorts into the strangest yet most endearing expressions. His ability to sing and dance alongside the hunk that is Gene Kelly and yet pull all attention away with his big-eyed buffoonery. The way his energy is unmatched in songs like "Make 'em laugh" - bouncing off the walls and tumbling through the air straight into my cold cold heart. Who else but a true scrungly lil guy would sit upon the witness stand and defend a talking mule with all the love and affection in the world - staring out into the court room with his bright wide eyes and eternally mouse-like expression, openly admitting that the mule is his best friend?!??! I see him and I want to pull him from the screen into my hand and just squiiiiiiiiiiiiish with all my might. I want to pinch his cheeks and have him bat those eyes at me. He just makes me go "eeehehehehehe" every time I see him and his silly little self. He is pure chaotic, ridiculous, scrungly perfection!

This is round 4 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you’re confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Danny Kaye:

He's so stupid. I love him.

Donald O'Connor:

My silliest little guy. My funnyman. My horsie. I have watched many a bad movie for this man. The scrungliest fact I know about him is that he was supposed to star as Danny Kaye's role in the iconic White Christmas (1954), as he had known Bing Crosby since he was a child, but couldn't because he caught a mule disease while working on those Francis the Talking Mule films Universal endlessly made him do. I wouldn't exactly recommend those movies, but Don's character getting psychologically tormented by a sardonic mule does make for quite a good movie night, if you know what you're getting into. Are You With It? is another one I don't exactly recommend, but it does open with Donald as a math genius actuary who is about to kill himself over a displaced decimal point before getting taken in by a traveling carny instead. His more well-known and beloved roles have plenty of scrungliness too, in my opinion. This man slapsticked so hard he wound up bedridden for his physical exertion! Rather than submitting Make 'Em Laugh, which the electorate has likely already seen (I hope), I'm submitting an underrated dance number of his, where he explains maths through tap dance. That movie is Not good, but god do I love him in that role.

I think it's arguably very scrungly to seemingly be a real life cartoon character made out of rubber, as proven by how slapsticky the list of scrunglies is so far. In which case, Donald O'Connor? He scrungles supremely. He even played Buster Keaton in a movie (that apparently can't be recommended, but still).

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 7

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Bucky’s gut had been gnawing at him for weeks, a familiar, nagging feeling whenever Ian was around. Something about the man didn’t sit right, and Bucky couldn’t shake the sense that he’d seen this behavior before. His instincts kicked in, and he ordered someone to dig deeper into Ian’s past.

The brown envelope arrived the next day. Bucky sat at his desk, his eyes narrowing as he tore it open. Inside were the results of the investigation—pages that painted a much darker picture than he’d anticipated. As he skimmed the documents, his jaw clenched, and a low curse escaped his lips, “Shit.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The next day, you and Bucky arrived at a shelter for single mothers, a stop on the campaign trail. The women inside had experienced hardships most people couldn’t imagine, fleeing from abusive partners and trying to rebuild their lives. Their stories of survival hung in the air, unspoken but palpable in their tired eyes and wary smiles.

You moved through the room, serving food and making small talk with the women, trying your best to offer some comfort. As you handed a plate to one woman, you said softly, “I understand what kind of psychological torment you’ve been through. I hope you stay strong.”

The moment the words left your mouth, what you’d meant as a word of encouragement didn’t land the way you’d hoped.

Later that night, a video of the conversation went viral. It was clear someone had recorded the interaction and released it online. Bucky knew this had to be the work of his opponents, seizing the opportunity to discredit you—and by extension, him.

You watched the video, feeling a pit form in your stomach as the comments poured in:

"Stay strong? She doesn’t seem like someone who’s ever been through what we have."

"She wouldn’t understand. She lives in a happy home. How could she possibly know what it’s like to run from someone who’s supposed to love you?"

Their words cut deep, slicing through your carefully constructed image. They didn’t know the truth—that your marriage to Bucky was its own kind of prison. Pretending to be the perfect wife had taken a toll on you, but no one saw behind the curtain.

You froze, feeling exposed, as if they’d somehow sensed the cracks in your façade. You had become so good at lying, at convincing the world that you and Bucky were happy, that now, faced with these women who had lived through real pain, you felt like a fraud.

Furthermore, you wanted to tell them that you understood, that you too had felt trapped and powerless. But the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you smiled for the cameras, playing your part, knowing that your life was being documented as an example of “happiness.”

Then your eyes landed on a comment that sent you reeling:

"If they’re so happy, wouldn’t they have a kid by now?"

The question hung in the air, mocking you. They didn’t know the truth—how could they? And yet, their words seemed to pierce through the mask you’d been wearing for so long.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The silence between you and Bucky was heavy, almost suffocating. You hadn’t said much since the shelter incident, and Bucky could sense your stress in the way you barely touched your food or drank any water. You sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the untouched plate in front of you.

Bucky watched you for a moment before stepping closer, his brow furrowing with concern. He gently touched your forehead, his fingers warm against your skin.

“You have a fever,” he said, his voice low with worry.

You immediately pulled away from his hand, your body instinctively recoiling. Your stress had a way of manifesting physically, and whenever you were overwhelmed, your body shut down. This was no different.

“Don’t touch me,” you muttered, your voice hollow.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew this would happen, knew how your body responded when you were pushed too far. Without a word, he slipped his arm around you, supporting you as he guided you toward your room. You didn’t resist, too tired to fight.

“Just leave,” you said once you reached your room, your voice barely above a whisper.

But Bucky ignored your words. He sat you down on the edge of the bed, gently lifting your feet into his lap. You stiffened in surprise as his hands began to massage your aching feet. The familiarity of the gesture caught you off guard—he used to do this all the time when you were together, especially on nights when you came home exhausted, too tired to even think.

Your face grew warmer, though not just because of the fever. The tension between the two of you was palpable, a mix of unresolved emotions and unspoken words hanging in the air. Bucky’s touch, once comforting, now felt like it held the weight of all the things left unsaid.

“I’ll bring the medicine,” he said after a few moments, his voice softer now.

You didn’t respond, too lost in the swirl of emotions flooding your mind. The way his hands moved, the care in his touch—it was all too familiar. It made your chest tighten with memories of when things weren’t this complicated.

As Bucky stood to leave, you finally spoke, your voice quiet and raw. “Why are you doing this?”

He paused, turning back to face you. “Because I care. I always do” His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, it was as if the walls you’d built between you both cracked, if only just a little.

You didn’t respond, not knowing what to say. You could feel your eyelids growing heavy as the exhaustion of the day and the fever pulled at you. Bucky noticed, his eyes softening. Without another word, he pulled the blanket over you and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

You lay there, your mind racing despite your body’s exhaustion. His touch, his words, they lingered long after he’d gone. You hated that he still had this effect on you. And yet, deep down, there was a part of you that wanted to believe him, wanted to let your guard down. But after everything, how could you?

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You woke up, feeling the weight of exhaustion still clinging to your limbs, but something was different. The fever that had clouded your mind the night before was gone, leaving you with a sense of relief. Slowly, you sat up, glancing around the room. Bucky wasn’t here. It was the first time you’d been alone in the apartment since arriving.

The quietness felt strange, almost eerie. For a moment, you simply sat there, trying to shake the grogginess from your mind. Eventually, curiosity got the better of you, and you decided to explore the space. The apartment was large, meticulously designed, but there was a personal touch to it that reflected both of you. You wandered through the rooms until you stopped at his office.

The door creaked slightly as you pushed it open. His office was a mess—papers and law books were scattered across the desk and shelves, as if he’d been too busy to organize anything. But something caught your eye, an area that was surprisingly tidy amidst the chaos: his vinyl collection. It was neatly arranged, displayed with care, each record in perfect order.

Bucky loved collecting vinyls. You remembered that about him. As you approached the collection, your eyes scanned the spines of the records. Most of them were from artists both of you used to listen to. Your fingers grazed over the albums, a nostalgic pang in your chest.

Then, something unusual caught your attention. Tucked between the vinyl sleeves was a piece of paper, slightly worn. Frowning, you pulled it out and realized it wasn’t just any paper—it was a letter.

You stared at the handwriting, your heart skipping a beat. It was Bucky’s handwriting. Slowly, your eyes widened as recognition dawned on you. It was a letter he never sent. A letter to you.

Your pulse quickened as a rush of emotions hit you. Should you open it? Guilt twisted in your stomach, but then that familiar voice—the devil on your shoulder—spoke louder. He wrote this for you. He never sent it, but it’s yours.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you quickly hid the letter under your shirt, glancing around the office as if someone might walk in at any moment. Your heart raced as you hurried back to your room, the letter burning against your skin like a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

Once in the safety of your room, you sat on the bed, staring at the letter in your hands. The room felt smaller, your breaths shallow. Was this right? Should you be reading this? But you couldn’t stop yourself.

With trembling fingers, you opened the first letter.

It was short, written in Bucky’s familiar scrawl.

"I’m sorry. I know everything we went through must have been painful for you, more than I ever realized at the time. We were close, but we never truly communicated. I knew you were hurting, and I did nothing to stop it. That’s my fault. I’m the one to blame.

One day, if we ever meet again, I hope you’ll give me another chance. You deserve happiness, and I wish you the best of luck in finding it, even if it’s not with me."

You blinked, feeling a lump form in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. An apology. Words you thought you’d never hear—or read—from him. Your hands shook as you carefully unfolded another letter.

"I read your article. It’s really good. I always knew you’d make a great writer. You’ve always had a way with words. I’m proud of you. I hope you have a safe journey."

The words blurred for a moment as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. You never knew he was following your work, that he cared enough to read what you wrote. It felt like a secret window into a part of him you thought had closed off to you long ago.

With a deep breath, you opened the final letter, bracing yourself.

"I’m worried about you. Going to a war zone as a journalist—it’s dangerous, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Please be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. I pray every day that you’re safe."

Your chest tightened as you finished reading, the rawness of his words washing over you. Bucky had been worried about you all this time. His concern, his pride—it was all there, hidden in these letters you were never supposed to find. And yet, here you were, holding the pieces of his heart in your hands.

It was overwhelming. You didn’t know how to feel—angry, confused, touched. All you knew was that the walls you had built to protect yourself were starting to crack, and you weren’t sure if you could put them back together.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You and Bucky met Greg again to prepare before heading to the TV station for the debate. Greg, always thinking ahead, was pacing as he went over the final details. His sharp gaze darted between you and Bucky, trying to ensure everything would go smoothly.

As the minutes ticked by, Greg suddenly paused, his face lighting up with an idea. "Perhaps," he suggested, "before Bucky heads out for the debate, you could give him a peck on the cheek. You know, for the cameras. A little show of affection can go a long way."

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, your expression neutral. "Okay," you agreed simply. The decision seemed easy enough—just a small gesture for the public eye. However, from the corner of your eye, you noticed Bucky’s brow arch slightly, a glint of surprise crossing his features.

Bucky glanced at you, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "How about a kiss on the lips instead?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your exasperation. "Shut up," you muttered, though the warmth of the moment lingered between you. Bucky chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the brief banter as Greg scribbled down notes, already planning how to work this into the media strategy.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The day of the debate finally arrived. The room buzzed with tension as cameras were positioned, reporters whispered amongst themselves, and the stage was set. You stood backstage with Bucky, watching as the other candidates made their entrances. Edgar, running for president, was calm and composed, the very image of a seasoned politician.

Then there was Brock, another candidate for vice president—and Bucky’s long-time rival. The two had been at odds for years, their competition fierce and personal. The air between them crackled with animosity as they took their places.

As the debate began, the moderators threw sharp, pointed questions at the candidates, each probing their policies and character. Bucky was in his element, answering each question with practiced ease. His words were clear, his tone confident, and his delivery flawless. Every question thrown at him was met with a precise, well-thought-out response.

Moderator: "Mr. Barnes, what would be your first priority in office?"

Bucky: "My first priority is to address healthcare. Ensuring affordable and accessible healthcare is the cornerstone of a strong nation. We must invest in preventive care and make it easier for families to access the support they need."

The audience nodded in agreement, and even the other candidates seemed to respect his answer. Brock, however, was struggling. Every time he tried to match Bucky’s eloquence, he stumbled, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt to make a point.

Moderator: "Mr. Rumlow, what is your stance on education reform?"

Brock: "Well, uh, we need to… to invest in schools, yes, but we can’t just throw money at the problem. We need accountability, and we need… um, better results."

His answer lacked the conviction and clarity that Bucky’s did, and you could see the frustration in Brock’s face as the debate went on.

The tension between the two men simmered, especially as Bucky continued to outshine him with every answer. But just when it seemed like Bucky had the upper hand, Brock saw an opening—and took it.

At the height of the debate, Brock's voice cut through the air, sharp and malicious. "You talk a lot about honesty and integrity, Barnes. But what about your brother? Didn’t he hit someone and never face any punishment?"

The room fell silent, a heavy, uncomfortable stillness filling the space. From your spot backstage, you could feel the tension roll off Bucky in waves. His muscles tensed beside you, his jaw clenched tight. This was his darkest family secret, one he’d hoped to keep buried. But now, here it was, dragged into the spotlight in front of a national audience.

Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his eyes narrowing as he shot Brock a cold, hard glare. For a moment, it looked like Bucky might lose his composure. The silence stretched on, the entire room holding its breath, waiting for his response.

But then, with a deep breath, Bucky straightened, his voice steady but laced with restrained anger. "My brother's actions were reprehensible, and there is no excuse for them. But unlike my opponent, I believe in accountability—and my family has taken steps to address that privately. This debate is about the future of this country, not digging up personal attacks to avoid talking about real issues."

The room shifted as Bucky’s calm yet pointed response cut through the tension. Brock, visibly thrown by how easily Bucky had deflected his attack, fumbled for his next words, but the damage had been done. Bucky had taken control once again, leaving Brock at a loss.

Backstage, you watched the scene unfold, a mixture of relief and pride swelling within you. Bucky had handled the moment with grace.

But you knew you couldn’t rest. With Shawn’s dark secret now exposed, it meant that your marriage to Bucky could be the next scandal to surface.

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[aventurineswife]

"A Symptom Of Something" - Anaxagorus x Astrologist! Reader

(This one definitely takes a darker shift, the music alone speaks volumes. You mentioned not being the best with writing from music alone as a prompt, so I'm here to train you. Can also use the titles as ref!)

“Memento Mori, My Star”

Summary: In the ruined halls of the once-sacred Grove of Epiphany, an injured Astrologist stumbles upon forbidden truths—and Anaxagoras. As celestial alignments and soulbound experiments unravel around them, Anaxagoras must choose between shielding the Astrologist from divine retribution or allowing them to glimpse the truth no mortal was meant to see. Caught in a moment between blood, memory, and fate, they confront mortality, their bond, and the impossible weight of knowledge.

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Astrologist!Reader, Angst with Comfort, Forbidden Knowledge, Protective Behavior, Slow Burn, Emotional Baggage, Soul Experiments, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Affection, Experimental Magic, Academic Heresy, Vanitas Themes, Flawed Genius, Memory as Narrative.

Warnings: Blood and injury, Body horror (mild, related to magical experimentation), Existential themes (mortality, divine defiance), Psychological distress, Trauma mentions (implied past enslavement, loss, manipulation), Power imbalance (emotional vulnerability, not abusive), Heavy introspection and emotional intensity.

Tagslist: @sewoui, @tremendoustragedybard

The Grove was burning.

Soot choked the skies where once constellations shimmered. The sigils engraved on its marble archways flickered one last time before crumbling. Between the tremble of the stars and the shriek of alchemical steel being ripped asunder, you found him—bent over the shattered remains of a Coreflame crucible.

"Anaxa!"

He didn’t look back.

Your fingers, cracked from defending your ward only hours before, now trembled for a different reason. The man before you — one eye veiled behind a soul-warped eyepatch, the other a hollow ocean of light and torment — moved like a marionette without strings.

"You shouldn’t be here," he murmured.

You stepped forward. "Neither should you."

He laughed. Low. Unstable. The kind of sound that made your bones ache. "And yet, here we are. Two symptoms of something wrong."

You didn't have time to argue before the structure behind him groaned like a dying god. You lunged. Pulled him back. Rubble collapsed where he stood.

For a moment, his forehead leaned against yours. Eyes closed. Breath shallow.

"Did you see it?" he whispered.

"What?"

"The truth. Burning through the veil."

You stared at him. Ash clung to his lashes. Gold blood still oozed from his knuckles.

You wanted to say: I only saw you breaking.

But instead, you replied, "I saw the stars fall."

Days later, you sat in the hollowed remains of the observatory. The dome had shattered long ago, and yet the night sky still spilled overhead in fractured beauty.

He sat beside you. For once, silent.

In your lap, the child you protected slept, fevered from the lingering poison gas of the Titans' failed countermeasures.

"You once called me a liar of light," he said, finally.

You hummed. "And you called me an obedient machine of starlight."

He tilted his head. "You weren’t wrong."

"Neither were you."

You looked to him. His eyepatch shimmered, and you wondered if he could see through your silence, your guilt, your clenching heart.

"They said this world is a Vanitas," you whispered. "But I never imagined it would take everything I cared for and leave behind... this."

His gaze didn’t waver. "Then paint something new. You have the stars still."

You scoffed. "You don't get to say that. Not when you almost let yourself die back there."

He reached over. His gloved hand brushed your temple, then down to your jaw. A careful caress. You flinched at first. Then leaned.

"If I die, remember this," he said softly. "Even when the truth is a blasphemy, it's still worth dying for."

"And what if I think you are worth living for?"

He paused. That mask of arrogance slipped.

His voice cracked. "Then perhaps... I have one truth left worth defending."

The child now slept safely in a hidden sanctuary, your blade set aside.

You and Anaxa stood beneath a dying star, its light pulsing slow and broken. It was the same star you charted when you first met him. The one he called the "chained god."

"It’s beautiful," you murmured.

"It’s dying."

"So are we all."

His eyes met yours. "Would you still follow me, if I declared war on the divine?"

"Yes."

"Even if I turned into a god myself?"

You stepped closer. Pressed your palm to the mark (idk what it's called?) on his chest.

"Only if you let me be the one to remind you what it means to be human."

He laughed. This time, it was soft. Real.

He took your hand. And in a rare gesture of fragility, he pressed his lips to your knuckles.

"Then promise me," he whispered. "That if I become a monster, you'll be the one to kill me."

You shook your head.

"No, Anaxagorus. I'll do worse. I'll love you."

And in the silence that followed, the dying star pulsed one final time.

[Navigation]

[redvexillum]

I feel like the way I portray Alastor is all in the spectrum of Yandare. So, I tried my best to write...yandare Alastor in a way it makes sense for my head canon of him. I want to give a quick shout out to my friend @peach-flavored-flambe ! I thought the best way to welcome her is dedicating this unhinged Alastor story to her!

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, dead dove: do not eat, dub con, obsessive!alastor, p in v, gentle sex, gaslighting, entrapment, breeding kink, psychological, dark, mental torment, unhealthy relationship, orgasm denial, power dynamic, unhinged!alastor, reader is not okay, implied cannibalism, suicidal thoughts, depression, reader is delulu, alastor is delulu, extreme co-dependency, extreme denial, yandare!alastor

🙏 please mind your mental health before you read 🙏

The thought curled through you like poison, clinging to every corner of your mind: you wanted to die.  

It was a siren song, cruel and haunting, a whisper that slithered deep into the crumbling fortress of your mind, eroding the defences you’d built to keep it out. Your hands shook as exhaustion seeped into every crack; bones weary from a battle that felt endless. It wasn’t just tiredness – it was a soul-deep weight, a leaden heaviness that hollowed you out.  

In the background, soft jazz played from the kitchen, each note swirling with a warmth that felt so alien in the cold void within you. Sunlight poured through the window, a golden river that washed over everything it touched, indifferent to the shadows lurking within.  

You noticed the knife on the counter – a sharp gleam that seemed to pulse with a dangerous allure, its polished blade catching the light with a slick, almost wet shine. It seemed to call out to you, offering a quick, dreamless eternity.  

But even as your gaze lingered, your heart resisted, tethered stubbornly to someone who’d become both your prison and sanctuary. 

Alastor.  

A man you never should have crossed paths with. A man you should never have fallen for.  

You sighed, holding the knife as you turned back to the chunk of meat. Its once bright crimson flesh changing to a dull, dead brown. The raw smell was overwhelming, thick and nearly spoiled in the oppressive Louisiana heat. Alastor left you with some tasks today, after you had begged him to give you something to do as you wait for his return. Your task was to package the meat, clean up the kitchen, polish the floor while you waited for his return.  

The smell of raw meat brought images to flicker through your mind: men and women, faces frozen in terror as Alastor dragged them down to the cellar. A shiver ran down your spine, and a small whimper escaped, a whisper of fear against the tears that threatened to fall. You tore your gaze away from the knife and forced yourself to look outside. The bayou stretched out beyond the window, a bleak expanse of gnarly trees and dark water – silent, desolate, and as inescapable as him.  

You took a steadying breath, mentally reciting the day’s tasks like a prayer to keep you grounded. Finish the meat, scrub the blood stains, bleach the floor, and when the last crimson smear was gone, he’d return. By then, you’d be ready, composed. With a sniff, you shoved your feelings back, burying them under the monotony of chores.  

Finally, when every trace of red erased from the floor, you heard the front door click open. The sound echoed, a rhythmic click-click-click, each lock sliding free, the metal grating sharply against the silence. Your heart skipped as the door creaked, and there he stood – Alastor, haloed in the setting sun. His smile was gentle, but his eyes gleamed as he opened his arms.  

“My love,” he murmured, setting down his bag and slipping off his coat with an air of practised ease.  

You scrambled to your feet, the memory still fresh from the last time you hadn’t been there to greet him. He had panicked, refusing to leave your side for days. He held you then, whispering sweet words of devotion, his arms an unyielding cage, each word sinking deeper until it was all you knew. You didn’t know if he knew the truth – that every word bound you closer even as you longed to escape.  

Fear wrapped around you, yet somewhere deep within, in a place even you struggled to reach, you needed him. The years of isolation had stripped you bare, leaving only the two of you locked in this strange dance.  

Five years – five years of him as your only constant, your only company in this void. That had to be love. It was the only way to make sense of why you stayed, why you remained bound to him by something more powerful than chains.  

It had to be love.  

“Alastor,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, legs shaking from hours of kneeling on the hard floor, scrubbing away every crimson stain. You took a step forward, the chilling clink of metal grazing the wood beneath your feet with each uneven, hesitant step. The floorboards seemed to pulse below you, each creak an echo of your own heartbeat, until finally, you stopped, frozen four steps away from the exit.  

He chuckled – a warm, resonant sound that should have been comforting but only heightened the chill trickling down your spine. With graceful steps, Alastor closed the distance between you, his arms circling around your shoulders. His chin rested gently against your head, the weight of him grounding you in place, his presence washing over you like a tide you couldn’t escape.  

“I missed you,” you mumbled against his chest, nuzzling into his embrace. The heat of him, the solid reassurance of his touch, brought you back to yourself, to the one undeniable truth of your existence: you were here, alive, because he held you tethered. “Did you have a good day at work, my love?” you murmured, soft and tentative.  

His hand slid over the back of your head; fingers gentle as he stroked you. He breathed in deeply, a wistful sigh slipping from his lips. “My love, you never left my thoughts for a single moment.” His voice was soft, warm, and his arms tightened around you, so tightly that for a second, you felt as though the air was slipping away.  

Finally, he parted, just enough for you to breathe again, his fingers grazing along the warm curve of your cheek. “Let’s get you out of that, hmm?” His voice was gentle, and his whisky-brown eyes glittered with a kindness that made your chest ache.  

A swell of relief surged in you, and you threw your arms around his shoulders. “Thank you, Alastor, thank you!” Laughter bubbled out of you, bright and involuntary, stretching your lips into a smile that felt foreign, almost unbelievable after everything.  

He lifted you effortlessly, his strength both exhilarating and terrifying as he carried you toward the couch. Each step sent the faintest clinking of metal into the air, a reminder of the bond that held you captive.  

As he set you down and took a step back, you could feel his gaze moving over you, slow and deliberate, like he could peel back each layer with a single look. You flushed under his scrutiny, your shoulders curling inward, a strange blend of shame and need warring within you. Despite your clothes, under his gaze you felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could read every thought you’d ever dared to keep from him.  

“Cher,” he murmured, his hand drifting over the outside of your calf, fingers tracing a path until they reached your ankle.  

You heard the fabric rustling, and then – there it was, glinting between his fingers: a silver key. Your eyes focused on the key, and your heart skipped, hope blooming like wildflowers in a barren field. The promise of freedom lay in that tiny object, so close and yet, a lifetime away. You watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he took your ankle in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your bare foot. It was a reminder of the first time he’d ordered you to go without socks when you first escaped from this manacle.  

He slid the key into the lock, and with a single twist, the manacle opened with the same familiar click that marked his return home every day. The cool metal fell away, clattering weakly to the floor. A rush of air hit the skin beneath, and you winced as blood surged back into your ankle, a dull ache flooding back into limbs so long constrained.  

The shackles lay there, lifeless on the floor, the physical proof of your captivity now nothing more than a scrap of metal, stripped of its power. And yet, as you looked up at him, his eyes shining with something both possessive and achingly tender, you realized you could never truly cast off the chains that bound you to him.  

Not as long as you believe you loved him.  

“Oh, my poor cher,” Alastor murmured, his voice thick with a twisted blend of regret and possessive tenderness as his eyes traced the dark bruises wrapping around your ankle. His lips brushed softly over the tender skin, lingering in a gentle, reverent kiss before his forehead rested against your leg.  

With his eyes closed, he sighed, pressing warmth into you. “It pains me,” he whispered, “to see even the slightest mark of discomfort on you.” His lips began a slow journey, grazing from your ankle upward along the sensitive skin of your inner calf, each kiss stealing a shiver from you. “But you understand, don’t you, cher? It’s a necessity.” 

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, their intense gaze sending a shudder through you. His position – kneeling between your legs – made it impossible to think straight. Despite being in a servile pose, he was still the master of your heart.  

“Yes...I understand,” you managed, your voice raspy and barely audible. His lips continued their climb, each kiss leaving a cool, tingling path against your skin. “But I’ve been good, Alastor.” Your breath hitched as his head came to rest in your lap, his fingers tracing languid circles along your thigh.  

He chuckled softly, low and indulgent. “You have been,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning across your skin. “Perhaps if you continue to behave...I might let you roam freely around the house when I’m not here.” He looked up, giving you a small, playful smile that made your heart stutter.  

The thought of moving freely, without the heavy, omnipresent clink of the chain dragging behind you, sent a thrill through your veins. You clenched your hands into fists, desperate to keep your excitement contained.  

“I can be good,” you whispered, fingers drifting to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you stroked his head. “I can be good for you, Alastor...” 

A groan escaped him, his eyes falling shut as he leaned into your touch, savouring the sensation like a man starving. Emboldened, you took a breath, letting words slip out – words you’d held back for so long, daring to hope he might grant them.  

“Maybe...” you hesitated, voice barely a murmur. “Maybe sometimes in the distant future, I could go into t-town with you?” Your fingers froze in his hair as his body tensed, muscles stiffening under your touch. You held your breath, dread and hope tangling within you, afraid you’d crossed some unseen line. Alastor’s overprotective streak was ironclad – whenever he sensed a threat, real or imagined, his vigilance would lock you down even more tightly than before.  

A heartbeat passed before he spoke. “Perhaps...” He rose to his feet slowly, drawing you up with him, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Perhaps one day, cher.” His hands slid under your legs, lifting you from the couch, his grip firm and desirous. “But for now...” he trailed off, leaving the sentence open, thick with suggestion as he carried you up the stairs.  

The scent of him, rich and intoxicating, filled your senses, mingling with the sharp, metallic undertone of old blood. Recently, he had brought up the idea of family, his eyes lighting with a dark kind of joy when he saw your loneliness. The house felt hollow most days, empty but for him, and he’d suggested a child - a little soul to fill the silent rooms.  

At first, the notion had left you reeling, uncertain, but the longer you were left alone with only your thoughts, the more the idea began to take root. Its appeal started to bloom uncontrollably like weeds in your mind.  

Now, Alastor and you spent every waking moment together in his bed, until your wishes took fruit.  

He lowered you onto the bed with an almost reverent tenderness, as though each touch was sacred, each look a silent promise. He shed his clothes slowly, his eyes never leaving you as his skin emerged, bare and raw. By the time he climbed onto bed, leaning over you, his desire was unmistakable – his cock hardening just from watching you laid out beneath him.  

He hovered for a moment, his face close to yours, and his gaze softened as his hand brushed along your cheek. “Cher,” he murmured, a plea woven into his tone, his voice low and thick. His fingers traced down the side of your face as though memorizing you by touch alone. “Will you let me...feel you tonight?” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, slow and lingering, each word like a promise. “For the rest of the night?” His hips lowered, pressing himself against your thigh, his warmth branding you.  

Heat flared through you, your body’s response instant and shameless. Every part of you remembered him – his hands, his mouth, the way he claimed you until the world slipped away. Your body answered before your mind could, a warmth pooling low in your stomach as he lifted the hem of your dress, slowly baring your skin. You sat up, letting the fabric fall away, and his eyes flickered, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts. Your only cover now a thin piece of cloth hiding the most intimate part of you.  

Alastor’s grin widened, his gaze roving from the pebbled peaks of your nipples down to the damp fabric between your thighs. His hands traced down, catching the waistband and tugging it free. His touch lingered over each inch of exposed skin as he pulled it over your thighs, past the bruises on your ankle, until you lay just as bare before him.  

Your legs fell open, your slick folds glistening in invitation, your body traitorous in its eagerness. Alastor’s eyes darkened, his fingers tightening around his cock as he gripped himself, slow strokes stoking his own arousal as he stared, captivated by your wetness. 

“The thought of you carrying my child, cher...it drives me mad.” His voice was a rough whisper, his breaths shallow as he stroked himself harder, faster, his eyes on your throbbing core. “It drives me to the edge,” he murmured, his grin feral as he leaned closer, his gaze smouldering with dark intent. “Drives me to the point of bloodlust,” his adam’s apple bobbed up then down, his grin trembling as it couldn’t stretch further lest it tore through his cheeks.  

You swallowed, your pulse quickening at the edge of his words, at the memory of the shadows he kept hidden – the bloodstained cellar, the bodies you helped him to clean. Whether you were here or not, you knew he would continue to kill, as relentless and ruthless as ever.  

"Ah, cher,” he sighed, settling his body over yours, his hard length pressing flush against your entrance, teasing you with his warmth. “Cher, cher, cher,” he murmured, his voice a low chuckle as he brushed his fingers through your hair, wrapping it around his fingers. “Why do you have to be so lovely?” His nose skimmed your hairline, nuzzling his way to your temple, where he pressed a slow, heated kiss. “Why do you tempt me like this?” 

“You’re all I think about, dream about,” he murmured, his voice honey-sweet as he pressed his mouth against your skin, each word a whisper trailing down your cheek, your neck, and finally, open-mouthed and lingering on the curve of your breast. “So much so, cher, that I sometimes imagine killing you.” His tone was soft, unsettlingly jovial as though he’d confessed a secret desire, his hands tracing delicate patterns over your skin.  

Your heart pounded, memories flashing across your mind like dark, haunted snapshots – the cellar door muffling desperate cries, the hollow silence that followed. The scent of blood hung thick in those memories, the darkness swallowing up the faces that haunted you. Your hands trembled, a pulse of fear mingling with something deeper, something you could barely acknowledge.  

“But I won’t,” he murmured against your skin, pulling you from the spiral of those memories. He lifted his hand to catch a tear that had slipped from your eye, his thumb brushing it away softly. He gazed at the glistening drop before licking it from his fingertip, his eyes darkened as he held you captive in his gaze. “I would never hurt you, cher. Have I ever hurt you?” His voice was quiet, coaxing yet intense, his question leaving no room for escape.  

His eyes burned into yours, searching, unwavering. “Tell me, cher,” he pressed, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with a demand that made your pulse stutter. “Do you see me as a bad man?”  

There were moments when Alastor felt so delicate, so gentle that he might as well have been made of glass, every touch featherlight. But there were others, moments like this, when he shifted – his possessive grip, his words, his gaze – all dark and consuming. When he asked these questions, you felt like a bird trapped in his cage, heart fluttering as you tried to find the right words.  

Your lips quivered, unable to form a reply, the silence thick as more tears slipped down your cheeks. Alastor’s gaze softened just slightly, and he gathered you close, arms wrapping around you as he rocked you, as if you were a fragile, precious thing in his hold. “Shh,” he whispered, his lips against your hair, “I love you, cher. I love you, I love you,” he repeated, his voice lilting like a lullaby.  

Your mind fractured, the edge of your memories sharp, each fragment glinting in the dark recesses of your mind. You reached out within yourself, searching, groping for the piece of you that had loved him first – the man you’d met one hazy night at the speakeasy, the man who seemed to light up the room just by existing.  

Slowly, you let your hands drift to his back, your fingers pressing against the warmth of his skin. Your eyes closed, more tears slipping free as you tried to remember the feeling of joy, of laughter that you’d felt with him. Your lips brushed against his shoulder, a tentative sign of trust as he sighed, his body relaxing under your touch.  

You dug deeper, sifting through memories of that laughter, of your first dance, your first kiss – all those quiet, gentle confessions that had once coloured his eyes in soft brows. You found yourself on your knees, clutching at those fragments with desperate hands, determined to recall the moments when his touch had felt safe, cherished.  

“Shh,” Alastor’s mouth hovered over yours, his lips ghosting against yours, a barely there whisper of warmth. “It’s alright, cher. I have you.” He guided himself against you, pressing gently, his cock slipping slowly into your wet, pulsing heat. His mouth melded to yours as his tongue traced along the seam of your lips, savouring each taste as his low moans mingled with your soft gasps.  

A hum escaped him, rich and satisfied, as he sank into you, his body pressed to yours, filling you with a quiet intensity that left you breathless. The salted trails on your cheeks lingered as your lips curved into a slow smile, your legs parting, welcoming him deeper, your heart opening despite everything, the echoes of his whispers filling the night.  

“Good girl,” Alastor groaned, his hips pushing forward, stretching you around the hard, unyielding thickness of him. “Oh, cher, you’re perfect for me,” he murmured, his words a deep, reverent moan as he sank in deeper, inch by inch, until he was completely enveloped. His hands settled possessively on your hip, his eyes devouring the sight of you.  

“I’m going to fill you with my seed all night, love,” he purred, rolling his hips with a languid, maddening rhythm. “After all, your body is begging me to take you – wouldn't you say?” His voice rose with playful amusement, the bed creaking beneath you as if echoing his delight.  

“Yes,” you gasped, breathless, the sensation of him making you tremble. “Please,” you whispered, your nails pressing into his shoulders, urging him closer. Alastor drew his hips back slowly, agonizingly, until only the tip of him remained, only to push back in, the pace deliberate, every inch of him dragging against you with intent. Each movement seemed to ignite a new flame within you, stretching your pleasure, drawing it out until it was almost unbearable.  

“Look how good you are for me,” he whispered against your flushed cheek, his lips tracing his words into your skin. “Look how perfect you are,” he breathed, sinking deeper as he tightened his arms around you, locking you into his rhythm. “No one will understand you the way I do. You were destined to be mine.” His voice was rich, warm, but tinged with darkness that was both thrilling and terrifying.  

“Al-Alastor,” you whimpered, each thrust stoking the tension building inside, reaching deeper, pulling you into a spiral of desire and delirium. His moans, his heated words, his relentless pace – all of it washed over you like a fevered dream. Each breath, each sigh and whispered praise tangled together in a symphony of need.  

The creaking of the bed became louder, and with a sudden surge, he lifted himself, teeth gritted, and drove into you harder. His hips snapped against yours; his pace relentless.  

“Cher...cher...” he growled, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as he focused on you, his gaze hungry. “That’s right, cher,” he chuckled breathlessly, each laugh broken by the sound of his hips smacking against your own. “Oh, you’d make a perfect mother,” he panted, his words nearly incoherent as he picked up his pace. The final thrust left you both gasping, his grip on you tightening as he finally reached his own release, filling you with powerful, pulsing bursts of warmth.  

You moaned in frustration, your pleasure still simmering, unsatisfied, leaving your skin taut with need. You tried to move, but Alastor held you firmly, pressing himself deep inside, his body still wrapped around yours.  

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face as he slowly softened within you, the warm rush of his seed starting to trickle down. When he finally withdrew, his fingers slipped to your entrance, pressing lightly to try and keep every last drop inside, as if marking you as his.  

Lying on his side beside you, he gazed at you, his expression gentle as he took in your flushed, tear-streaked cheeks, still needy with unfulfilled desire. A smile tugged at his lips when you also turned to your side to face him. His eyes drifted down, and you knew he was watching his own essence escape, sluggishly slipping down and pooling on your inner thighs. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your shoulder.  

“Don’t worry, cher,” he said quietly, his voice low and calming. “I’ll take care of you, again and again, tonight.” He withdrew his fingers, now slicked with his and your arousal. “Until your body takes my seed, we’ll keep trying,” he promised, his gaze flickering down between you both before meeting yours with a playful, boyish grin.  

With a breath that finally began to steady, you raised a hand to his face, touching his cheek tenderly. He turned to press a gentle kiss to your palm, a quiet moment of warmth shared in the aftermath.  

In moments like these, in the field of fractured memories, you saw one shard glinting brighter than the rest, pulling you toward it. It was a piece of you – something essential, something more truthful and dangerous than anything else. It shimmered with dark clarity, cutting through the shadows of doubt and lingering despair. 

You drifted past the memories that still haunted you, not quite registering the images that flooded your mind. Alastor’s eyes, once warm, turning nearly black with fury the night you tried to leave, his grip like iron as he vowed you’d belong to him. You passed by the moment he chained you to the cellar walls, his victims mere echoes in the darkness, his voice soothingly venomous, telling you that no one else could ever understand you as he did.  

Each scar those memories left on your soul was still fresh, a raw edge in the depths of your mind, fragments of yourself that would never heal.  

But in this one shard – this singular piece of undeniable truth – you saw something more. It was in these quiet, raw moments after he’d loved you, held you close, his breath mingling with yours. It was here, next to him in the aftermath, that you could almost believe he was the only soul in this world who would ever love you with such consuming fervour.  

You dragged your body closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, as his arms immediately circled protectively around you. His eyes softened as you leaned closer, drawing him into a gentle kiss. Your lips grazing his in a tender, slow exchange that felt achingly real. His fingers traced up and down your back, as if branding his name on your skin.  

In this quiet, lonely world, he was your guiding light, a burning soul who consumed all but left you somehow whole. You wanted to hold on to him, to keep him by your side. You feared whatever darkness lurked beyond Alastor, the fear of the unknown paled in comparison to the thought of leaving the one person who had vowed to love every fractured, scarred piece of you.  

He needed you, just as much as you needed him.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[gladoswantscake]

An Eternity with You - Dracula x Reader (DBD)

Summary: There's only pessimism if you were taken into a realm of lifelong suffering.

Warnings: Psychological distress/trauma, blood, gore, horror

Available on AO3

The hacking, slashings, stabbings, and murder never stopped. Every time your body was pierced with those hooks or killed by the killer's hand; you prayed to whatever deity existed to put you out of your misery for good. But alas, you always wake up back at the campfire.  You were unwillingly taken by the Entity; taken into a realm of endless pain and suffering and stuck in sick games of nothing but pure torment. You dreaded going back to that campfire. It never led to anything new. You never came to terms that this was your new life, and you were never going to see your home again.

You could hardly close your eyes to rest without visions of murder entering your mind or the paranoiac-piercing screams messing with your eardrums. Streaks of your hair were becoming white from the great amounts of trauma, and bags under your eyes took effect from the lack of sleep.

The other survivors you've met had been here longer than you, but they never grew used to it, either. You never truly wanted to die so badly till now.

But then something happened during the times you served your trials.

Your chest grew heavy when there were no sounds of generators being repaired, or a teammate calling out in need of assistance. The air was silent and heavy as you explored the trial. The clicking of your footsteps only gave sound to the dead air. Fog entangled your legs with a step towards a sign of any life within the trial. In the midst of the fog, a silhouette laying on the ground could be faintly seen from a distance. As you approach further, you realize it was one of your teammates with their neck torn open. A small pool of blood lays underneath your dead teammate and soaked into their clothing. Upon further examining the body, the hole in their neck looked as if an animal had done it. Their eyes remained open; a hint of expression of fear remained on their face. It was almost as if they were begging you for help.

Quickly and quietly your teammates were being killed without you realizing. Was it just them or all the others?

"I apologize for leaving a mess for you to see. It wasn't very chivalrous of me." A deep voice startles you from behind causing you to whip your head around to see a rather tall man.

The Dark Lord, or Dracula that some of your fellow survivors refer to him as. Word of mouth went around the campfire that he was a vampire. He held no mercy for anyone who had a beating heart. Except for you. The first impression wasn't the best. You found him towering over you as you cowered beneath after watching him toss your teammate's dead body to the side after draining every drop of blood from them. 

For the longest time, he's felt his dead heartstrings being pulled. He wasn't sure what caused him to feel this way. Maybe if he was not feasting on your dead teammate, he would have looked less frightening.

He's grown obsessed with you since the day he spared you.

He takes his time walking up to you, wiping the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand in the process. "I was afraid I wasn't going to see you again." His hand reaches for your face with a clawed thumb to wipe a streak of blood splattered on your cheek from healing a teammate earlier.

"Is there ever a time you haven't?"

He chuckles at your response. "No, but I must say, it's become a hobby of mine as of late."

Every time you entered his realm, Dracula always saved you for last. Killing off your teammates as fast as possible then finding you. He couldn't have any of your teammates spoiling anything between the two of you. After killing off your teammates, he would take his precious time stalking you from a distance in his wolf form. His dead heart always skipped a beat whenever he found you wandering alone with no one to get in his way.

"I can tell." 

His fingers feather down to your arm until stopping when he notices discoloration on your skin. He pulls your wrist towards him examining a red swollen area with scrapes. The color was slowly bruising into a purplish red. His thumb gently glazes over the scratches allowing his cold touch to calm down the swelling for a bit finally.

"It's nothing. I fell." You reassure.

"My dear, you should be more careful. I'd hate for something so delicate to get into harm's reach."

"If I had a flashlight that lasted longer than ten seconds, I would have been able to see."

"Rather than relying on something so worthless, you should find something that'll do you good."

"Is that your way of saying I want to spend more time with you?"

"Of course. I enjoy indulging in conversations with you." He leans into your face, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not only that, but I also enjoy feeling your warm skin under my hands and hearing the rhythmic pulse underneath your skin." His warm metallic breath hits your face. "It's so rapturous. Wouldn't you agree my dear?"

"I suppose it's better than death." You wince.

It took some time to warm up to him.

The Entity eventually notices the strange behavior of Dracula. He was unable to fulfill his duty because of you. No matter how much the Entity craved and demanded the survivor's flesh and blood he couldn't do it. He could never conjure enough courage to sacrifice you. It decided to remove you from the trials that involved him for it to be satisfied with its sacrifices. He grew angry upon hearing the news, but the Entity didn't care. If it wanted sacrifices, it was going to make sure it got what it wanted.

Now he finds himself in his castle away from the other killers—sitting alone in his throne room staring off into the distance, sulking in his thoughts. He had no regret being taken into the Entity's realm at first; it felt like paradise, but now he's beginning to have second thoughts. He grew madly in love with you that's why. He wanted to take you away from a place that's done you no good. He wanted to spend an eternity with you. If only he could.

Quiet clicking sounds from a distance pull him from his thoughts. He turned his head to where the sound was coming from and there you were just a few feet from where he sat.

If only he saw how his face beamed at the sight of seeing you again. He rushes to you. "I'd never thought I would ever see you again." His clawed fingers stretched outward feeling your hair as his thumbs stroked your cheeks; feeling the warmth that once sought comfort to him "I pray your suffering has not been too utmost for how long I've been away from you."

"Nothing has changed. I hate it so much."

"I'm sorry how things have-"

"I missed you. So. Much." Your voice cracks upon interrupting. He stares down at you as you try to keep your composure. You look away from him to hide your frustrated tears. "I wish I didn't have to go back."

"Please don't grieve." He lifts your face. "No matter what happens, I will always be here waiting for you. And one day there will be no more suffering. I promise you."

Despite you suffering eternal damnation in the Entity's realm; to Dracula, in a certain way he has gotten the happy ending.

An eternity with you.

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Controlled

Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (f)reader

Tags: NSFW, third person POV, 1950s-60s, spies, psychological conditioning, telepathic reader, mind control, PTSD, cold war, Hydra, winter soldier program, split personality disorder, emotional, jealousy, protective bucky, possessive bucky

Additional tags: sex, sub reader, dom/sub dynamics, intimacy, forced proximity, sadism, blood, biting

“Test number five.” The Hydra research intern, a man named Mark, spoke into the recorder before clicking it. “Since our last test, subject G-34, was able to read the thoughts of all the people in the room with her, she has been practicing since. Isn't that right, G-34?”

“Right,” she nodded, wiping her sweaty palms on her beige uniform. The same uniform all the test subjects in the facility wore.

“And now, we will test her ability to read someone outside of her vicinity. I have a screen with me where I will type questions to Dr. Braun, who is in the next room. He will type the answers back to me. All I want is for you, G-34, to tell me his answers. Nod if you understand.”

As soon as she nodded, he began to type into his computer. “Go ahead.” 

She closed her eyes and concentrated on locating Dr. Braun's mind. When at last she found her intended destination, she began with the first answer. “The shirt he is wearing is the color blue.”

The scientist nodded, before typing in a new question.

“The number he is currently thinking about is 34,” She answered.

“Very good.” The scientist mumbled, already typing in the next.

She focused again. “His dog is a mix of a husky and–” her voice cut off with a sudden gasp. 

Braun’s voice was gone. Replaced by a completely different one. The new voice belonged to a man, English. No... no, American. “No, no, no, please I don't want to forget!!” 

She cupped her ears, desperately trying to quiet the overwhelming mental scream. 

Simultaneously, someone else spoke to the screaming American, in Russian.

“Желание” (wish) The third party spoke. 

“No!” The American cried desperately.

“Семнадцать” (seventeen)

“Stop!”

“Ржавый” (rusty)

“Please! I don't want to feel this anymore! Please just kill me! Kill me!” The American begged.

“Stop it!!” G-34 let out a cry of her own. With her head in her hands, she was desperate for the torment and pain to cease. Whoever he was, wherever he was. He was in agony. He was terrified. What kind of experiments were they running on him? She shivered from the thought of it alone.

“G-34?” Mark placed his hand on her shoulder. 

“S-sorry,” She said through clenched teeth. “I am hearing from someone else. A man. He is in great pain.”

“... Interesting.” The scientist said. Not a shred of sympathy in his tone as he wrote in his notepad. “Can you still hear him?”

“Yes, he–” Before she could finish speaking, the voice disappeared. Or rather, changed. He was calm now. Quiet. At first, she wondered if she was back to hearing Dr. Braun. But no, it was the same voice that had been screaming just a moment ago. This time however, he spoke in Russian. 

She had only managed to catch the last few words when he said, “Зимний солдат... готов отвечать.” (Winter soldier, ready to report). 

“He… he stopped.” She said, lowering her hands from her ears.

Mark hummed, raising a brow at her. “Stalling our tests again, G-34? You know that only wastes both our time.”

“I was not stalling, sir!” Her mouth felt dry. “Really! He... was begging to die…” Her voice felt hollow at the haunting sound. “I thought he needed help.” 

The scientist blinked, waiting for her to say more. 

When she didn't, he clicked his pen and offered a disappointed smile. “Well, let’s try to stay focused from now on.” He gave a dry laugh. “Nod if you understand.”

Still in shock, she nodded absently.

Two Weeks Later

“Subject G-34,” Dr. Arnim Zola, the head researcher at the facility smiled at her. “Meet subject Z-26.”

Zola gestured proudly to the man standing across the room from her, like a child presenting a high test score to their parent. 

She gazed up at Z-26. So this was the man whose screams she had been hearing for the last couple of weeks. The man whose family called him ‘James’ and whose friends called him ‘Bucky’ in his deep subconscious memories.

The Winter Soldier. 

She gave a choppy nod. “Hello.”

Z-26 nodded back. With his chin raised and his hands resting behind his back in military fashion, he towered over everyone in the room. She curiously eyed his left arm, which seemed to be made entirely out of metal. 

In the fluorescent lab lights, he managed to be somewhat more tanned than everyone else, hinting at his foreign origin. Perhaps he grew up spending lots of time outdoors. 

He was in his twenties. Clad in a new pair of combat boots, cargo pants and a clean white t-shirt. He looked like a commodity rather than a person. 

His facial features were sharp, angular, yet unlike everyone else in the facility, he did not look malnourished or underfed. He looked strong. Blue eyes with dark circles stared pointedly at her as if sizing up a target. His dark hair was cut short, matching the same haircut as all male test subjects.

“G-34 is one of our brave volunteers,” Zola explained to the soldier.

Z-26 eyed her with an unreadable expression. In his mind, she heard the very voice ask, “She volunteered for this...?” 

“She is a very valuable asset to our mission. Like yourself, soldier. We think the two of you could partner up someday. Brains and muscle.”  Zola gestured to them both excitedly. “We anticipate a fruitful partnership.” He cleared his throat. “But for now, you are both still training.”

A Few Days Prior

After another successful task, G-34 finally mustered up the courage to ask. “Dr. Zola. I was wondering…”

“What is it?” Zola muttered as he typed away on his computer. 

She wiped her sweaty palms on her uniform and cleared her throat. “What... or I suppose, who is the Winter Soldier?”

Zola instantly stopped what he was doing. 

A dreadful feeling of instant regret crept over her. One day, her curiosity would surely get her killed.

“How does she know about the Winter Soldier?” Zola’s mind raced.

She licked her lips. “It was something I overheard the other day. During a test with Dr. Braun.”

Zola bit the inside of his cheek while his mind ran; browsing through options, plans, and contingencies. At last, he folded his arms, leaning back against his chair. “‘The Winter Soldier’ is a program we use for our protection.”

“This can go one of two ways.” Zola thought. “No one other than cleared personnel knows about the program's existence. So either she keeps this a secret or she tells someone…”

“I will not.” She insisted “Tell anyone, that is. I was just curious.”

Zola eyed her for a long moment. “She's too valuable an asset to waste.”

Waste? In what way? Alarm bells rang in her mind. “I will keep this a secret, Doctor.” She insisted. “I swear on my life.”

He shushed her then. “Your life is a gift, child. Do not say such things. I know you will not tell.”

She sighed in relief. 

“But I need to think about some things. Let's end the session here.” He clicked off the recording device and got up before leaving the room. Before he let the door close, he turned back to her with a smile. “Good work today.”

Present

“And G-34, I do not need to tell you too much about Z-26.” Dr. Braun said, tapping his temple; a knowing grin plastered on his face. “You have shown us that you are perfectly capable of finding that all for yourself.” 

Catching on to what the Doctor had implied, Z-26 aimed a glare her way. His brows drew together, nostrils flared. “Get out of my head, you witch.”

She gasped. Instinctively taking a step back. 

“What is it, G-34?” Zola asked. His voice was strained, barely containing his excitement. “What is Z-26 thinking?”

Before she could respond, Braun gave an obnoxious chuckle. “It is the first time the poor bastard's seen a woman since the war.” He turned to give another scientist a mocking grin. “Besides you Mark.” 

The research intern shook his head, giving Braun a rude gesture as the men around them broke into laughter. 

“The dog is probably imagining all kinds of depraved shit.” Braun jeered, eyeing Z-26 with disgust. Reading Braun’s mind, G-34 felt a wave of hatred rolling off Braun, aimed at Z-26. No, not just. Aimed at all Americans. He enjoyed humiliating Z-26 because he knew the soldier couldn't fight back without orders. He felt safe, but at the same time, on edge.

She looked back at Z-26, his glare was now aimed at Braun. “Idiot.”

She couldn't help her curiosity. Or her fascination. Why was he thinking in English? Why had he spoken Russian that other time? She wondered if Z-26's identity is still tied to his American past, while the Winter Soldier was shaped by Hydra’s programming. 

Regardless, she did not get a chance to find out, as the meeting adjourned shortly and both subjects were led back to their cells. The session was deemed a success, if Zola's thoughts were any indication.

A Week Later

She caught the creak of leather boots pressing against the floor, and suddenly, she knew she wasn’t alone in the lab.

Then came his voice, low and indifferent.

“Ah. The volunteer.” Z-26 thought as his gaze fell on her seated at the metal lab table. 

He walked in carrying a heavy box of supplies, putting it down at the corner of the room.

She tensed. Not at the words but the way they felt. Filled with disdain. 

“I did not volunteer because I thought this would be fun,” she muttered, not looking up from her notebook

That was a mistake.

She knew it the second his body stilled. 

When he turned to her, his movements were slow. His eyes were dark and meeting his gaze, she felt the way an animal feels the stare of a predator before an attack. 

Unconsciously, she shrunk back against the cold metal desk where she was working.

“Stay out of my head.” Z-26’s words weren’t raised, or shouted. But they cut like a knife. “As if they haven't screwed me up enough,” he thought. “Now not even my thoughts are safe.”

She wanted to tell him that she had no intention of using his thoughts against him. But that would just reveal that she read his mind again. 

Instead, she opted for the truth. “I hate it here as much as you do.”

“I doubt that.”

“It is true. Those of us who volunteered had no other choice. My family was starving, and now they are not. Thanks to my being here.”

“Choice.” He thought as his bitter, soundless laughter rang in the room. “My corpse was dragged and reanimated in a lab. My body was made into a tool. For my enemy to use as they please. And speaking of family, any memory I may have had of mine was wiped clean. I don’t even know what my fuckin’ name was.”

He didn’t say any of this out loud.

Patients reacted to trauma in different ways. Some screamed. Some bore it silently. She concluded that Z–26 fell under the latter category. Even if his mind was screaming the entire time.

She hesitated. Then, softly she spoke. “James.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t even breathe. For a long moment, she thought she had made another mistake. Then, slowly, his blue eyes narrowed.

“That is your American name,” she said, watching him carefully. “It is what people call you in your subconscious memories. Sometimes your friends call you ‘Bucky’.”

She braced for it. For the anger. The accusation. 

Instead, his lips parted slightly. “James,” he murmured. Testing the sound. “Bucky.”

And for the first time since she met him, there was no coldness in his voice. Only a hollowed, broken sound.

Two Weeks Later

Taking her hand, Zola led her around the banquet hall. 

Unused to wearing heels, and dressed, G-34 stumbled clumsily in her gown, relying on the scientist to keep her balance. Her gift was more of a curse when she could hear the other guests mocking her clumsiness in their minds.

The hall was full of impeccably dressed, wealthy, immoral, well-fed, greedy people. Arms dealers, oligarchs, oil tycoons. And her mission was to read their minds and report anything of interest back to Zola. 

She looked around the room, searching for Z-26. He was in the car with them on the way here, but since they had entered the building he was nowhere to be found. 

“Jean!” Zola greeted an elderly man dressed in a black suit. 

Reading his mind, G-34 concluded he was a French biologist named Jean Armand. 

“Ah, old friend.” The Frenchman greeted him. “Are we to expect your, how do they say ‘A-game’ at tonight's show?”

What show? G-34 blinked, looking between the two men.

Before either could speak again, two large doors opened at the far end of the hall and the crowd began to pour in with exciting murmurs and whispers. 

What was happening? G-34 tensed. She turned to Zola with a look of confusion. 

“It’s time to find out.” Zola said to Jean, before offering her his arm once again. “Shall we, my dear?”

She let him lead her into an adjoining room. 

The room was filled with seats at all sides. With a boxing ring in the center. 

Once everyone took their seats, all of the lights shut off to a chorus of delightful laughter and awe. Only the boxing ring was left illuminated.

The crowd clapped as a well-dressed man walked onto the middle of the ring holding a microphone in his hand.

“Ladies, and gentlemen.” He raised the microphone to his lips. “The moment you have all been waiting for!” 

She looked around nervously. Where the hell was Z-26?

“Please, give a warm welcome to our returning champion, The Frenchman we all know and fear, Vincent 'Unbreakable' Seine!” The announcer gestured to the left of the ring. 

The crowd roared with excitement as a burly, hulking man strutted around with his arms raised, encouraging more cheers. Like Z-26, one of the Frenchman's arms was entirely made of metal.

“And now.” The announcer spoke again. “We have a newcomer, he is young and inexperienced, but he may blow us away just yet. Please welcome, The Winter Soldier!”

G-34 froze. Her eyes widened as she slowly turned to the ring. On the opposite side of the giant frenchman, stood Z-26. He had discarded his suit for his uniform combat boots and cargo pants. He was lean and on the thinner side in comparison to the Frenchman, and despite his height, was shorter. His lab dog tags hung loosely over his muscular, bare chest. 

“Isn’t he pretty, ladies?” The announcer joked. The crowd cheered in response. 

Z-26 was glaring at his opponent. G-34 recognized that look. The same one that was aimed at her the first time they met. Her hands shook nervously. 

So this was what Jean Armand had meant by ‘tonight’s show’. She looked to him sitting giddy beside her. Sick man. 

“Gentlemen. I wish to be entertained tonight.” The announcer said in a serious tone, looking from the left to the right. “So whatever you do in the next five rounds. You better keep it dirty.” He cackled after the last word. 

The bell rang as the crowd roared, the two men took their first swings. 

The Frenchman was growing tired after the third round had ended. 

His moves were less sharp. His face was covered in fresh cuts and bruises. His breathing labored. 

In contrast, Z-26 remained agile, circling the Frenchmen and dodging his blows, much to the crowd's amusement.

Suddenly, the large man landed a punch with his metal arm. Hard too. A cruel sound echoed as metal connected with Z-26’s lip. 

Her hand shot up to her mouth. The crowd roared as Z-26 lost his balance, landing hard on his back before quickly rolling back and onto his hands and knees.

“Your boy is good, Arnim.” Pierre turned to give Zola a smug look. “But we shall see if conditioning can beat experience.”

Zola was undeterred. “We shall.”

Z-26 looked up slowly. His mouth dripped with hot blood. 

Then he did something that made his opponent, and everyone in the room, falter. 

He grinned.

The crowd erupted in cheers and roars, chanting. “Soldier! Soldier! Soldier!” 

Sizing up his opponent. Z-26’s chest rose and fell in increasing speed. Reading his mind, she felt his adrenaline spike. 

He wiped a hand across his bloody lip, leaving a crimson residue like a mask across his face, and flicked it, splattering his blood in droplets on the floor. What was before stoic indifference was now animalistic intimidation as he paced around his opponent in a slow circle. 

The Frenchman lunged at him again, and Z-26 blocked his blow with impressive speed, grabbing the man's arm and twisting it hard behind his back. A loud crack was heard just as the opponent cried out in pain. 

She shut her eyes. In Hydra’s lab she was exposed to many uncomfortable visuals - blood samples, sickness, pain. But nothing quite so depraved. 

The hairs on her skin rose as she heard Z-26 cruel laughter ring out. Only, it sounded different. That wasn’t Z-26 anymore. That was the Winter Soldier. 

She dared a glance, squinting as the soldier picked up his opponent by his throat with ease, before slamming him on the ground, then using his metal arm to pummel him with a volley of bone chilling punches. 

She could hear his thoughts. “Break his jaw. Crush his throat. Tear him apart. Hurt him. Hurt him! HURT HIM!”

G-34 dared a glance at Dr. Zola. He watched with a look of pride, thinking: “My perfect creation, my masterpiece” 

The winter soldier mercilessly threw punch after punch. His bloodstained dog tags swinging in front of his bare chest.

She desperately searched for the opponent’s thoughts, but there was nothing. No thoughts. No movement. No heartbeat.

Her breath caught in her throat. Incidentally, she hid her face in her hands and turned around, not wanting to see the kill. She didn't notice that she was leaning into Dr. Braun. She only understood that once his arms came to circle around her as a faux display of comfort and he cooed, “poor girl, this is no scene for such a lady.” 

He didn't fool her. 

Without having to read his mind, she knew he was terrified simply by the way his hands shook slightly. Peeking behind him, she also saw the rest of the audience was unsettled. The once-cheering spectators had gone silent, their faces pale. 

She didn't feel bad for them. They paid to see a spectacle, and that's exactly what they got.

Four Months Later

“That song at the Gala yesterday... it was Glenn Miller, yes?” G-34 asked in a last ditch attempt to start up a conversation with Z-26.

Silence and a beat passed before she got his answer. “How do you know Glenn Miller?” He asked. 

Sitting across from her, he was clad in a tweed suit - the counterpart to her long coat. The two looked the part of a body guard and a wealthy heiress. 

Suppressing a satisfied smirk, she looked out the window of the train, watching the trees and snow covered fields pass them by. What a privilege it was to see the outside world, after having spent so long underground. “When the allied soldiers liberated our village, they had record player with them. And they played his music on V-day.”

Z-26’s gaze fell to his hands and he sighed. “I'm more of a Louis Armstrong man myself, but Miller's certainly better than the propaganda shit they listen to here.”

She liked him when he was like this. Sincere. When he let his guard down enough to engage in conversation. Offer his opinion. These moments were rare, and she suspected she was the only witness to them. 

“Can I ask you something?” She rested her chin on her hand.

“You just did.”

Rolling her eyes, she gave him a look. “Do you still resent the fact that I volunteered as a test subject?”

“Do you?” He challenged, raising a brow.

“I do not know.” She admitted. “There was a clinic near our street. One day they put up a sign. 'Offering double rations in exchange for research.' I signed up and…” She lifted her hands, gesturing around herself as if to say, here we are.

His expression wasn't blank, but it still did not give much away.

“What are you thinking?” She prodded.

Pained blue eyes met her gaze. “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“... I can't remember.” 

But she knew. The person he was failing to remember. The one who she reminded him of was his best friend back in Brooklyn. A skinny blonde boy who had grown up on the same street as him. Who also volunteered for a sciencer experiment to defend his loved ones.

Some of the memories she'd seen of them in his subconscious were enough to fill her eyes with tears. Short, blurred fragments of laughter, scraped knees, joint bike rides, and sunny days. 

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The voice of the conductor came over the announcement microphone. “We will be arriving at our destination shortly. Please have your bags ready. We thank you for traveling with us.”

Z-26 got up, pulling up their suitcases from the overhead compartment. As the train came to a stop at Brussels station, G-34 gathered her things, securing a fashionable beret on her styled wig. 

The two had completed their training. They were on their own mission for the third time. Hydra deemed them a good team and she tended to agree. 

Her alias was that she was an heiress, who was representing her wealthy father in Europe's elite gatherings while he was busy conducting business abroad in Asia. Z-26 was her bodyguard.

The chauffeur met them out front. Another Hydra agent. He took the suitcases and placed them in the trunk of his buggy. 

“How was your trip, Madame?” He asked. 

She smiled at him as he opened the car door for her to sit down. “You know how I love the gala season.”

Hearing the code words, the chauffeur nodded before closing the door and taking a seat behind the wheel. 

Z-26 stood outside her car, holding a cigarette lit in his gloved hand. He eyed their surroundings under the guise of someone taking in scenery during a smoke break. 

A moment later, he walked around the car and took a seat beside her, addressing the driver. “Don’t take the main road. Take the alleyway and park at the back entrance of the hotel.”

G-34 eyed him. Had he seen someone suspicious? She opened her mouth to ask him a question, but nothing came out as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, giving her a squeeze. He turned and gave her a warning look. His favorite look. The ‘be quiet’ look. The meaning was clear. Not now.

That evening, the two of them had gone out for dinner, as they often did. 

“It is beautiful at night,” she murmured, glancing up at the dimly lit street. Never having been to Brussels before, she wanted to take advantage of the rare free time they had to take in the city’s beauty. 

“We should’ve taken a car,” He grumbled, but he let her pull him along.

“Hmm, is that why you are looking at me like you are Lenin I am bourgeoisie?”

He eyed you with a look of confusion. “I’ll never get used to your soviet expressions.”

She smirked. “Would you prefer I say ‘screwed the pooch’ like you Americans do?” 

In a rare showcase of emotions, she saw the corner of his lips lift as he shook his head. 

Then, he abruptly stopped walking. “Get behind me.”

Obeying instantly, G-34 looked out around them in alert as she grasped the back of his coat.

The cold evening was quiet. The air tense. 

Then she saw what concerned him. The assassin suddenly moved - drawing a gun from his coat.

Z-26 moved before G-34 could react. A sharp twist, a sickening pop—the pistol clattered to the ground. The man barely had time to gasp before Z-26 shoved him down, his boot pressing hard against the attackers throat.

The assassin gasped, struggling. 

She darted to Z-26’s side, breath shallow. “Who sent you?” She questioned the assassin. 

Her mind latched onto his only to find nothing but pain as Z-26 applied more pressure. His boot pressing, relaxed, then pressing again, as he toyed with his victim. 

She felt her own blood drain from her face. “That’s enough.”

Z-26 didn’t move. His grip remained steady, fingers twitching at his side as if deciding whether to finish it. 

Eventually, the assassin stopped trashing. Stopped moving altogether. 

Covering her mouth with her hand, she stammered. “He’s done.”

But her words fell on deaf ears. She read his mind to figure out why he wasn’t listening. Images of him crushing the enemy’s throat with his bare hands, or taking out his swiss army knife and twisting the blade deep into his side, continuing to strike even after the threat was gone.

“James!” She choked out his name. 

G-34 finally released his hold. He wiped his boot on the rubble as if brushing off dirt and stepping away as the assassin lay limply, his body growing cold.

This was the part of the job she could never get used to. Though Z-26 seemed to have no problem with killing. What he did have a problem with was knowing when to stop. 

She turned away from him, wiping away her tears as she clicked on her Hydra-issued communication hand radio. “We n-need a clean up crew on the Galeries Royale.” 

“Copy. A crew is dispatched and heading to the location right now.”

“We need to go.” She said to her partner, swallowing down her bile as she eyed the dead man. Unaffected, he tugged at her until she finally began to move towards the road filled with taxis.

As they drove to the hotel, she couldn't help but glance at him sitting on the other side, a strange feeling settling in her stomach. 

Even as they stepped into the grand ballroom the following Friday morning, the vision of Z-26’s bloodlust lingered on G-34’s mind.

Having just finished a conversation with a Chinese diplomat, she spotted a shiny movement to her right. 

A striking woman in a sparkling flapper dress and headpiece to match, likely an homage to the prohibition era, was swaying close to Z-26. A half empty glass of champagne in her gloves hand couldn't have been her first drink of the day or even second. 

With her telepathy, G-34 gathered that the woman, Rosa, was the wife of an arms dealer from Monaco. And that she was picturing Z-26 in all types of compromising positions. 

The corner of our protagonist's mouth rose in distaste.

The woman stepped closer still, putting her glove on Z-26's arm. His jaw tensed as he looked down at her. 

G-34 moved before she could fully calculate her plan. Putting herself between her partner and the Monegasque, she gave a light laugh to Z-26. “Darling, do you have room to breathe?” Before turning to give the woman who was touching him a forced smile. She wanted her gone. “Madam, please take a step back from my bodyguard.” She said with barely contained venom.

Something strange happened. 

G-34 felt a pull in her chest like an invisible thread pulling her words out of her mouth. 

As if she was pushed by an invisible force, the Monagasque took one full step back, her heels clicking the floor as she put distance between herself and the couple. 

The drunken look of her eyes was replaced by one of surprise. As if she had not expected to move like that. 

G-34 blinked in surprise as well, not expecting her requests to be taken so literally. 

“No, not couldn’t be…” G-34’s stomach twisted with a realization. “I did that.”

She recalled the speculative discussions she had with the Hydra staff regarding her ability and its extent. Could it be that mind control was a component of her telepathic power?

She turned back to meet Z-26's gaze. He was eyeing her knowingly and she read the exact same question in his mind. 

Her voice was odd when she said that to him. “I'd like to go home.”

He nodded and the two made their way out of the ballroom.

“Z-26, did you also see that back there?” She turned to him in the car. “That woman took exactly one step back like I told her–”

“Yes. I saw.”

“That was strange, right?”

“I suggest you drop it, G.” He gave a clipped response.

“But why did it happen?” She asked. “What caused it? Do you not think that it is worth testing?”

His gloved grip on the wheel tightened. “What part of the test process are you so eager to relive?” His voice was low, measured—dangerous. “The endless cycle of blood tests? The surveillance? The drug trials? Or maybe it's another puppet show?”

Ah yes, the ‘puppet show.’

Every time a test subject showed progress, they were brought to present their abilities in front of a crowd of Hydra’s biggest stakeholders. 

Much like the time Z-26 was put in the boxing ring to show the effects of his super strength and conditioning to follow orders, the next year was G-34’s turn to showcase her telepathy. 

No she wasn’t eager to relive that dread and embarrassment of being put on display.

She swallowed and turned back to look out the window.

A few minutes had passed when Z-26 spoke up. “I didn't need your protection back there. You could have exposed us.”

She turned to him in astonishment. “You did not know what that woman was thinking.” 

In a rare showcase of emotion, Z-26 laughed quietly. “I knew exactly what she was thinking. I don't need you to keep women off me.”

She huffed and said nothing, turning back to watch the streets as they drove past.

When they returned to the hotel, she made a beeline for the shower, shutting the door behind her without a word. The heat washed away the tension of the day, but not the thoughts circling in her head.

By the time she emerged, towel-drying her hair, Z-26 had taken her place. He was quicker, stepping out minutes later, his waste wrapped in a towel as he ruffled a hand through damp locks.

Seated at the desk, she flipped open her notebook, pen scratching the pages as she recorded her findings from the gala—especially what happened with the woman. A single occurrence wasn't enough to confirm anything, but she wrote down ‘Mind control.’

The thought made her queasy. She needed more tests. Proof.

She glanced at Z-26, asleep on the bed, his bare chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.

She snapped the notebook shut and grabbed her coat.

By the time she returned, two oranges sat in her palm.

Z-26 stirred at the click of the door, messy hair falling over his forehead as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His gaze flicked to the fruit, brows knitting together.

Oranges were out of season.

His voice was still rough from sleep when he asked, “Where’d you get those?”

She moved to the table, setting them down before offering him a sliced one, which he ate. “The only place to get oranges here at this time of year is from a greenhouse thirty minutes away.”

Throwing on a pair of loose-fitting pants, Z-26 stood, walking closer, picking up the fruit. He rolled it between his fingers before bringing it to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent of citrus filled his nose. “What did you do?” 

She swallowed, gripping the hem of her cardigan. “I asked a waiter in the café downstairs to bring me an orange.” A pause. “More accurately... I commanded him to.”

Z-26 said nothing, watching her.

She exhaled sharply. “And then he walked out of the café. Left the hotel entirely. It took him thirty-five minutes to return with these.”

The weight of her words settled between them.

When she met his gaze again, her heart was beating too fast. "I know. You said to drop it. But I think…" She hesitated, the words foreign even to her own ears. “I think I can harness mind control.”

The weight of her words settled. A realization, heavy and unspoken. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. "I can control people."

A humorless laugh escaped her. It sounded ridiculous.

But Z-26 wasn’t laughing. Instead, he was staring at her, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

“Say something,” she said.

He didn’t.

She took a breath, focusing on locating his thought-

“Don't read my mind." His voice was sharp.

She flinched. “I only wanted—”

“If you wanna know what I'm thinking, ask.”

She met his stare, lifting her chin. “Fine. What are you thinking?”

His response was immediate. “I'm disappointed in you for going off alone.”

She blinked, thrown off by the answer.

“Don't do that again.” He said. 

She waved him off, knowing that’s not what he was mad about. “What about the power?” she asked. “Mind control. Do you think that—” she chose her words carefully, “that something good can come of this?”

His expression hardened. “Nothing good can come of this, G-34.”

She bristled. “What? Why not?”

“I don't wanna talk about this anymore.”

“Of course,” she muttered, frustrated. Asking herself rhetorically, “When do you ever?”

“Don't start,”

“You don’t let me read your mind, but you also refuse to talk to me.” Her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “How are we supposed to communicate as a team?”

His jaw tensed. The air in the room shifted.

She realized too late—she had pushed him too far.

Z-26 stepped forward.

Instinctively, she stepped back—her spine pressing against the cold wall.

The flicker of movement made something flash across his face. Not anger. Something else.

Her breath hitched. “Those f-fear tactics don’t work on me, Z-26.”

The rocky surface behind her felt rough through the soft fabric of her cardigan, but she barely noticed it.

“What?” His voice was lower now, unreadable. “What fear tactic-”

The question was genuine. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him that she might be afraid of him.

“I know what it means when you look at someone like that.” She swallowed hard. “It won’t work on me. I know you too well. So stop.”

His brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “Look at someone like what?”

She clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “Like you looked at the assassin the other day! Like, you would enjoy hurting me!”

His brows rose. “G-34,-”

“I know you enjoy hurting people, Z.” She exhaled shakily. 

Silence.

She hesitated, then pushed forward. “I see it. It just... takes over your mind. I've seen how much you…”

“How much I…” He prodded.

Pressing her lips together, she spoke in a small voice. “How much you like it.”

He stiffened.

For a moment, she thought he would snap. But he didn’t. Instead, his next words were spoken calmly, but offered no less surprising value to her. “I can’t help but feel insulted that you think I’d be capable of hurting you of all people.”

The tension in the air was unbearable. He made another step towards her slowly. She pressed herself harder still against the wall. 

Then, suddenly—he dropped to his knees.

Her breath hitched.

That was so unexpected, so unnatural, she froze, her body going rigid as he knelt before her.

His hands slid up her bare legs, fingers digging into her thighs. “I… feel a certain way about you. More protective than I’ve ever felt of anyone as far as I can remember.”

She gasped at the sharp press of his calloused—not gentle. Not soft.

Her pulse thundered. She had gone and done it again. Her and her big mouth. She knew that one day it would get her in real trouble. 

Still, she couldn’t help herself. “Well you have a sadistic way of showing it.” Hissing at the way his fingers dug into her thigh, leaving marks.

Right. Super strength, he remembered. The fingers that dug into her flesh slightly let up, messaging the places they bruised. The sudden gentleness contrasted with the pain made her feel… twisted.

Under the heat of his hands holding her legs steady, she felt adrenaline rush through her own veins. 

Slowly, he lifted her leg, resting it over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving her. Waiting. Not asking. Just giving her time to object. She didn’t. 

His right hand, cold, metallic pressed into her thigh, and then she felt it—the barest graze of teeth. Her breath caught, her pulse hammering. She was at his mercy.

And then, he bit down.

A sharp sting bloomed through her nerves, deliberately cruel, but not enough to truly hurt. 

A small, broken sound slipped from her lips, and his grip flexed against her skin.

His bite was deep enough to draw blood, and when he pulled back, he licked the sensitive skin where she now saw a fresh mark. 

He assessed his work, allowing himself a small grin, before leaning back to plant another bite, this time, closer to her bare sex. 

“You are a sadist, like I said. You enjoy hurting people.” She stuttered, breathless. “It is part of your conditioning.”

“I never said you were wrong.”

“And now when you’re angry. And you want to hurt me. It is like a reflex.”

His voice was low, even. “Did you get that by reading my mind?” His tone almost accusatory.

She shook her head. “You asked me not to.”

God was she tempted to though. She felt almost like she lost one of her senses. Exposed in a way she was unfamiliar with.

“Good.” He lowered his head under the hem of her cardigan. 

She tensed, anticipating another painful bite on the most sensitive part of her body. Flattening herself against the wall when she felt his teeth grazed her folds, making her breath hitch. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, she waited for the pain to come. He was slow and meticulous, his warm breath fanning her skin. 

The pain didn't come. Instead, his tongue moved between her folds in a slow, torturous lick. 

A choked gasp left her mouth. And her hand shot up to cover it.

His lip turned up in amusement as blue eyes challenged her. “You're drenched.”

She was. She didn't realize just how much this whole time he was teasing her had affected her. 

Suddenly, there was a familiar, feminine voice echoing in his mind. Her voice. “He is clearly struggling to understand intimacy outside of his past trauma. That is why he behaves this way with me.” 

Only she hadn’t spoken out loud.

It took him a moment to realize whose thoughts he was hearing. “If you won’t read my mind, why are you shoving your thoughts into it?”

She blinked. “huh?”

“I'm clearly struggling to understand intimacy outside of my past trauma?” He repeated her words, or rather, her thoughts, back to her. “So now your telepathy includes broadcasting your psych-evals?”

“I… I did not mean to!” Her eyes widened. “Are you saying you can hear my thoughts?”

He nodded. 

She shook her head. “I did not even know I could do that.” Her voice was equal parts fascination and terror. “What triggered it? First, mind control, now this... is it heightened emotions? is it him?"  

“You're still doing it.” He watched her with hidden amusement.

And then her thoughts turned paranoid. 

“Oh no. Can anyone know what I'm thinking? Dr. Zola? Dr. Braun...?”

Z-26 was then witness to a series of moments from her point of view. Braun smirks at her, eyeing her inappropriately, calling her "pet", "dove", "kitten", and all other kinds of unwanted affectionate nicknames. 

“No!” Her thoughts were panicked. “I have to learn to control this. No one can know about this–”

He growled in irritation. “Stop or I'll make you.” 

“I cant!” She whined helplessly.

His finger drove into her entrance then, curling stroking the sensitive nerve endings inside. 

She let out a gasp as her head rolled back against the wall and her hands grasped for his hair. Instantly, the paranoid thoughts stopped. 

His finger was joined by another, along with his tongue and all three worked together to ‘distract’ her. A feeling deep in her belly rose and rose. She was squirming, straining herself to stay upright against the wall. “Gonna fall... Knees… weak.... Bed.”

He stood, picking her up with ease and carrying her to her bed. Feeling small and limp in his hold, she felt oddly safe in his arms, allowing herself to curl up into his warmth.

He lowered her onto her back on the bed covers. The mattress springs squeaking underneath their combined weight and he crawled on top of her, towering over her under his large, muscular frame. Before she could say anything, his hand wrapped around her neck and pulled her up to meet his lips in an harsh, merciless kiss. He bit down on her bottom lip, enough to draw blood again. 

“Be gentle!” She choked out with quiet defiance when they pulled apart. “I am not as strong as you are.”

Her mind betrayed her though. "... the way you handle me... it shouldn't make me feel like this..." 

“Do you feel guilty for enjoying yourself?” He asked, eyeing the glossy redness covering her bottom lip. He wanted to bite her again. 

Then he realized. She was right. He was sadistic. He was conditioned to enjoy pain. And he enjoyed hers. 

She pressed her lips together, hesitating to give him a response.

“I do.” her mind betrayed her again. 

Something in her confirmation made him content. She was just as messed up as he was. They were the products of their reality. But that didn’t have to be a bad thing.

“Do you realize I want you to enjoy it?” He challenged. 

The words made her freeze. She eyed him wearily. Not eager to believe his words.

“Read my mind. I give you permission.”

“Are you sure?” She whispered.

His hand wrapped around her calve squeezed hard, conveying the meaning clearly. Don't make me repeat myself.

“Okay,” she nodded, closing her eyes and focusing on reaching his mind. 

“Intoxicating,” He thought. “Watching her dissolve under my hands. The way she tries to push back, only to collapse when I push her further. What I wouldn’t do to keep her safe. To keep her mine. Mine. Mine!”  There was something raw, possessive in his voice. A part of him wanted to see how far she would let him go.

Her brows furrowed. “You want me to enjoy it? Or do you want to hurt me?” She blurted out. “Which is it?”

A sad smile appeared on his face. She couldn't tell if he was laughing at her or pitying her. “Naïve little thing. Why choose?”

With his metal arm, he easily flipped her onto her hands and knees, his hand curling around her throat to pull her up until she was flush against his chest. Her cardigan was unbuttoned and hanging loosely off her shoulders, exposing the peaks of her breasts. His fingers found her nipples and gave them a painful squeeze. She flinched and arched against him, pushing her breasts into his hold.

Her sleeves fell down to the tips of her fingers as her hands grasped to hold him. 

He lined himself up at her entrance and slowly pushed in. 

They both gasped at the deliciously painful sensation. He reached his other hand to her sex, finding her clit and rubbing it in circles in time with his gradual pumping. 

Every brush of his fingers, every thrust, had her tensing. Her vision blurred as he pressed a particular spot on her throat with his thumb. 

Overwhelming—too strong, too fast, too much—but she never felt safer than in his arms. He handled her like she was his, like she could take it, and she found herself sinking into that certainty. Handing over control.

"Z-26–" she grasped for him, her fingernails scratching the scarred skin of his forearms.

She turned her head and saw that his facial expression was one of agony. Furrowed brows and shut eyes. His hands gripped her as if he was afraid she’d disappear.  

The sharp angles of his cheeks were dusted pink as he panted into her tasting faintly of oranges, before sinking his teeth into her skin. Every rough tug, everywhere his body pressed against hers, sent another shiver down her spine. Thought slipped away, leaving only the dizzying sensation of being handled by him.

The warmth built up in the core of her stomach and only grew stronger as his hips sped up against her. 

The climax rolled over both of them – leaving her shaking and reaching for him desperately. “J-james!” she whimpered. 

“’m here, darlin’” He rasped, laying kisses along her neck and shoulders as he continued fucking her into her orgasm.

It hit her all at once, making her shake and ride it out like a wave. Panting, she still maintained a steel grip on him, afraid to let him go. 

He wasn't stopping. Wasn't slowing down either. 

Her pulse thumped in her ears, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. He had her caged in, his body a wall of heat and strength, and her own was betraying her—arching into him again. 

Breath hitching. Back arching. A slow, insistent ache built deep in her core again, curling low in her core, spreading warmth through her veins. Every touch, every squeeze, every press of his body against hers only increased the heat, making it harder to breathe. She felt vulnerable, exposed, every inch of her skin burning under his hands, desperate for more. “I can’t…  it’s too much!”

“You can.” He responded to her out loud. “You and I are the same. We had no say in our own bodies for years, no control. But here we are, sweetheart. You, obedient, giving yourself over to me completely. Because you know I could take care of you. Because I know how to make you feel good. Because no one else knows what we’ve been through.”

“Yes!” She couldn’t help but moan. 

“Read my mind, G-34.” He said. “Read how you make me feel.”

She read his mind. 

“I have nothing.”  He thought. “No past, no future, nothing that was really mine. But this? This is real. She’s mine. The way her body reacts to me without hesitation. The way we are at this moment. No one could take this from us.”

“Ah,” Her head rolled back as she felt her pleasure grow stronger and stronger. “James!"”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. They froze. Panting. 

The insistent knocking returned. “Miss?” A muffled male voice called behind the door. Likely belonging to a staff member 

She called back breathily. "J-just a second!" before gathering her clothes and limping her way to the door on weak legs. She gathered the material around her, hoping to cover the marks and bruises and marks. Brushing her hair back, she got ready to open the door. Z-26 was behind the door in an instant, standing with a gun in his hand, and quiet anticipation. 

Still flushed, she waited for his green light. He cocked his pistol and nodded. She twisted the door handle and cracked open the door an inch. 

“A telegram for you, miss.” The bell boy standing outside of her door handed her a letter.  “Mr. Zola is waiting for you at the restaurant downstairs.”

End of Part 1/2.

[deathsmile36]

As someone who loves TCF novels, I'm addicted to Rok Soo's character and life, so I want to talk a little about him. Let's list his problems that we remember.

His body and life were stolen.

He was affected by the White Star's curse.

His parents died at a young age. It's not mentioned how old he was, but it was likely between 7 and 8.

He was taken in by a distant relative who was good at first, but changed and began treating him badly, beating and starving him to the point where he would eat filth or go hungry for days.

He was so afraid of his uncle that he was afraid to even go to the bathroom. So, being a helpless child, he resigned himself to his fate.

He received help from some people who took pity on him, so with their help, he escaped from his uncle and entered an orphanage (we still don't know how, nor do we know how long he lived with his uncle).

His life in the orphanage was the only period of peace in his life, but he later discovered that he had been the target of an assassination attempt by hunters and had been used as bait by a wanderer. He was erased His Memories 8.. He was worried and afraid of taking responsibility for his own life when he left the orphanage, so he studied hard and intended to enter college (Note: Rok Soo's goal was to enter college and build a life. He worked hard to achieve this goal, but when the world was destroyed and he joined the company with the Su duo, he changed his goal to becoming a lazy rich man.) 9.. He worked various part-time jobs (We didn't know what these jobs were except for being a waiter in a restaurant. The rest of the jobs are a mystery.)

He witnessed the disaster at the age of 20. Everyone in the restaurant was killed. He suffered from fear and hunger for 3 days. (He stayed alive by drinking rainwater that seeped through cracks.)

He was rescued and entered the shelter. We all know his suffering in the shelter, and how he witnessed everyone's death, like Grandma, Jin-tae, and others, in order to protect him and everyone else because they were weak and powerless. (I bet he gained the ability to record when he witnessed their deaths, and the first thing he recorded was the moment of their tragic deaths, so he felt guilty because of his weakness.)

He joined the company and met the Soo duo, and he had a family for the first time. (They were always losing and getting beaten because of their weakness and lack of numbers and equipment.)

Because he was physically weak, he was protected by his two friends and witnessed their deaths and the brutal deaths of his team. His arm was broken and he bled, and no one asked him to take care of himself or wipe the blood because they were focused on his explanation. (Of course, he recorded the deaths of his friends and felt guilty. He asked support to collect their bodies because he was powerless. He didn't stop explaining at the same time because his friends entrusted him with the team and what (He remained.)

He was subjected to all kinds of insults, curses, and humiliation because he didn't cry over the death of his friends and became a leader at a young age (he bowed his head to many scoundrels to protect the team and the company he was now responsible for).

Because of the curse and the death of his friends, he created a barrier between himself and his new team. He ate and took care of his health, but he couldn't sleep, take vacations, or get proper rest (we all know because the log works by itself when Rok Soo is alone and the atmosphere is quiet. I can't imagine the psychological torment he went through for over 10 years).

After the death of his friends, he activated his Instant Ability, and we all know the amount of pain he went through and the scars he received every time he used it.

He always wore long-sleeved clothing for fear that people would see his scars and be frightened or disgusted by them.

He worked hard, memorizing all records of the monsters and other things, and working like crazy to protect his team and prevent any casualties (his casualty rate on his missions is 0%).

He received numerous offers to give speeches and lectures, but none of them were successful due to the monsters that suddenly appeared or the terrorist acts that only occurred during his appearances.

The general public knew nothing about him or his accomplishments.

Finally, he was suddenly thrown into another world without his knowledge or even his opinion being asked.

Let's not forget that he was monitored since birth by Death and was watched for over 10 years by Soo duo. They laughed at his injuries while he suffered psychologically every day due to his regret and grief over losing them.

This is about his life as Kim Rok Soo. I haven't yet written about his struggles as cale Henituse. If I've forgotten anything else, please let me know so I can remember.

[spider-mandaily]

Marvel Rivals Infinity Comic #3

I love the fact that this panel from Marvel Rivals Infinity #3 perfectly encapsulates Venom and Spider-Man’s chaotic relationship—somewhere between mortal enemies, an obsessive ex, and a feral cryptid that just won’t take a hint. Venom’s line, “Before we swallow you whole,” isn’t just a threat; it’s a deeply unsettling promise, because with Venom, it’s never just about fighting—it’s about psychological torment wrapped in way too many teeth. The tendrils coiling around Spider-Man add to the discomfort, making it feel less like a standard villain monologue and more like an overly aggressive hug from an ex who still has feelings. It’s even like a visual representation of how Venom suffocates Peter in every way—physically, mentally, morally. Meanwhile, Peter’s expression is the best part—he doesn’t look terrified, just mildly inconvenienced, as if this isn’t even the worst thing that’s happened to him today. It’s this dynamic that makes their rivalry so compelling: Venom isn’t just out for revenge; he wants Peter to suffer specifically and personally, like a petty villain fueled by pure resentment. I mean, let’s be real, Venom has beef with Peter that goes way beyond the usual hero-villain dynamic. It’s not just about hate—it’s about spiteful obsession. Venom doesn’t just want Peter dead; he wants him to know that he is personally offended by his existence. In the end, this panel is less about a deadly battle and more about the unhinged energy of a creature that refuses to let go—because if Venom can’t have Spider-Man, nobody can.

[crownmemes]

Psychology Sentences, Vol. 3

(Sentences for interactions with therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists - or even just friends supporting each other. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Maybe you're incapable of being happy."

"You spend a lot of time building walls. It's natural to want to see if someone is clever enough to climb over them."

"Forgiveness is too great and difficult for one person. It requires two: the betrayer and the betrayed."

"We construct fairytales and we accept them. Our minds concoct all sorts of fantasies when we don't want to believe something."

"Usually, when a man is about to lose everything, he realised what matters to him most. He sees it clearly for the first time."

"I need you to help me with a psychological profile."

"Some people are fighters, and some are not. You can't know which until the fight happens."

"It's not healing to see your childhood home, but it helps you measure whether you are broken - how and why - assuming you want to know."

"What is your worst memory of childhood?"

"You know what really scares me? I like being fucked up."

"Friendship can sometimes involve a breach of individual separateness. "

"Has there been a lot of discussion about the specific way I think?"

"Do you think that you are capable of killing your father?"

"Was you father big in your life?"

"It's your life. If there's something about it you don't like, you can change it."

"I don't think about that stuff anymore."

"I'm not sure it's healthy for you to be here."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a lot of bad dreams?"

"If you're good at reading people, it's mostly because you learnt as a child, trying to stay one step ahead of whatever tormented you."

"Tell me what you believe is happening."

"Everyone has thought about killing someone, one way or another."

"What is it going to take for you to get comfortable with me?"

"Nothing makes us more vulnerable than loneliness."

"Have you ever helped a patient recover memories?"

"Not fond of eye contact, are you?"

"You assume the emotional point of view of others, even those that might scare or sicken you. It's a troubling gift, I should think."

"You can push things away, but sooner or later, you have to deal with them."

"You're not a psychopath, although you may be attracted to them."

"If someone were using manipulative methods to subvert your sense of control, you may not realise it until those methods are pointed out to you."

"Who among us doesn't want understanding and acceptance?"

[thewinterdrafts]

07 - Disobedience | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 5,192

Summary: A tense confrontation forces Yulia and the Soldier into a battle of instinct versus reality. As control unravels, buried truths surface, leaving them both facing something neither is prepared to understand—but can no longer deny.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Graphic medical procedures & surgical descriptions

A/N: i worked 12 hours and fried my brain bringing this to you guys. i hope you'll like it, happy reading!! (hopefully)

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience - you are currently here Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

Note: This chapter is written in third person, and all dialogue takes place in Russian, but it has been presented in English for readability.

Yulia’s breath catches in her lungs as she stares at her hands in shock. It's full of blood. Elena’s blood. She looks down at the her like she can't believe her own eyes. She in unconscious. She is dying. They are trapped in here.

She presses down harder on the wound, her own hands shaking so badly she can barely keep them steady. "Come on," she whispers. "Come on, please—"

A sound drags her attention upward—not even a sound. A breath, that could belong to any wild animal.

The Soldier.

His eyes are locked onto Elena’s limp form. His chest rises and falls so fast, he might pass out any minute. Yulia quickly wipes her tears to take a better look at him, but she wishes she didn't, because he's visibly panicking. She's never seen him panic before. The thought should terrify her, but it doesn’t—not in the way it should. Because this isn’t a weapon malfunctioning.

This is a man falling apart.

"I—" His voice is rough, like he's never talked before. The metal cuffs keep him locked down, his pinned arms are yanking against them as he tries to move, tries to reach.

But he can’t, and it's driving him mad.

"No."

Upon hearing the strong Russian word, Yulia flinches so hard she nearly drops the fabric she’s pressing against Elena’s side. "I did everything." Her voice is hoarse. "I don’t—I don’t know what else to do, she needs to—She has to tell me."

His breathing is louder and louder. Everything about him is wrong. The tension in his jaw, the way his body strains against the restraints, the desperation in his eyes. Weapons shouldn't break down. So what's happening with him?

"She’s—" He stops, the frustration flickers over his face. His fingers twitch like he wants to tear through the chains, like he doesn’t understand why he can’t. "She is—"

His voice fails. He doesn’t have the words, because they never gave him the words for this.

Yulia swallows hard. "She’s dying."

The Soldier’s entire body seizes. His throat bobs as he tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Yulia, kneeling on the cold floor, watches with terror as his breath hitches. There's a heavy silence between them, before—

"No."

It wasn't a refusal. It was an order.

His arms pull against the restraints once again with a force so strong, Yulia feels the floor move. He is trying to get to her, but the chains weren't designed to break easily, and his metal arm is still useless. He looks up, pools of desperation in his eyes, as he realizes that he won't be able to break free. 

Yulia grips Elena tighter, pressing down against the wound, trying everything to stop the bleeding. "I—I don’t—She'll die on me."

His jaw clenches. His fingers curl into fists. He's struggling, searching. His head tilts slightly as his gaze rakes over Elena’s still form. He's assessing, like he would on a mission. Like she is just another part that needs to be put back together.

"Repair—" He stops. The word doesn’t feel right.

He tries again. "Put—" Another sharp inhale. His eyes flicker, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "Make it—no, her. Make her—"

He exhales sharply through his nose with his teeth clenching, muscles in his jaw twitching. Nothing sounds right.

"Fix," he finally says. "Fix her."

Yulia’s freezes. He just gave an order to her. She doesn’t dare speak or move. She’s too stunned, too horrified by what’s happening—because this is wrong. The Soldier doesn’t give orders. The Soldier doesn’t act on his own.

But then his voice comes again, this time, with urgency.

"Pressure. Stop—" He exhales sharply, his head jerking slightly like he is trying to shake something loose. The words. They won’t come out right. "Bleeding must stop."

"I know that!" Yulia's voice cracks as she snaps. "It won’t stop! It’s too deep!"

The Soldier’s fingers dig into his palms. His eyes flicker across Elena’s body, taking in the damage, the irregularity of her breathing. It's too slow and too weak.

"Cut."

Yulia’s breath stutters. "I—I don’t—"

"Now." His voice drops lower, ragged, barely holding together. "You must."

"She’s lost too much—she’s not responding—"

The metal clangs violently as the Soldier jerks against his restraints. "No. No failure. No stopping."

"I don’t—I can’t lose her," Yulia whispers.

"You will do it."

Yulia swallows down a whimper. She wants to run. Every survival instinct inside her is screaming at her to get away, to shut the Soldier out, but Elena is still bleeding, still getting colder, and she cannot lose her. Not like this.

She swallows back the lump in her throat. "Okay. Okay, I’m doing it. Just—just tell me how."

His hands flex, straining against the cuffs as his frustration is mounting. He cannot reach her, he cannot fix it himself, and the thought of it alone makes him crazy.

"Cut. Close. Repair—no, stabilize." His voice is cracking now, each word more unsteady than the last. He is grasping for control, and failing.

Yulia presses a hand to her mouth, trying to swallow the fear rising in her chest. Then, she looks down at Elena, who's becoming more and more pale with every passing second. She forces herself to breathe. 

She is not a doctor. She is barely a nurse. But she is all Elena has right now.

"H-her rib—" Yulia swallows. "I—I think one is still out of place—"

"Yes." His voice is cold, but not cruel. It's measured and precise. "Cut."

Yulia freezes. "No. No, I can’t—I can’t do that."

The Soldier jerks against his restraints. "You will."

Yulia shakes her head violently. "She’s barely stable—I can’t just—!"

"Now." His voice is like ice, but the desperation is visibly peaking through the rigid mask.

Yulia swallows thickly as her pulse hammers against her throat. She can’t do this. She isn’t strong enough. She isn’t trained enough. Elena would know what to do.

But Elena is unconscious.

"No, no, no—if I do this wrong—"

The Soldier’s restraints creak violently. "Now."

Yulia jumps in fear, gasping, her heart pounding in her ears. 

She grips the scalpel. Her hands are trembling so hard she can barely hold it straight. She's about to cut into a person. Into Elena. She bites her lip as her vision blurs to the thought. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. But if she doesn’t do it, Elena will die.

She presses the blade to Elena’s skin. Her hands shake harder. She can’t do it. She can’t do it. Yet, she moves.

Yulia gasps as she presses down, slicing into Elena’s flesh. She doesn’t breathe. Neither does he. The room is suffocating, like a tomb with no oxygen.

Elena doesn’t react—she is too far gone to react. Yulia is crying now, tears spilling down her face, onto Elena's exposed skin. She isn’t strong enough for this. But the Soldier watches her every movement with his breath sharp, and his shoulders locked so tightly they tremble.

The skin splits. Yulia gags. She wants to vomit. She wants to stop.

"Deeper."

Tears slip down Yulia’s cheeks, but she listens. The incision deepens and the muscle gives way. Blood wells up, hot and dark.

Yulia’s hands shake violently, her vision swimming. "I—"

"Locate the break."

Yulia’s breath shudders violently. "I—I can’t—"

"You will."

She squeezes her eyes shut as she presses her trembling fingers inside. The moment she feels the jagged shift of bone, she nearly collapses. The Soldier inhales sharply.

"Move—move the bone—align it."

Yulia gags, nausea clawing at her throat. "I don’t—I can’t—"

"You must."

Yulia sobs. She doesn’t know if it’s from the horror of what she’s doing or from the terror of knowing that if she fails, Elena will die. With a shaking breath, she adjusts her grip, and moves the rib. A sickening pop reverberates under her fingers.

She gasps violently as her entire body jerks away from the wound. She did it. Yulia slaps a hand over her own mouth, rocking back on her heels as the nausea is crashing through her. She did it, but at what cost?

The Soldier releases a slow, measured breath. He has been holding it.

"More."

Yulia blinks with her vision swimming in hot tears. "What?"

The Soldier breathes harder as his fingers curl into fists. "Not enough. Check... check lung."

Yulia’s stomach lurches. "I—I don’t know how."

"You do." His voice is barely above a whisper, but it is absolute. "She must breathe."

Yulia hesitates, her breath coming in gasps. She doesn’t want to touch Elena anymore. She doesn’t want to make it worse.

"Now."

The order is softer now, but no less urgent.

Yulia swallows her nausea and moves, pressing a trembling hand to Elena’s ribs.

There. Another break beneath her fingers. A sharp displacement where there shouldn’t be one.

"It—it’s bad. If I move it, I could—"

"Fix."

"I don’t—"

"Fix."

Her hands shake harder. "I—I’m not a doctor!"

The Soldier’s breath is ragged. "Now."

She wants to scream. She wants to run. But instead, she presses her palms against Elena’s ribs and shifts the break back into place. The sound it makes—a horrible pop—makes her whole body lurch.

"She—she’s not waking up," Yulia stammers.

The Soldier is breathing hard now, his whole body shaking against the restraints. "Breathe."

"She’s not—"

"Breathe."

Yulia’s hands move on their own, pressing against Elena’s chest desperately.

A beat. Another beat. Then—a gasp. Elena’s body jerks as her breath catches sharply.

Yulia sobs in relief. In terror. In exhaustion.

The Soldier breathes with her.

"Close it."

Yulia hesitates as her pulse is still thrumming in her ears. Her fingers feel foreign and useless, but she forces them to move. She doesn't have time to break.

She grabs the sutures, but her hands are slick— there's too much blood.

"Clean."

She does. She wipes them on the ragged edge of her sleeve, the blood is smearing across the fabric. Her breaths are shallow and unsteady, but she focuses. The stress is so consuming now, that she barely feels like herself anymore.

The first stitch is slow and clumsy. Her fingers tremble, but she forces the needle through flesh, tying off the first suture with a shaky knot. The Soldier watches. Each stitch is a battle against the panic crawling up her throat, against the nausea rolling in her stomach.

Elena still doesn’t move.

The last suture pulls tight. She ties it off. It’s done.

Silence.

Yulia collapses back onto her heels. She barely has any time to ground herself, before the Soldier speaks again.

"Not enough." His voice comes in sharp. "She will freeze."

Yulia blinks, still gasping for breath. "What? No—she’s stable—"

"Cold." The Soldier pulls against the restraints. His movements are jerky and panicked. "She cannot be cold."

Yulia swallows as her heart hammers in her chest. She knows immediately. He is afraid of her freezing.

"She’s—she’s not that cold—" Yulia tries to reason, but the Soldier won't have it.

"Move her."

Yulia frowns. "What?"

"On me." The Soldier’s voice cracks. "Put—put her here." His chest rises sharply. "Now."

Yulia stares at him. He cannot be serious. But oh, he is.

"You—you want me to—"

"Yes."

Yulia flinches. The desperation in his voice—it isn’t like before. This isn’t a command made from force. This is something else entirely, but her mind is too cloudy to figure it out just yet.

She glances at Elena’s still form, then back at the Soldier. He is watching her with his breathing shallow and erratic. His body is shaking. He lost control.

"Too far," he forces out, but his voice is barely a whisper. "Move her."

Yulia’s throat tightens.

"I— I can’t lift her alone," she stammers. "She’s too heavy."

The Soldier jerks so violently against the cuffs that the metal is biting into his skin. "Move her."

Yulia jumps as her trembling hands clench. He is coming apart at the seams. His breath is too uneven, like he’s barely keeping himself from screaming.

"She will freeze. She will freeze." His fingers flex, tugging hard against the chains, but they do not budge. His eyes are locked onto Elena. "Fix it."

Yulia swallows back her own panic and she steps closer. She has never been this close to him—not like this. She can clearly see everything in his eyes, how much he wants to do, but is unable to. She swallows thickly as she watches the Soldier unravel. She needs to do this. Otherwise, he will break.

Her hands shake as she grips Elena’s shoulders. Her muscles are screaming in protest as she tries to lift her. Elena is dead weight. Too heavy.

"I can’t— I can’t just throw her on top of you," Yulia gasps with her arms buckling under Elena’s weight. "I need help!"

The Soldier’s body jerks again. "I cannot." His voice is so raw and broken. "I cannot. I cannot. You must."

Yulia grits her teeth. She has to move. She has to do it. She shifts her grip, her breath hitching as Elena’s body slides limply. She drags her higher as she feels her muscles burning from the effort. The Soldier watches with wide eyes while he is trembling with urgency.

Yulia snarls through gritted teeth, sweat dripping down her face. Elena is slipping.

"No, no, no—" The Soldier thrashes again, and Yulia has never heard that kind of desperation before.

Her breath stutters. "I’m trying, I’m trying—" Her voice cracks as she struggles to lift Elena higher, with her arms shaking uncontrollably.

"Slow. Do not twist."

Yulia nods frantically, adjusting her grip. With the last of her strength, she pulls Elena up and over, pressing her against the Soldier’s chest. The second Elena’s body settles against his, the Soldier shudders violently.

Yulia stumbles back, panting, her lungs burning as she tries to get in as much air as possible. Her whole body shakes in exhaustion. The Soldier's muscles, once locked in unbearable tension, finally relax. His flesh hand moves as much as the restraints allow, finding Elena’s wrist immediately. He grips it gently, pressing two fingers against her pulse.

Once. Again. And again.

Checking. Rechecking. Grounding himself.

Yulia watches, pressing a hand to her chest, still gasping for breath. "You—you okay now?"

The Soldier does not answer. He is not listening to her.

His fingers remain pressed against Elena’s wrist with a light but unrelenting grip. Counting. Checking. Again and again.

His breath still comes sharp, but the urgency has changed. It's no longer the erratic panic from before—now, it is something deeper. His eyes drag over her form, over the way her chest barely rises, how her skin is still too cool against his. Not warm enough.

"Check again," he murmurs. It is not a request.

Yulia hesitates. "I already—"

"Again."

She exhales sharply but obeys. Her fingers press against Elena’s neck, her jaw tightening as she counts under her breath. "Still stable. Pulse is steady. She’s holding on."

The Soldier’s eyes do not leave Elena. His hand tightens slightly over her wrist, as if he's testing the pulse for himself, ensuring Yulia is not lying to him.

She is warm. But not warm enough.

His jaw clenches. Something is wrong. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is him.

His free hand, the metal one, remains still at his side, restrained and useless. He cannot assess her properly. Cannot fix it himself.

"Breathe." His voice is low, but commanding.

Yulia’s brows knit together. "She is breathing."

"Louder."

Yulia hesitates, then leans in slightly, listening closer. The sound is faint—too faint—but present.

"It’s there," she says softly. "She’s breathing."

Yulia sits down onto the cold tile floor. Elena is breathing. Alive. She can't take it anymore. This was too much. She needs a moment to stomach the things she's done.

The Soldier exhales, but it is not relief. It is calculation.

He moves slightly—or tries to. The weight of Elena against his chest keeps him grounded with her bare skin pressed against his, the heat of her body barely seeping into his own.

His breath stutters. It's suddenly too much contact. Too much bare skin. He doesn’t understand.

His mind races as he's trying to categorize, to define what is happening. This should be function. Warmth. Stabilization. But it feels like something else, something unknown. He flexes his fingers against her pulse again. Still there. Still steady.

"This is correct," he murmurs to himself. "Positioned correctly. Heat exchange. Circulation."

His voice is almost robotic. Almost.

"Stable. Not cold."

So why isn’t it enough?

His breathing doesn’t slow. His chest feels tight. His muscles coil like something is wrong. There is no threat. No failure. But he cannot let go. He stares at her face and watches the slow, shallow breaths move through her.

"She must not freeze."

The words feel heavier now. He flexes his fingers again. The heat of her wrist against his palm feels fragile. 

His breathing is wrong. He can feel it—the irregularity, the imbalance. His body reacts to something it shouldn’t. Why? He presses his head back against the cold metal of the chair while his fingers are twitching against Elena’s pulse point. Too much heat. Too much sensation. Too much.

But she is still cold. Still too cold.

He shifts slightly beneath her, his restrained arms straining as if to adjust her—to hold her properly. He cannot wrap his arms around her, and the thought unsettles him more than it should. His fingers slide down to her forearm, feeling the soft skin, the fine texture of it. This is different. This is not combat.

"Not necessary," he whispers under his breath. But he does not pull away.

His brow furrows. He has felt human skin before, in training, in kill missions. But never like this. Never… never like something fragile. He forces his breath to steady, listening for hers, counting each shallow rise of her chest. The rhythm is wrong. But it is there.

He does not understand why he keeps counting.

"Alive," he says, his voice hoarse. "Warm."

Then why does it still feel like something is wrong?

His jaw tightens, his fingers twitc as he grips her wrist. He is supposed to let go now. She is stabilized. The task is complete.

But he doesn’t.

His breath shudders as he listens to her heartbeat through his fingertips, the steady rhythm against his palm. It is steady. It is real.

"Alive" he murmurs again.

Meanwhile, Yulia shifts on her feet, exhaling shakily as she wipes her bloodstained hands on her torn uniform. Her heartbeat finally died down from her ears as she grounded herself to reality. Elena is stable now. They did it.

"Alright," Yulia mutters, forcing her exhausted body to move. "We need to get her off of you. She’ll rest better somewhere else."

She reaches forward to lift Elena—and stops.

The Soldier doesn’t let go.

Yulia frowns. "Hey—"

His grip on Elena’s wrist tightens.

She blinks. "She’s fine now. She doesn’t need to be here anymore."

No response.

Yulia places her hands under Elena’s shoulders and tries to shift her weight—barely a fraction of movement—the Soldier jerks. A sharp inhale, a twitch of his metal arm against the restraints—his entire body tenses as if she had just ripped something away from him.

Yulia pulls back, startled. What the hell?

She tries again, slower this time. "She’ll be more comfortable—"

"No."

The single word is hoarse.

Yulia’s stomach twists. She stares at him. "No?"

The Soldier doesn’t even look at her, his focus is entirely on Elena. His flesh fingers remain curled around her wrist, while his metal arm is straining against the cuffs like he’s trying to reach—trying to hold her tighter but can’t.

Yulia swallows as a sudden uneasy feeling flods right through her. What is this?

"She needs to rest," Yulia tries again. "She’ll be safer—"

"Stays."

The sharpness in his tone makes her flinch. She stares at him. "She stays?"

His grip flexes, just slightly.

"You’re… holding onto her," Yulia says, almost to herself. A chill runs down her spine. "She’s not going anywhere. She’s stable now. You don’t have to—"

"Stays."

The exact same word. The exact same tone. Yulia’s heartbeat stutters. This isn’t normal, this isn’t anything she has ever seen from him before. She watches his stiff, unreadable face, as she tries to figure the reason out. This is no longer function. He should let go. Why doesn't he?

She tries to move Elena again, just slightly. The Soldier tenses. Every muscle locks, his breathing turns harsh. Yulia lets go immediately, raising her hands in surrender. 

"Okay. Okay, relax. I’m not—"

He doesn’t relax.

His fingers tighten around Elena’s wrist, as much as his restraint allows, and Yulia swears she sees his jaw tremble.

"Why won’t you let her go?" she whispers.

The Soldier says nothing, but his grip says everything. He's breathing hard now, visibly shaking, with his chest rising and falling too fast. He looks like he is being torn apart.

"Stays," he grits out, and this time, his voice is almost broken.

Then, he does something that makes Yulia startle. 

His fingers, still locked around Elena’s wrist, shift just slightly—just enough for his thumb to move, and he strokes the inside of her wrist. It's soft and subtle, an unconscious movement. She stares at his hand, watching as his thumb moves again in slow, instinctual motions.

She almost thinks she is hallucinating, but then he does it again. A trembling motion—not once, but twice, three times—his fingers brushing over Elena’s pulse in a pattern, like he’s memorizing it. Yulia's breath catches. She looks up at his face, expecting calculation and focus, but instead, she finds him watching Elena. Not as an asset or a mission.

Her mind stumbles over itself as soon as she's hit with the realization.

Oh.

Oh.

"You feel for her."

The words barely leave Yulia’s lips before the Soldier reacts.

His entire body jolts as his muscles lock so tight that it looks downright painful. He panics as hand tightens around Elena’s wrist too hard, almost bruising it.

"No."

The response is immediate. Automatic.

Yulia blinks, startled. "What—"

"No," he repeats, his voice cold. "Not allowed."

She understands it instantly—the panic laced into his sharp breaths, the tension in his shoulders. He’s not just denying it. He’s terrified.

Yulia studies him. "Not allowed?"

The Soldier nods. "It is not permitted."

She exhales. This is his programming speaking. She recognizes it now, the instinct to reject anything that suggests he could be more than a weapon. 

"I understand. You’re not supposed to feel," she says softly.

His fingers twitch. "Weapon does not feel. Weapon does not defy. Weapon does not—"

Yulia claps back immediately. "Okay, then let me move Elena—"

"No!"

The word tears out of him loudly and desperately. His fingers clamp down hard, pulling Elena toward him, protecting her, shielding her. His metal arm strains violently against the cuffs, the metal groaning under the pressure.

Yulia looks at him knowingly. That was pure instinct, just like she predicted. The Soldier stares at her in disbelief, like it is her fault that he reacted in any way. Then, just as fast, panic spreads across his face as he turns his head towards Elena.

"Compromised," he whispers, voice cracking slightly. "I am compromised."

Yulia’s heart clenches. God.

"No," she says firmly. "That’s not what this is."

His chest rises in sharp, quick inhales. "Compromised. Malfunctioning. Error."

"No." Yulia’s voice is steady for once. "That’s not being compromised. That’s being human."

His eyes snap up to her then, wide, dark, terrified. "No."

It comes out as a plea. As if the word was a curse in itself.

"They told you this was weakness, didn’t they?" Yulia presses, taking a careful step closer.

His fingers twitch. He doesn’t blink.

"That if you ever felt anything, you were compromised. That it made you defective and useless."

His throat bobs as he swallows hard as his entire body vibrates with tension. This is the first time he’s ever been forced to confront it, and it's confusing him.

"You’re not defective," she says gently. Then, she looks down to Elena. "Just like she said."

She was right all along.

The weight of the realization settles over Yulia like a heavy, inescapable avalanche. He feels.

She stands there, frozen, as the truth coils itself around her thoughts, forcing her to accept something she never thought possible. The Winter Soldier—HYDRA’s perfect machine—is not a machine at all. And worse, he feels for Elena.

Her chest tightens, and for a brief, ugly moment, something sharp twists inside of her. 

It should have been her.

Yulia clenches her jaw, shoving the thought down before it can take root. No. No, that’s not fair.

She watches him, the way he still clings to Elena’s wrist, the way his forehead remains pressed lightly against the side of her head, as if that single point of contact is keeping him steady and grounded.

Elena always knew. She always believed. And she doubted her.

Yulia swallows hard as her shame is creeping in alongside the jealousy. Of course, it’s Elena. Of course, it’s the woman who never stops fighting, who never stops believing, who stares down monsters and sees the broken pieces inside them. And now, here he is—a man who doesn’t even know what he is feeling, but still holding on like he’ll shatter if he lets go.

Yulia exhales slowly. "She cares about you, you know."

The Soldier doesn’t move but he listens. Yulia can see it in the subtle tilt of his head, in the stillness of his shoulders. He is absorbing her words.

"She’s been fighting for you this whole time," Yulia continues, her voice less guarded now. "Even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everyone—when I—thought she was insane for it."

The Soldier’s fingers twitch against Elena’s wrist, as if he recognizes something in Yulia’s words but doesn’t know what.

She laughs, short and bitter. "I didn’t believe her. I thought she was delusional. And now—"

She doesn't finish. The Soldier’s breathing is slow and measured. Too measured. Like he’s forcing himself to stay still, to take in what she’s saying without breaking apart. Yulia hesitates before taking another step forward. She shouldn’t say this. But she does anyway.

"She wasn’t wrong."

The Soldier finally lifts his gaze from Elena, meeting Yulia’s eyes for the first time. There is something lost in them. Searching.

Yulia watches him carefully now, the sharp edges of her emotions dulling into something softer, almost painful. "You don’t know why you feel, do you?"

The Soldier blinks slowly with his breath unsteady. Like a child hearing a new word for the first time.

"I don’t think you ever had the chance to understand it."

His jaw shifts, his grip still tight on Elena’s wrist, as if he’s holding onto the only thing that makes sense. Yulia looks back up at him, at the way his fingers still ghost over Elena’s pulse; like he’s terrified it will disappear, like she is his only tether to anything real.

And Yulia finally understands. Not just him and Elena. She understands why she was jealous. Not because she wanted what Elena had. But because she wanted to be what Elena was. 

Someone worth holding onto.

She exhales shakily and takes a step back, her voice softer now. "She deserves to know."

The Soldier jerks as if he was struck; his body instantly locking tight as his breathing turns sharp erratic. His fingers clamp down on Elena’s wrist too hard and sudden, while his metal arm strains against the restraints, the sound of groaning metal filling the silence.

"No." The word rips from his throat.

Yulia blinks, startled by the sheer force of his reaction. "She has a right to know—"

"No." Harsher this time. His grip tightens, his body coiling like a live wire ready to snap. "Not allowed. Not permitted."

He speaks like a man reciting something beaten into him. 

Yulia studies him, watching the way his chest heaves, the way his metal arm trembles despite its strength.

Fear.

"She won’t be angry at you," Yulia tries. "She would never—"

"No." His voice fractures, splintering at the edges. "No—no—" He shakes his head sharply, as if he's trying to rid himself of something crawling under his skin. "She—she—Punishment. No."

Realization slams into Yulia like ice.

He doesn’t care about himself. He’s afraid for Elena. 

"The operative will know," she presses gently. "That’s what you’re afraid of."

There's a flicker in his gaze—panic, understanding. His hands shake where they hold Elena, and that's the only movement he makes. He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t have to.

"You’re protecting her," Yulia murmurs.

The Soldier doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink. But everything is written in the way he holds her, the way he shields her even now, like he is waiting for someone to rip her away from him.

Slowly, carefully, Yulia reaches out.

Her fingers touch his cold, rigid metal wrist. Just barely, a light press. A reassurance. She doesn’t pull, doesn’t push. Just lets him feel that she is here, that she understands.

"Okay," Yulia says quietly. "I won’t tell."

His breath shudders in relief.

Yulia gives him a moment, then carefully, gently, tries again. "Let me take her now."

His fingers don’t move. He stays locked and frozen, watching Elena.

She waits, not forcing or rushing him. She's letting him decide, just like Elena would. There's a long beat of silence before—finally—his fingers relax. Not much, just enough so Yulia can take her. She doesn’t waste time. She lifts Elena as carefully as possible, pulling her weight off of him. 

The Soldier stays completely still. His hands remain open and empty, like something important has been taken from him. But he doesn’t stop her. His breathing remains ragged as he stares at his own hands, as if they weren't even his.

Meanwhile, Yulia moves, supporting Elena’s weight as best she can, carrying her to the small cot in the corner of the operating room. She lays her down gently, adjusting her so she’s as comfortable as possible in such a place. Safe. Or as safe as she can be.

The moment Elena is settled, Yulia straightens. Her movements are slower now. Heavy. The weight of what just happened still pressing into her ribs.

She turns back to the Soldier.

He hasn’t moved. He sits there, shackled and silent, his hands open, empty, and lost. His gaze remains fixed on Elena, watching, searching—ready to jump.

Yulia hesitates, then steps closer.

"She won’t know. When she wakes up, she’ll never know. I promise."

But the Soldier knows. And as he stares at Elena, he wonders if feeling something is worse than feeling nothing at all.

[hotvintagepoll]

Donald O'Connor (Singin' in the Rain, Francis, Call Me Madam)— LOOK AT HIM. Those giant blue peepers. Those tappy tappy little feet that don't quit. The ears that stick out like little wings, ready to lift him up to goofy heaven. The way his face contorts into the strangest yet most endearing expressions. His ability to sing and dance alongside the hunk that is Gene Kelly and yet pull all attention away with his big-eyed buffoonery. The way his energy is unmatched in songs like "Make 'em laugh" - bouncing off the walls and tumbling through the air straight into my cold cold heart. Who else but a true scrungly lil guy would sit upon the witness stand and defend a talking mule with all the love and affection in the world - staring out into the court room with his bright wide eyes and eternally mouse-like expression, openly admitting that the mule is his best friend?!??! I see him and I want to pull him from the screen into my hand and just squiiiiiiiiiiiiish with all my might. I want to pinch his cheeks and have him bat those eyes at me. He just makes me go "eeehehehehehe" every time I see him and his silly little self. He is pure chaotic, ridiculous, scrungly perfection!

Mantan Moreland (Mr. Washington Goes to Town, Cabin in the Sky)—i love mantan moreland SO. MUCH. and he is the pERFECT scrungly little guy!!!!! like a lot of black actors at the time he was always getting sidelined into small parts, but unusually he also managed to become a star in his own right and was almost one of the three stooges! he was a groundbreaking comedic actor known for his distinctive stare (very good for the horror movies he did), and he always is way more fun to watch on screen than anyone else. he had a famous double-act where he perfected this technique of non-conversations (where both people keep finishing each other's sentences before any actual information is conveyed). a lot of his movies are free on youtube and i really enjoy seeing him do his silly little guy thing in all of them!!! anyways yeah please include mantan he deserves some recognition as peak scrungle

This is round 3 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you’re confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Donald O'Connor:

My silliest little guy. My funnyman. My horsie. I have watched many a bad movie for this man. The scrungliest fact I know about him is that he was supposed to star as Danny Kaye's role in the iconic White Christmas (1954), as he had known Bing Crosby since he was a child, but couldn't because he caught a mule disease while working on those Francis the Talking Mule films Universal endlessly made him do. I wouldn't exactly recommend those movies, but Don's character getting psychologically tormented by a sardonic mule does make for quite a good movie night, if you know what you're getting into. Are You With It? is another one I don't exactly recommend, but it does open with Donald as a math genius actuary who is about to kill himself over a displaced decimal point before getting taken in by a traveling carny instead. His more well-known and beloved roles have plenty of scrungliness too, in my opinion. This man slapsticked so hard he wound up bedridden for his physical exertion! Rather than submitting Make 'Em Laugh, which the electorate has likely already seen (I hope), I'm submitting an underrated dance number of his, where he explains maths through tap dance. That movie is Not good, but god do I love him in that role.

I think it's arguably very scrungly to seemingly be a real life cartoon character made out of rubber, as proven by how slapsticky the list of scrunglies is so far. In which case, Donald O'Connor? He scrungles supremely. He even played Buster Keaton in a movie (that apparently can't be recommended, but still).

Mantan Moreland:

here's his double act in action!! [editor's note: Benson Fong cameo too!]

He just had a scrungly look about him and he played big with his roles so any of it became especially scrungly. Plus he was very funny in the way only scrungly people can be.

the FUNNEST GUY TO WATCH ON SCREEN. he was an immensely gifted physical comedian, able to convey loads with his eyes, and while some of his parts are so sad and cringeworthy, I feel like he always brought a humanity and humor that lifted them beyond cheap stereotype.