#is this anything. screaming in the void here

[marvelstoriesepic]

Wake up (part 3)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You are awake but Bucky’s nightmare hasn’t ended yet.

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: lots of talk about Bucky’s past; Hydra; brainwashing; mind control; loss of autonomy; panic attacks; emotional and mental breakdown; medical trauma; experiments; depersonalization; identity struggles; sedation; power imbalance; dissociation; crying; mentions of vomiting; severe angst; comfort

Author’s Note: We’re here guys, this is part three of wake up. It does have a happy ending, but I'm still going to give you a heads up because this is going to get intense. Themes and events ahead may he heavy, and I strongly encourage you to check the content warnings carefully before proceeding. Your well-being comes first, so if anything feels like too much, please take a step back. Read at your own pace and take care of yourself. That said, I hope you enjoy! ♡

part one part two

Angstober Masterlist | Masterlist

The room stops.

The alarms still scream, the monitors still beep, but for one suspended second, no one moves, no one breathes - because you are awake.

Bruce’s hands falter mid-air. Cho’s fingers freeze over the screen. Tony, usually the first to crack a joke or spit out some sharp remark, is silent. Even Steve, ever the composed, looks stunned.

But none of that matters.

Bucky is not aware of any of those things.

Because your eyes - those eyes that have always held the soft glow of recognition, the warmth of you, the love for him - are staring right through Bucky.

And they are blank.

Not confused, not dazed, not disoriented from sleep - no, something about them is wrong.

Bucky doesn’t realize the way his body is trembling. Doesn’t register the way his lungs have locked up, the way his grip on you has loosened, as if he’s afraid to touch you now.

Your pupils are wide, too wide, swallowing their color whole, leaving only black voids behind. You don’t blink. Don’t move. Just watch him.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky breathes, his voice a ghost of itself, the sound roughly shattering in his throat. His fingers twitch where they rest against your cheek. “Baby, can you-?”

The second he speaks, your body reacts.

Like a string has been pulled.

Your spine straightens, muscles locking into place like a marionette finding its tension. Your erratic and ragged breathing just moments ago evens out with a precision that seems unnatural.

A response. A reaction.

But it’s not you.

Bucky feels shot all over again. Not once. Not twice. Not even a third time. He can’t even count that high, not here, not now, not ever. And all those bullets land where his heart once belonged.

Something so utterly cold sweeps through his veins, turning movement into something impossible. Winter is settling deep in his chest, freezing him from the inside out. He doesn’t even feel numb anymore.

Because this isn’t just the fog of waking up after whatever the hell Hydra did to you.

This is something else.

A sharp, unresolved noise scrapes out of Bruce’s throat, his finger still hovering. “That’s not right.”

Cho shakes her head, blinking rapidly as if she can make herself see something different, to give this a sense. “She shouldn’t-” She cuts herself off, exhaling hard through her nose. “This isn’t a normal response.”

“Okay,” Tony interjects, voice a shade tighter than usual. “Yeah, I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.”

“Y/n?” Steve tries carefully, stepping closer, but Bucky doesn’t see him, doesn’t hear him, doesn’t fucking care.

Because he is frozen.

Because this is so goddamn wrong.

You are looking right at him but there is nothing in your eyes. Nothing. No life.

A dry, aching squeeze inches up his neck. It constricts his throat, it leaves any desolate sound trapped inside him.

He has seen this before.

Too many times. In the mirror. In his memories. In the cold, unfeeling gazes of other soldiers.

And it’s killing him - killing him to the point where he might just drop to the floor in the matter of a second - to now see it in your eyes.

The world inside the medical wing doesn’t restart at once.

It comes back in pieces with everyone still in shock.

The turbulent, shrieking alarms dull down, monitors resetting to their normal beeping. Hushed voices return, everyone still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky still doesn’t take his eyes off you. He doesn’t think he ever will.

You’re awake. That should be a good thing. That should be everything.

But his stomach feels like it’s caving in on itself. He would love to wrap himself up, fold over twice, three times - until he’s nothing but a tight, trembling knot.

Bruce speaks up, voice professional. But it holds something strained. Something uneasy. “Y/n?”

No response.

Cho tries next, moving closer, her eyes scanning over you with clinical focus. “Can you hear us?”

Still, nothing.

You don’t move.

Don’t blink.

Don’t react.

Bucky swallows hard, harder, the hardest, but his throat is closed, voice dying before it can form.

Bruce looks dismayed just the slightest bit. “Okay, that- that’s okay-” He cuts himself off, taking a slow breath. “Her vitals are stable.” He looks over at Cho, who is already checking the readings on the monitor.

“Brain activity is…” She trails off, frowning. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

It sounds almost accusatory like she doesn’t believe her own words.

“Then why isn’t she saying anything? Why isn’t she reacting?” Steve asks, stance stiff and voice holding something sharp.

No one has an answer.

Bucky doesn’t notice the way Bruce and Cho are moving around you, the way Tony mutters something under his breath that no one listens to. Because he can’t look away from you.

From the way, your pupils track only him.

Not Bruce. Not Cho. Not Steve or Tony.

Just him.

Bucky’s lungs pull in a sharp breath but nothing actually seems to reach them.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. You’re just waking up. You’re just a little dazed. Just trying to make sense of what is running through your veins.

But then, if he truly believes that, why isn’t his voice working? Why can’t he breathe? Why can’t he take his hands away from you?

“Y/n,” Bruce tries again, adjusting the IV in your arm. “I need you to tell me how you’re feeling. Can you do that?”

Nothing.

Cho’s frown deepens. “Try squeezing my hand.” She moves closer, resting her fingers lightly against yours. “Just a little pressure, okay?”

Nothing.

A new kind of silence floods the room now. Heavier. Suffocating.

Bucky’s pulse won’t stop hammering in his ears.

“She’s awake,” Tony states flatly. “So why does she still look-” He waves a vague hand, looking almost daunt. “Out of it?”

Frustration begins to seep into Bruce’s expression, a slow breath slipping from his nose. “Y/n, if you can hear me, just- move a little. Anything.”

Another beat of silence.

Bucky can’t take this anymore.

He moves closer, his hand intertwining with yours instinctively. His voice is hoarse, rough and so, so desperate.

“Sweetheart,” he croaks out, just for you. “C’mon, baby, just- just give us something.”

You move.

It’s small. Barely anything at all.

But your fingers twitch.

Bucky doesn’t take in another breath for too long.

Something slow and dreadful sinks into him. It closes its grip around something vital.

Bruce exhales in something close to relief. “That’s good, Y/n. That’s good.”

Encouraged, Cho steps in again. “Alright, let’s try something else.” She looks at you, her voice gentle but firmer now. “Can you try moving your leg?”

Silence.

Stillness.

Bucky’s stomach turns.

“Y/n,” Bruce presses, more insistent now. “Try for me, alright?”

Nothing.

The tension is a thin string.

Bucky shifts, fingers brushing over your palm in a touch so soft.

“Baby,” he chokes out. “Please.”

Your leg moves.

A shudder ripples through Bucky’s whole body.

Nobody speaks.

Nobody breathes.

Then, finally, Tony says what they are all thinking.

“Okay,” he exhales. “That’s weird.”

It is.

It is wrong.

Cho is staring at her monitor as though it’s betrayed her. Bruce’s brow is furrowing deep in concentration, but there is a glimmer of something else behind his eyes now.

Bucky’s mind is reeling, his pulse pounding so loud, the sound crashing over everything, washing it all into nothing.

This can’t be a coincidence.

You only moved when he spoke.

Not anyone else.

Just him.

Bucky’s mouth is dry.

No.

No, no, no-

He wants to rip that aching thing out of his chest and twist it in his metal grip and throw it on the clinical floor and stomp on it with his boot.

Because deep, deep down, something agonizing in him is already understanding.

And he can’t take it.

It seems that nobody really wants to acknowledge it.

Because acknowledging it means understanding it.

And understanding it means stepping into something far, far worse.

But it’s everywhere in the room, floating around in the air, waiting to be breathed in, sinking its fangs into every pause, every silence, every failed attempt at making you respond to anyone but him.

Bucky can’t let go of you. His flesh fingers wrap carefully around yours, his metal arm braced protectively around your back. You don’t acknowledge his touch. But he also can’t help the staring. Eyes fixed on your face. Bracing himself for an answer he already knows he won’t be able to stomach. He probably should be looking for that waste bin again, but he can’t take his eyes off you.

Because this isn’t just exhaustion. This isn’t just confusion.

Something inside you is listening. Waiting.

And only for him.

Steve clears his throat quietly and speaks up again. “Try again,” he says, though there is something cautious in his voice now. “Y/n?” He takes another step closer, lowering his head slightly, like maybe you just need to see him properly. “Can you hear me?”

You don’t react.

Nothing in your shifts.

A sharp breath escapes the nose of the blonde and he glances at Bruce and Cho, in question of an answer but they don’t have one.

Cho’s expression is drawn tight, eyes scanning the monitors, because what else can she do? Bruce’s face is unreadable, but his knuckles are pressed against his chin in a way that suggests his mind is racing.

“We should test motor function,” Cho suggests, but it’s not that confident. More like she just needs to say something, anything to fill the wrongness all around them.

Bruce nods slowly. His tone is even. “Y/n, lift your left hand.”

The silence drags.

The tension is so thick, Bucky can hear it crackling. He is not breathing.

“Y/n,” Bruce says again, slower, placing his words with care. A small waver snakes into his voice. “Lift your left hand.”

Nothing.

Bucky’s stomach is a single, dense, ball that sinks heavier each second passes.

Cho adjusts something on the monitor. “Maybe- Maybe it’s still too early-”

“Buck,” Steve suddenly exclaims.

And it makes Bucky freeze.

Because there is something behind it. A test. A hesitation. Sympathy.

Bucky doesn’t even look up.

He swallows, something punching his ribs.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice so rough, it’s almost intelligible. “Your left hand. Let me see it.”

Your hand lifts.

Bucky’s stomach drops so hard, he descends with it, down to the ground, down to the earth beneath the fundamental structure of the compound.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

Your hand is still in the air.

Cho stares. Bruce’s lips are parted and he rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

Steve is rigid, lips pressed tightly together.

Their stares press against Bucky, against his shoulders, his skull, but he can’t look away from you.

Your face hasn’t changed.

No recognition. No emotion. No indication of independent thought.

Just that same blank, empty stillness.

Until he tells you to move.

Until he tells you what to do.

Bucky feels sick.

Nausea grows, rolling, roiling, a tide rising within, murky and sour, spiraling up his throat in a way that threatens.

Heat prickles at his skin, a damp, clammy sheen forming at the base of his neck, invasively cascading down the channel of his spine.

His head is shaking before he even realizes it. He has to be imagining this. This is one of his nightmares.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries forcing him to wake up, to snap out of this, but then Bruce’s voice comes through again.

“Y/n,” Bruce tries again, voice thick. “Put your hand back down.”

Your hand stays in the air.

Bucky’s fingers flex around yours, grounding himself.

“Baby,” he wheezes, almost unwillingly, his voice a broken whisper. “Put it down.”

Your fingers lower.

And the chill that floods Bucky’s system knocks him off balance.

His ears are ringing.

His mind is splintering, breaking off into a thousand jagged thoughts he can’t grasp all at once, he doesn’t want to grasp at all because no.

No.

Utterly powerless, he looks up. Steve’s face is hard, Tony is pale, and Natasha - where did she come from - has her hand over her mouth in shock.

Bruce clears his throat. “That’s-” He glances at Cho, at Steve; and Bucky would see the war in his mind if his vision allowed him to see more than just silhouettes.

Everybody is hesitant. Everybody is unwilling to be the first one to say what they are all thinking.

It’s Tony who does it.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, voice hollow, stunned. “She’s only listening to you.”

It sounds worse when spoken aloud.

His body is rejecting, resisting, recoiling from all of this.

Bruce is watching him now, too, something entirely pained on his face, not able to deny what is happening.

“We should-” Cho pushes out a sharp breath at the choked noise Bucky is letting out and she stops talking.

This is too much.

Tremors rack through his whole body. It’s attacking him, his lungs, his bloodstream, his bones. He is weak. On the ground. Eyes pressed together. Because he can’t look at you any longer. Can’t look at the way you are watching him.

You aren’t just listening.

You are waiting.

For his voice.

For his command.

There is nothing but obedience in your gaze.

Bucky sways on the ground, but he can’t let go of you. His grip tightens because if he lets go, he will break.

But your fingers are so loosely tangled with his, resting limply against him. They are warm. Too warm. Too soft and delicate and human to be connected to something so immensely wrong.

Bruce and Cho are talking.

Their voices are low, hushed, methodical. The cadence of their words is a tightrope between the beeps, adding more to the strain of the already fraught atmosphere.

Bucky doesn’t hear any of it.

The incessant thrum of his heart is a trapped and wild animal that scratches at the walls of his arteries and reverberates in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Because no.

This isn’t happening.

Not to you.

Not to you.

Steve rubs a palm over his mouth, the other on his hip, exhaling a shuddering breath, trying to process it all but he can’t.

Tony doesn’t say anything. This is bad and he is well aware. This is worse than anything any of them could have prepared for.

Bruce clears his throat, looking at Bucky. “We need to assess the extent of this,” he says carefully, words a test on his tongue before he lets them out. “There’s a possibility that this is temporary, but we-” He hesitates. Adjusts his glasses. “We need to know how deep this goes.”

Nobody speaks.

“What do you mean?” Bucky’s voice doesn’t sound like his own.

Bruce hesitates again. “We need to see if she’s responding to just motor commands, or if-” Another pause. “Or if it’s beyond that.”

Beyond that.

The words tumble into the depths of Bucky’s core.

He swallows, blinking down at you. Your breathing is even. Your expression so still. You don’t seem to be aware of anything happening around you. Only attuned to one thing. Him. Waiting for him.

Bucky clenches his jaw so hard, gritting his teeth until he tastes iron in his mouth.

Cho cuts in more firmly. “We need her to speak.”

Silence.

Bucky can’t breathe.

Tony shifts his weight, crosses his arms. “And how exactly do you propose we do that?” His voice is flat. “Seeing as she’s only listening to him.”

Bucky flinches.

Cho and Bruce exchange a glance.

“We need you to try,” Bruce says softer. “We need you to ask her to speak.”

It’s worse when it’s phrased like that.

Like a test. Like and order.

Like something he should not be doing.

His fingers tighten around yours, but you don’t react. Not yet. Not until he tells you to.

His chest constricts. He hates himself.

There is no way out of this.

Bucky exhales shakily, taking a few moments.

He swallows hard.

“Sweetheart.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I need to- I need you to say something.”

Your lips don’t part.

A spike of panic lances through his chest.

“Baby, come on. Say something. Anything.”

Nothing.

Bruce’s eyes dart between the two of you, then back to Bucky. His expression is pinched, calculating. “Try again.”

Bucky’s body feels wrong, his skin too tight, his stomach threatening to heave.

This is familiar.

And it is dangerous.

He wets his lips, closes his eyes for a second, letting his head drop before lifting it again.

“What’s my name?”

The room is silent.

Your lips part.

And Bucky’s blood stops flowing.

The moment drags.

Agonizingly slow.

“Soldat.”

Your voice is distant, automatic.

Bucky breaks.

His lungs lock, the walls of his throat all connect together, his mind fractures.

The room tips, crashing into the floor.

Your voice circles his mind, going round and round and round, sounding so soft and obedient and wrong, so fucking wrong.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head so fast, hands jerking. “No, no, no.”

Steve’s hands clench at his sides, his throat working as though he wants to say something, but what can he say?

Bruce’s expression is stricken.

Tony looks dazed.

Bucky gasps for breaths but none are coming.

And suddenly, all those years of struggling to escape Hydra's grasp feel completely pointless

Every breath Bucky takes feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest before he can fully inhale. Every sound is static. Tremors crawl along his arm, punching into his ribcage like something cold and crushing.

The people around him are talking about you but he can’t hear a thing. He can’t hear Banner and Cho discussing tests, or Tony insisting they need to figure this out now. The way they say it - analytic, pragmatic, like you’re some broken thing they need to fix - makes his stomach lurch violently. He has to press his jaw together to keep from retching again. The panic is worming through his veins, digging in, pulling him under.

They want to put you under observation. They want to run tests.

Like Hydra did to him.

His mind is tearing through memories he doesn’t want, old phantoms forcing their way to the surface. He sees himself strapped to a table, bright lights burning his retinas, faceless men in white coats murmuring about what they could do to him, what they could turn him into. He hears his young voice, wrecked and broken, whispering in Russian words he doesn’t understand but knows - commands drilled into him, obedience hammered into his bones.

And now he’s the one giving commands. To the love of his life.

And his friends want to do to you what has been done to him.

“No.” The word is gravel, scraping him raw on its way out.

“Bucky, we don’t have a choice,” Bruce says, rubbing a hand down his exhausted face. “She’s only responding to you. That’s not normal. We have to figure out why.”

“You’re not running tests on her,” Bucky growls, voice shaking as he grips you firmer, protectiveness boiling hot in his gut.

Steve steps in, hesitant but resolute. “We need to find out what Hydra did to her. We can’t just-”

Bucky’s breath is completely lost in pattern. „You think I don’t know that?“ he spits, voice wild and harsh. “You think I don’t want to fix this? That I don’t fucking want my girl back? But I am not-” He falters, his throat too tight, his chest heaving. His vision is a tunnel with no lights.

There is a sharp pain in his right palm. His metal fingers are clenched into a fist so tight that his right hand has to let go of you to mimic it. Nails drive into his flesh. He forces himself to breathe. To stay here. But it’s not working. The room is shrinking. His head is full of cotton. Buzzing.

“I think you’re too close to this,” Tony warns, and it’s too sharp, too fast, it sends Bucky over the edge. “You’re compromised, Barnes. We don’t even know if this is something you caused. Maybe you’re making it worse-”

Bucky doesn’t remember getting up and lunging, but suddenly Steve is between him and Tony, a hand pressed to his chest, and his breath is all but gone.

“She is not your experiment,” Bucky hisses, trying to shout, but his voice is barely holding together. His heart is pummeling against his ribs, trying to break out. “I will not let you strap her to a fucking table like some thing you get to study.” He is shaking in fury.

Steve’s hand stays against him. “That’s not what they’re trying to do, Buck.”

But Bucky can’t think rationally. He can’t think at all.

“I fucking know what this looks like, Steve.” His voice crumbles, tremors splintering them. It sounds like something trying to remember how to exist. But Bucky doesn’t care about anything other than you. “I fucking remember, alright? And I won’t let her go through this!”

“Soldat.”

It’s your voice. So dutiful. So even. So not you.

Bucky flinches. Terribly.

The sound that rips out of him is something destroyed, something that never should have existed in the first place.

He turns back to you and his knees hit the floor, but he doesn’t feel it. Shaking hands are cupping your face, desolate and desperate.

“No,” he chokes, tears breaking free. “No, baby, no. Don’t- don’t call me that.”

But you just blink at him, awaiting something. Expecting something. A command.

Bruce’s voice is distant, but he is saying something urgent. Steve is stiff, his head dropped. Tony has shut his mouth. Natasha’s quickly retreating footsteps are lost to him. The entire room has turned to stone.

Bucky’s hands slide into your hair, shaking so badly he can barely hold on. “It’s me, sweetheart. Y/n, it’s me,” he pleads. “It’s Bucky. Say my name. Please, my love. Say Bucky.”

No words come from you. Not until Bucky gives them to you.

He’s going to die. He’s going to pass out.

Because he knows this. He’s lived this. But not like this. Not you.

“Y/n,” Steve says and Bucky hates him for trying again. “Do you know where you are?”

You don’t look at Steve. You don’t move. Your breath stays controlled.

Sickening devastation pools in Bucky’s gut.

“Doll,” he whispers, voice completely shattered. “Answer him.”

And then, like a machine coming to life, you turn your head slightly. You blink once. And then you speak.

“I am in the Avengers Compound.”

No hesitation. No emotion. Just compliance.

Bucky sways on his knees. Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder, keeping him from collapsing.

Tony releases a heavy breath.

Bucky doesn’t hear the rest because he’s still looking at you. At the way you wait. At the way you listen.

You are waiting for him to tell you what to do.

And Bucky Barnes has never been as mortified as he is now in his entire fucking life.

****

Bucky didn’t go down easily.

It took three men to hold him back, Steve’s arms a steel cage around him while Tony was shouting and Bruce plunging the needle in with a guilty and troubled expression.

His fight was animalistic, desperation keeping him up longer than it should have been, but the drugs worked.

The last thing he saw before darkness engulfed him was you.

Silent. A body waiting for instruction.

Now, he wakes up violently. A gasp tumbles up his throat, his body lurching forward as if he can outrun the crushing weight that bears down on him the second consciousness floods back in.

His head pounds, his hands shake, his chest heaves. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t care to find out. His mind is already screaming for you.

Everything crashes back.

The way your lips parted on a breath but not a name. The way your limbs moved, not out of will, but command. The way you looked at him - not with relief, not with love - but with obedience.

The horror knocks in as he stumbles to his feet, his entire body revolting against itself. His knees nearly buckle, but he pushes forward. He has to find you. No matter how hard it pains him to see you like this.

He is sprinting down the hallways, feet pounding against the floor, muscles protesting. Passing agents give him startled looks, Steve is calling his name. But his heart is shedding itself apart inside his chest and he won’t stop.

Because he is realizing something.

This started before you even opened your eyes.

You only opened your eyes after he pleaded for you to wake up.

“I’d go anywhere with you. I’d follow you to the end of the world. But you gotta wake up, baby.”

That’s when you did.

Because he told you to.

That was the command you were waiting for.

Bile burns its way up his throat, that he nearly collapses mid-stride.

If they think, if they dare to treat you like an experiment, to poke and prod and study you like some object, he’ll-

He doesn’t know yet. He doesn’t even have words for the fright wringing his rips out.

But he knows he has to get to you.

****

The room is sterile. Too bright. Too cold. A place of observation, of examination.

You sit on the medical bed, motionless, exactly where they placed you. Machines drone softly around you, monitors tracking your vitals - though there is nothing irregular about them. You should be fine. But you aren’t.

Bruce and Dr. Cho move carefully, their voices quiet. Constrained. Every test they’ve run, every scan they’ve conducted, all of it comes back normal. Physically, there is nothing wrong with you. But it’s clear as day, that you aren’t here.

Not fully.

You don’t respond to their questions. You don’t react when Cho waves a light in your eyes, when Bruce takes your pulse, when Tony calls your name. Nothing. You sit, hands on your lap, back straight, waiting. Waiting.

And then the door slams open.

Without thinking, Bucky shoves past Tony, past Steve’s reaching hand, past Bruce’s protest - straight to you. The second he sees you his breath stutters, his heart cracks open. It didn’t get a tiny bit easier. Your posture is so still, it’s unnatural, your face is slack.

“Let her go,” he growls, voice shaking with anger and panic.

Bruce raises his hands, placating. “Bucky, we’re not- we’re trying to help.” Then he heaves a heavy sigh. “But she won’t react to us.”

Bucky’s whole body trembles. His jaw is tight. “She’s not some- some science project,” he spits out, voice sharp but breaking. “She’s-” His chest rises and falls harshly. His hands flex and clench. “She’s mine.”

Silence.

Cho speaks up, formal but careful. “That’s why we need you.”

He jerks his gaze to her, vision swimming with tears. “What?”

“She only listens to you.”

He knows that but he feels like he’s just been shot in the chest again.

Bruce nods solemnly. “She hasn’t done anything since you were gone. But when you walked in-” He glances at the monitor - your heart rate spiked. “She knows you’re here, Bucky. But, she’s waiting for you to tell her what to do.”

Bucky is afraid his legs will stop holding him up.

You are waiting for his command. Just like he used to.

His stomach clenches, nausea twirling through it.

“Bucky,” Bruce tries again, insistent. His tone is heavy. “Try it. Please.”

The very idea makes Bucky want to scream. But he looks back at you - his girl, his angel, his whole damn world - sitting there, looking so empty.

And the trepidation in him is so bone-deep that he has no choice.

He swallows, kneels in front of you, hands quivering as they ghost over your knees. “Sweetheart,” he breathes, and the others remain silent. “Look at me.”

Your head snaps to him so quickly it almost makes him rear back. Your eyes are on him and he wants to vomit.

A choked noise catches in his throat.

Bruce watches intently, making notes. “Try something more complex,” he suggests carefully.

Bucky hesitates. He hates this. He’s forced to feed into what Hydra did to you and he hates it.

“Stand up,” he breathes. It’s just a croaked whisper but you stand. Effortlessly, fluidly, like there was never any doubt that you would.

Bucky breathes roughly.

The others are waiting, you are waiting, but Bucky can’t continue.

His eyes press together tightly, head dropping.

“Bucky,” Cho voices, a little gentler. “We can’t help her if we don’t know the rules of this.”

The rules.

As though you are some equation to be solved.

He swallows. His throat is sore and blistering. His heart is a fractured thing.

Slowly, he forces words from his mouth, but they burn on his tongue. “Take three steps forward.”

You do.

Gracefully. Like a soldier. As if you’ve done this million times before.

Dr. Cho looks up from her clipboard. “Make her sit down again.”

Bucky grinds his teeth. His hands flex. He takes a second to compose himself.

“Sit down.” His voice is guttural and broken.

You do.

Every cell in his body is to simply tell you to run and leave but that won’t help anybody.

Bruce nods, mumbling something about autonomous commands. But Bucky doesn’t listen.

He feels like he is standing in the middle of a nightmare, watching himself from the outside, stuck in a loop that Hydra is responsible for.

Bucky owns your movements.

And it’s killing him.

“Try something even bigger. Make her-” Cho says.

“No.”

“Bucky-”

“No.”

They don’t understand.

They don’t get it.

This is not just an experiment to see how much control he has.

This is Hydra, ripping through you, ripping through him.

And he can’t be the one to do it.

Bruce steps forward. “We need to know if she’ll perform an action without you watching. If she’ll listen even if you leave the room. If-”

“If she’s really gone.”

They don’t say it, but that’s what they think.

Bruce looks concerned. “Bucky, I know this is hard-”

“Hard?” Bucky laughs but it is a miserable sound. “Hard is losing your fucking arm. Hard is clawing your way out of your own damn head. But this?” He gestures wildly to you, still waiting, still watching him with hollow submissiveness. “This is fucking sick - and I won’t do it anymore.”

Because they are asking him to cross a line.

A line that has been crossed before.

Not by him, but through him.

By them. Hydra.

And he doesn’t want you anywhere near that.

He can’t be the one to steal your independence.

Not when he knows exactly what it feels like.

Not when you are the one thing in his life that made him a better person.

Not when you are the one thing in his life that is truly and wholly good.

He hears the voices in his head, voices from the past that aren’t really past pouncing in his mind, telling him that he’s done this before and that this is nothing new.

Bucky squeezes his hands into a fist and shoves the thoughts down so deep he hopes they never see the light again.

Bucky was not their scientist. He was not their programmer.

He was their weapon.

And he knows exactly how far this goes.

He knows how much a single word from a commander can do.

Bucky takes a step back. And another. His breaths are coming way too fast, his lungs ache, his vision is a hot and messy blur. He is in two places at once, here in this room, and there, in that cold metal chair, ears ringing with words meant to shatter a mind.

His mind places you in that metallic and rusty thing, meant to scorch your memories, making you scream, making you forget, making you-

He stumbles, his body fighting itself.

“Bucky,” Steve calls out and his hand lands on Bucky’s shoulder.

But he doesn’t feel it.

His body is trembling. Everything. Metal and flesh and every defeated thing in between, shaking, breaking.

Because they are wanting and waiting for him to keep this sick game going. To finish what Hydra started. To slip into a role and make you perform. He can’t do it.

A strangled and grating sound rushes out of his mouth.

He jerks away from Steve’s hand, knocking over a tray of medical tools. They clatter against the tile with a sharp clang. His fingers tangle into his hair, clutching, pulling, as if he can rip himself out of his skin.

He turns blindly, heart slamming into his ribs, chest turning inward.

Tony steps forward.

Wrong move.

The moment is too much, too fast, too fucking much.

Tony’s voice is sharp. “Barnes, pull yourself together-”

He gets closer, almost touching Bucky and he really should not have done that.

You move.

Swiftly. Too swiftly.

A blur, a strike, a threat eliminated.

Tony is on the ground before anyone can stop you.

There’s a heavy, shattered silence.

Bucky freezes.

No, no, no.

His heart slips up his throat. Then it stops.

He looks at you, standing in front of him, shielding him from Tony, hands still half-raised from where you struck him down, muscles tensed, like a soldier defending her commander.

Like you are his.

Like he is yours.

He never told you to move but you did it anyway.

This is loyalty.

Every inch of him is drowning in horror.

In your broken, conditioned mind, Bucky is your handler.

And you are protecting him.

Bucky staggers back, body moving out of sheer shock. If he stays too close he will suffocate. In the shame, the self-loathing, the fear that he is the one keeping you like this.

Nobody speaks. It’s a silence so thick it sucks the air out of the room, drags the world into a vacuum where nothing exists except this.

You.

Standing like an asset between Bucky and a man you saw as a threat to him.

On the ground, Tony is groaning, already pushing himself up with a curse, clutching his ribs.

Bucky feels only sick, wrenching numbness.

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, staring at you, staring at what you just did. He feels like he’s lost time again. Sliding through cracks he thought he’d sealed shut, falling back into something that should have stayed dead.

Steve is speaking, Tony is swearing, Bruce is moving, and Bucky is still staring.

“Bucky.”

It’s Bruce. His tone is a warning.

Bucky takes a step back and you shift with him.

His knees grow weak. He wants the floor to open up so he can let himself fall into the depths of the unknown.

He can feel their eyes on him. Steve. Bruce. Tony. Cho. He doesn’t look at them. He can’t.

Because he knows what they are seeing.

A room filled with people and only one person you will listen to.

And once again, he is back in that cold chair, arms bound, mind split wide open for them to rewrite.

Once again, he watches himself from the outside, being a handler who forces his puppet onto the very same chair. Watching his sweet and brave girl writher and scream while her will is taken from her.

He himself is screaming internally.

His voice strains as he pushes the words out, even as his throat tries to close around them. “Stand down.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s hoarse, throaty, gutted.

You obey.

Bucky watches as the tension in your frame bleeds out in a way that is too immediate. Too conditioned. Like a wire was pulled, a switch flipped, a button pressed.

Like this is just another mission.

Bile rises. His face is cleanly sucked off any color.

Steve moves closer, tentatively. “Buck-”

“No,” he snarls, his voice raw. “Don’t.”

Steve's going to tell him it’s gonna be okay.

He’s going to tell him they’ll figure this out.

He’s going to tell him you’re still in there.

But Bucky already knows you are.

You’re still there. You’re there with every command he gives you.

Bucky’s breaths are shallow and broken gasps. He has to get out of here. He has to get you out of here. Has to stop whatever this is before it turns into something he can’t ever get back.

Bruce and Cho are murmuring. He catches bits and pieces - neurological imprinting, post-hypnotic triggers, synaptic conditioning.

Words that are too impersonal. Too detached. As though you are not the most important person in his life.

And he snaps.

His feet are moving. Straight to you. Straight to the one thing in this room that is his.

You blink up at him. Tilt your head the tiniest bit. But he knows. You are waiting again.

Bucky exhales, sharp and shaking. “Come with me.”

You follow.

Because you have no other choice.

And Bucky can feel it, all of it, this thing you’ve become, this thing he’s made you.

And it’s enough to put him to an end.

You walk behind him like a shadow.

You don’t take in the hallways you once knew, the place you called home. Your gaze stays steadfastly on his back.

An ugly, queasy gnarl grows in his stomach.

He tells himself this is progress. That getting you out of that sterile, white-washed room is a step forward. That walking through the compound with you means something.

But whatever Hydra did to you remains in effect.

You are not walking beside him and swinging his hand between your bodies, laughing freely.

You are glued to his back, watching his every step with hollow eyes.

And you aren’t asking where he is taking you.

You don’t react to the feel of the air shifting, to the faint smell of coffee in the halls, to the voices in the distance.

You just watch him.

As if nothing else exists.

As if he is all there is.

And usually, he loves it when you look at him like he is everything. All that matters to you. But never, never in all his years on earth and beyond, did he want it to be like that.

He swallows back the bile in his throat, but he nearly chokes on it.

He reaches the common area with you.

He doesn’t even know why he brings you here. Maybe because it’s lived in. Warm. Maybe because there are blankets still piled on the couch from the last movie night. Maybe because there are still used pans sitting on the counter by the dishwasher. Maybe because he needs to see all that for himself.

You stopped walking when he did. Standing perfectly still, shoulders relaxed, back straight. Too straight.

And your eyes - your too-wide, too-focused eyes - never leave him.

His fingers jerk at his sides.

“You know this place.” The tightness in his throat fights him, but he shoves the words out. They sound rough and thick. Exhausted. His hands press against his thighs, his whole body stretched to the breaking point. “You live here.”

Nothing.

He drops his head for a moment, closing his eyes, to keep the tears from falling. Then he turns his head, pointing toward the couch. “We sit here a lot of times,” he sniffs. “You’d curl up next to me, and we’d fight over the blanket.”

You do not look.

Not even a glint of acknowledgment.

He swallows hard.

Bucky gestures toward the kitchen. “You love cooking,” he continues, voice strained. “We do it together. Breakfast. Dinner. You love breakfast food. Pancakes. I make them for you every morning. You tease me about burning them every time I'm too damn distracted by you to look at the pan.”

You don’t even glance toward it.

His heart pounds.

It’s not just that you’re unresponsive. It’s that you’re responding to the wrong thing.

You are waiting for something he has to give. For something he has to command.

His breath trips out of him. His voice sounds like it is scraping its way free. “Look at the couch.”

You do immediately.

His lungs feel like they are collapsing.

“Look at the kitchen.”

Your head turns.

His fingers curl into fists.

He’s shaking, metal hand twitching, flesh hand clenched so tight his knuckles turn white.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t you.

But then your eyes snap back to the couch. It’s so fast, they are fixed on the kitchen counter again when he blinks, but he saw. He saw that they shifted. Just for a millisecond.

His breath catches. Hope flares. It’s a fragile and small flame caught in the wind, a breath away from being snuffed out. But it is there.

His lungs burn with the force of his held breath. He doesn’t dare to exhale, doesn’t dare to move too fast, or say the wrong thing. You are still here. Somewhere. He just has to reach you.

Timidly, he reaches for your hand. It’s warm and soft. Limp.

He squeezes gently, his touch featherlight. “Come with me, doll,” he whispers.

You do not respond in words, but you follow again.

Another tremor is sent through his being, but he has to push through.

He doesn’t take you back to the medical wing. He doesn’t lead you to the labs or around the common area. He takes you somewhere safe. Somewhere yours.

Your shared room.

His hand tightens around yours as he guides you down the hall. Every step feels unstable. He is scarcely keeping it together, scarcely keeping himself from shattering apart at the seams. His body is exhausted, but his mind is in overdrive, running over every single memory the two of you built in that room.

The nights tangled in the sheets.

The mornings where neither of you wanted to get up, staying cuddled together.

The whispered confessions at 2 am.

The way you always fit against and around him so perfectly.

He swallows.

He hesitates at reaching the door. His fingers shake against the handle before he tugs it open and steps inside.

The air is still. The scent of you is everywhere.

The blankets are still rumpled from when he tried to wake you up but couldn’t. Your clothes are still tucked into the open dresser, your favorite sweater draped over the chair. Little things - your things - are scattered across the nightstand, untouched since the last time you were here.

He turns to you, his heart thumping so loud he can hear it in his ears.

Please, he thinks. Remember this. Remember me.

But you only stand in the doorway, rigid, still.

A breath shivers through his lungs and he moves. He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you forward, into his arms.

And you go. Easily.

Your body folds against his. Malleable. Pliable. Not how you should be.

With a stifled gasp, he buries his face into your hair. His fingers tremble against your back, pressing into the fabric of the hospital shirt they forced you into. He hates this. Hates that it reminds him of a patient.

He wants you in his shirt. Wants you tangled in his arms, his sheets. Wants you to look at him like you.

His throat is sore.

He presses closer, desperate, needy, ruined.

Then his hands go to cup your face, tilting it upward, trying to make you meet his gaze without having to tell you to. “Doll,” he chokes, voice cracking, breaking, falling apart. “You- you’re safe. I swear. You’re here, with me.”

Your eyes are still locked onto him in all the wrong ways.

They don’t shift to your surroundings. Not to the bed. Not to the room. Just him.

His forehead lands on yours almost roughly and he squeezes his eyes shut, his grip tightening just a little. A tear falls onto your skin, but you seem entirely indifferent to it.

“This is our home,” he wheezes through his tears. “You’re living with me.” His fingers brush against your cheek, still trembling. “You chose me. Because you love me. And I love you. I love you so fucking much, baby. It’s killing me.”

You don’t give him anything.

His ribs feel like they might splinter.

He feels like he is losing you.

No. No.

He pulls back, enough to see your face properly. His eyes sting, red-rimmed, desolate. He won’t lose you.

“You’re in there, I know it,” he continues and he doesn’t know how his voice is still working. “You know me, sweetheart. You know me better than anyone.” His thumbs sweep your cheek.

But you don’t react to his touch. And it wrecks him. Because you used to lean into him. You would tilt your face into his palm like you were drawn to him, nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

There is a tilt of your head.

But it destroys him.

Because this is instinct. Not you.

His words taste like ash. “Remember when I brought you that stupid bear from Coney Island?” A humorless and tiny chuckle falls out of him but it only makes him feel drier. “The one with the crooked smile? You loved that thing.”

You stare at him unblinking.

His fingers trace along your temple, down to your jaw. So softly. So hypnotic.

“I love when you’re wearing my shirts.” The pressure in his throat tries to steal his voice but he pushes through. “They’re too big on you. Always make you look so endearing. So perfect. You don’t like me call you cute when you’re wearing ‘em but you keep stealing them anyway.” He has to pause to let his tears fall. “God, I love seeing you in my clothes.”

A strangled sound bolts up his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re always bossin’ me around, doll.” His forehead is back to yours. His eyes burn. “You’re the only person in this world who can boss me around. And I let you. ‘Cause I love you. ‘Cause I’d do anything for you.”

His fingers skim quickly over your jaw, your cheek, tracing the curve of your lips like you are something fleeting.

“I know you’re there. I know I can get you out. Y/n, please,” he begs, wantonly, the roughness of his voice all over the place. “Come back to me. Come back.”

Desperation is not a strong enough word for what is happening inside Bucky. Not even close.

It is deeper. Darker. It is a force that grabs at his rips and wrenches. A gaping, bottomless chasm inside him that is growing wider by the second.

And you stand in the eye of the storm.

Not lifeless. But not alive.

Bucky is breaking rapidly. His hands are all over you - cupping your cheeks, holding your wrists, squeezing your shoulders, smoothing through your hair. If he stops touching you, you might vanish into that void Hydra left behind.

His quivering fingers are at your jaw. “Come on, doll,” he whispers, his voice so unbelievably undone. “Please. Please just- just say something. Anything.”

Nothing.

Bucky sobs.

Bucky shifts closer, chest against yours, forehead pressed firmly to your temple. His breathing comes in short bursts, stuttering over every inhale. “You’re okay,” he cries, over and over and over again. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you, baby. You just- you just gotta come back to me.”

Your muscles don’t shift. Your breathing does not change. You only watch him.

Not seeing. Not processing, just observing.

His panic nearly makes him double over. His vision is foggy, his body fights with the effort to stay upright.

“Come on,” he whimpers. He tugs and crushes you further against him, forcing your body to mold against his own. His nose drags along your hairline, his lips moving over your ear. “You love me,” he pleads. “I know you do.”

His arms are a vice. A shield. A cage.

The air is too thick. It clogs his throat, his chest, a heavy hand squeezing his rips together, determined to extinguish his breath. His lungs seize with the force of it, panic rising in his throat, bending tight and tight and tight until he is sure it will strangle him.

“You love me,” he repeats as if trying to remind you. As if you simply have forgotten.

A sob escapes his mouth.

He cannot do this. He cannot lose you like this. He’s not strong enough.

His body is curling over yours, shielding you from everything. He clings to you.

But when he goes to look at your face again, to continue pleading, he halts. Stalls. Stops. Freezes.

Because you are not looking at him.

Your head is tilted, gaze wandering past his shoulder. Fixed on something.

Something small. Something yours.

A mug.

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath.

It’s your favorite mug. The one you use every morning, the one you refuse to replace even though the paint is chipping at the rim. The one Bucky gifted you in his first year at the compound, before you got together.

It sits abandoned on the nightstand.

And you are looking at it.

Not at him. At it.

A slow, almost undetectable furrow forms between your brows.

Bucky’s entire body is on edge. Focused so insanely.

His breath is stolen, his fingers dig into your sides.

Oh, god.

Oh, god, please.

His lip trembles. His face crumbles.

“Tea,” he breathes.

A glint. A twitch of your fingers.

Bucky sobs. It’s short and uncontrollable and it startles from his body in an almost aggressive way.

He doesn’t dare disturb your fixed gaze, but he presses in closer again.

“You remember,” he beseeches, his lips parting in something between a cry and a prayer. “You- you know that mug, don’t you? It’s yours, doll. You drink tea from it every day.”

You blink.

Bucky laughs. It is a gruff, uneven, broken sound, and it hurts.

But you blinked.

And he saw it. He saw it. Because it happened. You did it.

He clutches you to his chest, laughing and crying, sobbing and gasping, trembling and breaking all at once. His entire body feels too tight, too much, too everything.

But you blinked.

You saw something that wasn’t him.

And you frowned.

A reaction. A real, actual, human reaction.

“Okay,” he lets out shakily, his fingers threading through your hair, clutching, gripping, grounding. His heart is hammering, his lungs are burning. But he does not care. You are still here.

And now he knows how to find you.

His hands are on your face now. “You got this, baby. You can do this. You’re the strongest fucking person I know, and you will snap out of this.”

You look back at him and Bucky crowds into you, terrified to let even an inch of space remain between you.

“You’re gonna come back to me, you hear me?” he tells you with a strained voice. His eyes move over your face so rapidly, fingers wiping at your skin.

There is something in your eyes.

A fight.

And Bucky starts nodding. He gasps. “Yes, that’s it, baby. That’s it! God, I'm so proud of you. Fuck, I'm so proud of you. You’ll make it, Y/n. Come on!” He laughs wetly. It verges on hysterical.

He sees it beginning.

Like the first crack of sunlight over the horizon. Like the slow, agonizing change of winter to spring. Like life struggling to emerge from a place it was never intended to leave.

Your mouth parts. Just a little bit. Your lashes lower, then rise again. And Bucky watches - watches like a man starved, like a dying thing gasping for air.

“Doll,” he pleads, forehead pressing to yours but he keeps his eyes on yours, thumbs stroking frantically over your cheeks, trying to memorize everything. “Please, sweetheart. Come on. Come back. Come home.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

And the third time is different.

The third time, there is recognition.

Faint. Flimsy. Almost not there. But Bucky sees it, and it hits him.

A vehement shudder ripples through his chest, vibrating you as well.

You are coming back.

Piece by piece, tiny fraction by tiny fraction, you are coming back.

“Come on, baby. You’re almost there. We’re almost there. You got this.” His eyes are so intensely fixed on you, his voice hoarse. He doesn’t sound like himself, doesn’t feel like himself. He doesn’t care. “Feel me. Feels my hands. My body. It’s me, baby. It’s Bucky.”

He needs you.

God, he needs you.

You breathe.

And the sound is so normal. So absolutely, painfully, beautifully normal that Bucky almost doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late.

Your lips part.

Your eyes start moving over his face, studying, seeing.

“Bucky.”

A sound punches out of his throat - something agonizing, something animal, something beyond human comprehension.

His knees buckle.

He goes down - hard, his entire weight dragging you with him, hitting the ground with an impact he barely feels. Because you just said his name.

You spoke. And you know who he is.

His arms wind around you, pressing you close, cinching tight. His hands clutch at your back, at your shoulders, at your hair - clinging, grasping, as though he needs to feel your heartbeat to remember his own. As though he is bracing against a storm and you are the only shelter he’s got.

Because you are something he can’t afford to lose. But he almost did today.

He gasps incoherent, cracking words into your hair, your neck, burying inside it. They barely make it past the ragged breaths and shudders tearing through him. It only sounds something like you’re here on a loop.

His chest heaves. His fingers are digging into you, pressing you against him, needing you closer, closer, closer.

Your arms move immediately.

Your hands rise.

Without him telling you to.

And for the first time since you woke up, you actually touch him.

Your palms press against his back, against his neck, against him.

And it is everything.

It is the dam breaking, the world shifting back onto its axis, the breath of air after drowning.

Bucky cries.

The tears don’t stop. They just keep coming, breaking past every wall, every defense, every piece of him that ever tried to hold anything in.

And you are watching him.

Seeing him.

Holding him.

Speaking to him.

“Buck-”

His name.

And this time it sounds even more like you. So soft. So incredibly concerned. You.

He collapses deeper into you, losing himself completely.

He feels your hands trembling against him, but they are moving.

Not because he made you.

Not because of an order coming from his mouth.

Because you want to.

Because Bucky is falling apart in your arms and you cannot let that happen.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, fisting the material. Your other hand slides into his hair, cradling the back of his head, pulling him in, as close as he can get.

He is gasping, sobbing - breaking. His whole body quakes. His breath stutters between cries, hauled from the deepest part of him.

And you don’t hesitate.

Your lips press to the top of his head, over and over, again and again and again. Whispering into him. Murmuring soothing nonsense, anything, anything.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” Your voice is soft, achingly tender. A touch in the darkness.

His grip almost hurts, almost suffocates, but you don’t pull away.

And he clings to you like he will never let go.

Because he is afraid. Afraid that if he lets go, if he blinks, if he breathes too hard - you will be gone.

Even with your hands on him, even with your voice in his ears - your real voice - even with your lips brushing against his skin, he is still afraid. So fucking afraid.

It’s an abyss of fear, not a momentary plunge, but an endless descent into the very structure of his being.

It’s a poison seeping into his system, crystallizing in his bones, becoming a part of him.

He doesn’t think it will ever go away.

So he clutches you tightly.

And you hold him right back.

Your fingers card through his hair, smoothing, soothing. Your lips press to the part of his temple you can reach.

“I’m here. I’m okay, honey.” Another soft whisper against his skin. “It’s okay.”

Still, he sobs.

Still, he shakes.

Still, he clings.

His chest heaves wildly against yours. His pulse is unstable. He can’t tone it down. He can’t control himself.

His forehead presses deeply into your neck. His breath is hot, damp, shaking.

And you keep holding him, keep murmuring, keep soothing.

“It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay,” you hush, so patient, so loving, so sweet - everything he’s missed so incredibly bad. A kiss to his hairline. Your hand trails up and down his back. “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

A painful and gravelly wail bursts from his chest. His fingers twitch frantically against you.

And he hears the way it’s hurting you. It’s in your voice. He hears how concerned you are. And he hates himself for it. But there is nothing he can do but crumble.

His frame shudders so violently you think he might collapse in on himself.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m right here.”

He believes you.

Because otherwise, he would not survive.

“You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.”

- Terry Pratchett

Taglist: @cheekybarnes @gotminho @rlphunter @normanreedus-blog @winterelfqueen @hello-lisa1026 @lilulo-12 @nikt-wazny-y @reemoony @orangeheliophile @seolahhh @oikawasbuddy @dancer3205 @yourstupidblues @greatmistakes @inf4ntdeath @hoe-for-writing @sept3mberchild @mrsnikstan @augustjoy

[shiyorin]

#Repost because i accidentally deleted it due to typo

#Yandere au comeback. Angron x F!Reader (Reader is Nuceria noble)

#Don't ask, I just want to cook it.

#Warning: Yandere, dark, a little gore,....

(actually I think it is funny)

Nuceria’s Arena. The air stank. Blood-rust and the sweet rot of corpses left too long under sun. Chains rattled. Crowd roared. Angron’s skull screamed. The Nails bit, chewed, thrilled as he split a man’s ribcage with his bare hands. Red mist. Always red. But through it, you.

You sat high in the shaded tiers, silk draped over sharp shoulders, wine cup dangling from fingers that had never held anything rougher than a jeweled fork. You. Noble. Poison. Eyes like cold glass, never looking at him, only through him. As if he were part of the sand, the gore, the mess of this pit.

He hated you.

(Lie.)

The Nails sparked, white-hot claws raking his brain. Another body at his feet. Another roar from the crowd. His lungs burned. Muscles shook. But you, you didn’t clap. Didn’t smile. Just… sipped. Like the death below was a boring play. Angron’s axe slipped in his grip, slick with entrails. He wanted to hurl it up, up, up into that pristine balcony, watch your silks stain crimson—

(No. No. Want you to see. Want you to look.)

A guard prodded him with a shock-spear. “Move, beast.” The Nails hummed. He almost ripped the man’s spine out. Almost. But then your chair shifted. A flick of wrist. A sigh. Were you…. bored?

******

Night. Chains in the dark. The Nails never slept. They whispered. Kill. Tear. Blood. But underneath, softer, weaker—a whimper. Your face. Your eyes. Why won’t you look?

He’d seen you before, in glimpses. Paraded through streets in a litter, nose turned up at the filth. Once, your sandal slipped, and a slave scrambled to catch it. You’d laughed. High, cruel. Angron had vomited bile that night, Nails chewing his thoughts to pulp.

Now, fever-dreams: your hand, cool on his brow. Your voice, soft: “You’re more than this.”

(Stupid. Stupid. You’d never touch him. He’s nothing .)

******

Dawn. Back in the sands. A fresh batch of prisoners, starving, wide-eyed. Angron’s axe trembled. The Nails screeched: “KILL!” But his eyes dragged upward. There. Silk canopy. Your perfume somehow cut through the stench. Today, your hair was braided with gold wire. It glinted, mocked.

One prisoner charged him, a boy, maybe sixteen, armed with a broken sword. Angron sidestepped. The crowd booed. “Fight, beast! Fight!”

The boy sobbed, swinging wildly. Angron’s fist snapped his neck. Quick. Clean. The crowd hissed.

But you… leaned forward. Just a fraction.

(Look at me. Look at me. LOOK AT—)

Your lips moved, saying something to the slave beside you. Laughing. Always laughing.

******

They brought him to you.

A mistake. A guard’s drunken gamble. “The lady wants a closer view of the beast!”

Angron’s chains clanked. They’d hosed him down, but blood crusted his nails, his teeth. The Nails sang as they led him up, up, up to your private box.

Closer.

Your scent, jasmine, ozone, richness, hit him like a hammer. You didn’t turn. Just waved a hand. “Leave us.”

The guards hesitated.

“Now.”

They fled.

Alone.

Angron’s breathing rattled. You finally turned, and—oh. Up close, your eyes weren’t glass. They were voids. Black. Hungry.

“So,” you said, swirling your wine. “The Red Sand’s champion. Do you know why you’re here?”

He growled. The Nails itched.

You stood, hips swaying, and circled him. “They say you’re a demon. A mindless thing. But I see… fear in you.” Your finger trailed his arm, burned where you touched. “Do you fear me, beast?”

(Yes. No. Want)

You slapped him.

Hard.

His head snapped sideways. The Nails shrieked. He lunged—

—and froze.

Your palm pressed to his chest. Not pushing. Feeling. His hearts jackhammered under your touch.

“Interesting,” you murmured. “You want. Even now. Even… this.” Your nails dug into his skin. “Pathetic.”

He snarled, chains clattering. You smiled.

“Shall I give you a secret, beast?” Your lips brushed his ear. “I’ve watched you. Every fight. Every scream. You’re magnificent… when you suffer.”

Your knee jabbed his groin. He choking.

“But you’re still a dog,” you hissed. “And dogs… beg.”

******

He dreamt of you that night.

(Not a dream. The Nails don’t allow dreams.)

Your hands on him. Not cruel. Gentle. Your voice, sweet: “You’re mine.”

(Lies. Lies.)

In the dream, he wept.

******

You came again. And again. Always with wine. Always with cuts disguised as caresses.

“Do you know what they’ll do to you?” you asked once, tracing the Nails embedded in his skull. “When you break? They’ll toss you to the corpse-wyrms. I’ll watch.”

He grabbed your wrist. Too tight. You gasped, finally, finally looking at him, and he…

…let go.

You stared. Then laughed. “Oh, beast. You’re weak.”

******

The last time.

You wore red. Like the sand. Like his dreams.

“They’re selling you,” you said. 

Angron’s chains shook. 

(No. No. Can’t leave. Can’t)

You stepped close. “Beg me to keep you. Beg, and I’ll slit your throat here. Clean. Quick.”

His mouth opened. Words. He hadn’t spoken in years.

“I….”

Your smile froze. “What?”

“You....” Blood dripped from his nose. The Nails blazed.

You recoiled. “Don’t, don’t you dare say that!”

But he did. Again. Again. Guttural. Broken. Your face twisted, disgust? Fear?

You fled.

******

He never saw you again.

But in the dark, chains replaced by a Legion’s armor, the Nails whispered:

“She’s watching. She’s waiting. Find her. Make her look .”

And Angron smiled, grin teeth, and obeyed.

[lieslab]

Can't you come back home?

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Han X gn reader

Summary: You finally accept the grief you've been outrunning.

Genre: Comfort/hurt

Word Count: 1.4k

Trigger warning: Death, loss, fear of afterlife, and descriptions of prepping a body for a funeral.

Grief resources

_ _ _

The entire world collapsed beneath your feet. For so long, you ached with an empty hollowness. For months, you walked around with a hole in your heart. No matter what, it wouldn’t go away. After your loved one died, you went to great lengths, trying to heal the gaping wounds in your heart. 

You flooded yourself with work. You hid in books, not daring to pull your head out until hours later. You lost yourselves in the dramas and comforted yourself in escapism because escapism meant forgetting. You avoided the harrowing realization time and time again. 

It stared at you in the distance; an empty void in the outline of them. The way their hair sat just like they did when they were alive. A tar black void waved, trying to catch your attention; your brain trying to process their death, but you refused. 

You tried to busy yourself with everything else. Anything else. Every time the thoughts grew darker, you turned them off. You cranked up the music and placed headphones over your ears. In the kitchen, you hummed to yourself, too busy measuring stuff to cook with, you narrowly avoided the harrowing realization. 

You avoided and avoided and avoided. Across the way, the outline grew darker. Whether you wanted to admit it or not, at some point, the body would finally realize they weren’t coming back. 

And for you, it hit in the middle of the kitchen on a bright sunny day. The kitchen window sat open. The content chirps of birds brushed against your ears. The warmth of sunlight hit just right and nothing else mattered. 

Your heart, a fragile egg and it dropped; hitting the ground with a wet thud and oozing out in every direction all at once. You blinked rapidly, trying to push the feelings down, but today, your thoughts won. Grief rushed in and wrapped around your neck. It choked you like a winter scarf. 

You never wanted to talk about it. You brushed off condolences at the funeral. You tried so hard not to stare at the body in the casket because it didn’t feel like them. The makeup was wrong. Too much blush to bring back the rosy color of life. It was all wrong. 

The sweet scent of limes clung to your hands. You were cutting one to get the juice. It rammed into your heart; all of it, that final stage of grief. 

Acceptance always hurt the most because no matter what, they weren’t coming back. Scream at the sky if you must. Frantically text their old number. Hit the call button and wait for the familiar sound of the voice on the voicemail, if it’s still there. 

No more conversations. No more soaking up the warmth of the sun. Not another shared laugh and finishing each other’s sentences. You would never see them again. Trapped in photographs and memories, a victim to time; forever in memoriam. 

If not here, where do they go? What happens to them? Their body stays here and where does the soul go? Does it twinkle in the bright lights of heaven? Do the pearly gates grow faint as they plummet straight to hell? 

Perhaps it’s something else entirely. Screaming at the top of their lungs, seeing the light, and coming out as another species on the other side. Are they trapped between the barrier of life and death? Roaming around their house, unable to leave the walls slathered with memories? 

Trying so hard to conjure up the energy to move things and speak with the living, proving they’re still there. Where do people go after death? What happens next? 

Do they feel the licks of flame when cremated? Are they aware that they can never call their bodies home again? One day, you’re smiling with your friends and a week later, you’re the fine grains of ash in a picked out urn. Can they see the mortician as they work in silence? 

Flushing out the blood that pulsed from their body. Peeling back the eyes and inserting a piece of plastic to keep the eyelids shut during a viewing. Cotton in the nose. Gauze down the throat. Stitches to keep their mouths quiet forever. 

Your hands found the table as a wave of dizziness brushed over you. You desperately grabbed the edge of the ceramic counter, trying to keep your balance. You didn’t know where they went. Where did they go? What happened next? Were they alone? Is it cold? Does it hurt? 

Can they feel the loneliness, just as you can? Does their heart feel a bit too empty? Are they aware of just how much their absent presence has affected you? 

In the living room, Han stayed unaware of your thoughts and feelings. Curled up into the leather on the couch, his eyes drooped. A new anime unfolded on the screen. Some cut scenes that seemed to hold no deeper meaning to the full story. 

The sound of a sob jerked him straight upright. The blanket flew off of him and he dashed into the kitchen like a light. You sat with everything on the counter spread out. All the spices, the ground meat, the half-cut lime. You had been so excited to make a Mexican dish you found, but it all came crashing down. 

You gripped onto that countertop for dear life. Hands gripping. Teary eyes. More sobs fell from your lips. Han rushed over, grabbing your hands, trying to inspect them for blood, but none fell. They were cold from cutting up lime slices, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with them specifically. 

“Honey, why are you crying? What’s wrong?” 

“They’re gone,” you croaked. Your voice quivered and died. “They’re d-dead and I-I can’t-” 

A knife rammed through his fragile heart. He tugged you towards him, desperate to stop the hurt from flowing through you. More tears welled up in your eyes. “I-I didn’t get to say b-bye. I-I didn’t get to tell them that I still loved them.” 

“I know, honey, I know. It’s not fair, but I promise you, they know. They know you love and miss them. They’re waiting for you on the other side, I have to believe it.” 

Your head shook. Tears fell down your cheeks. Another sob escaped your throat. The more you cried, the more Han panicked. His hand gently rubbed your spine. 

You cried and cried and cried. He didn’t move, not daring to let you experience this hurt by yourself. Your sinuses clogged and you struggled to breathe through the grief coating your lungs. 

Minutes ticked by and he didn’t let go. He didn’t try to move you, or tell you to stop crying. He didn’t shush you and tell you to get over it. He didn’t try to say this was part of life. 

“You don’t know if they’re waiting,” you whispered after a while. “You can’t promise that.” 

“I can’t, but I know what kind of person they were. They were the kind of person that loved you with their whole heart. They wouldn’t abandon you. I have to believe that the people we love, they’re just on the other side and waiting.” 

“I like to think the grass is green. Maybe there’s a park where they all gather and hang out. It’s always a nice temperature, not too hot, or too cold. Everything they want, they can get it at the snap of their fingers.” 

“They still have all the memories and maybe, just maybe when you think of them here randomly, maybe that’s them on the other side thinking about you, too. I don’t think our family members and friends would abandon us.” 

“They’re in the wings and watching. They’re the gut feelings that keep us safe. They’re in our dreams, constantly popping in and trying to check on us. They’re everywhere, you just have to find them.” 

“It hurts so bad.” 

“I know and I’m sorry I can’t take away that pain. I’d get rid of it and throw it far away, if I could, but I can’t. Just know that I love you and I’ll always be here to help you through that hurt.” 

“Please don’t die. I can’t handle it if you die.” 

“Die?” Han’s eyes widened and his head shook. “Oh, no. The grim reaper can’t take me. I’m not going down without a fight. I have a long healthy life ahead of me. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” 

“Promise?” You gripped his arms tighter. 

“Of course, I promise; always.” 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

Ko-fi

[fandomwarriorqueen]

Old Guard Batman AU

I saw that they were coming out with the second Old Guard movie this summer and I all the sudden my brain was like hey, could I just Bruce Wayne worse? So anyways this has been sitting in my notes. I’m debating publishing it on Ao3 and adding onto it, because I have ideas, mostly involving Dick and Jason. Especially Jason, he seems like fun to torture. Anyways enjoy

Bruce discovered he couldn’t die when his parents were murdered for their wealth. He was murdered too. He throat slit, the same as them. Their wails to spare their only child unheard by the brutes that wanted the gold timepiece in his father’s pocket, the bejeweled family crest on his lapel, the pearls around his mothers neck, and diamond ring of her finger, and kid size leather wallet in Bruce’s jacket that he had been given to on treats or a fun new toy while on their family outing.

He had woken up between his parents covered blood and his own refuse from voiding himself. He had been stripped to his undergarments, anything potentially valuable gone, his mother’s lifeless eyes staring back at him, her mouth open in a scream, her throat a gaping parody of a smile. Her fine silk dress with gone along with her jewelry. They hadn’t even bothered to unclasp her earrings, they had simply ripped them out of the cartilage.

He had scrambled past their bodies and thrown up, covering himself in even more fluids in the process, before he had hunkered behind the same dumpster the thieves had hid behind, sobbing as he scrabbled at his own throat, trying to find the opening the blade had made, desperate to join his parents in death. Instead he was left cold, alive, and alone.

Well, he wasn’t quite alone. Alfred Pennyworth, a man in their employ, their very kind butler, was a slightly strange man. The Wayne’s didn’t know it, but he silently protected the family that tried to do so much good in such a worthless city. The only family he found that truly deserved to be protected in this horrible world.

His hiccuping, sniffling, and shaking had given his hiding place away. Along with the trail of old blood left behind his scramble to get away from his parent’s bodies. When Alfred had pulled him shaking from the garbage he did not recognize him at first, to lost in his grief, but he didn’t fight either. He was too numb to protest being lifted from the shadows.

“Oh, my dear boy. I’m so sorry,” was all the gray haired man said. For he recognized his own curse in Bruce Wayne. A curse he did not wish on any man, let alone a child. The curse of life. The stain of blood from where it had poured from the child’s throat gave his new found ability away.

He carried the boy all the way back to Wayne manor, avoiding any road where a random passerby might witness a servant carrying the Wayne heir, now untimely master, in his underthings drenched in blood, his own refuse, and vomit, with a dead stare. Alfred carried him in through the servants entrance, slipping past anyone else still in the house or awake. Most were gone given the night off as their masters enjoyed the town.

He filled a bath with warm water himself and scrubbed the boy clean. Bruce didn’t make a sound that whole time. He quietly helped the boy to bed before quickly changing his own clothes. His could be washed, Master Bruce’s underthings would have to be burned. He quickly checked on his charge saddened to see he wasn’t asleep just staring at the portrait of himself with his parents on his first birthday above the fireplace. Alfred sat on the bed next to him.

“Why did I wake up?”

“I don’t know my boy. I do know though the only thing you can do now is keep living. But I’ll be here to live through it with you. I can promise you that.”

[chimerahyperfix]

isat everyone loops au but it’s very much a horror thing and it’s in like a conga line type formation. Based on the concept of saving the game lol. Only one person is looping and the LAST person looping is ‘Loop’ [aka they take their roles, its referred 2 as redacting in mmy notes as it basically removes them from the world entirely.] The timeloop goes through everyone, one at a time, all in a row, over and over. If your redacted you remember, until the next save happens and THEY redact and you aren’t anymore and you forget. Yeah the plot’s still 90% the same. Yeah the world kinda forms around the empty hole whoever is redacted has left. Loop is the only one who remembers everything and interacts with whoever is redacted and like…. is tthe reason the save stars exist? which makes them, technically, a secondary antagonist. Sorgy loop :[

oh to be in a cycle of love and hate and life and death and you! can’t escape! no one can! And you loop, and everyone loops, and it’s ssuffering all the way down!!!!!!!! rahhhh rahhhhhh

bonus redacted sif as an example. Haiiiii

[imavikingo]

Everytime I look at Tumblr and see the tl I remember why I hate endgame with a passion you couldn't understand.

They fucked up Steve and Bucky so bad (yes, Bucky too bc suddenly he doesn't matter/isn't even a secondary character that deserves to be near Steve)

It's so funny to me (not) bc they talked about gay characters being in the movie at panels and interviews and even talked about Stucky at some point (basically queerbaiting) for then... Steve not even acknowledging Bucky. An awkward and impersonal hug doesn't cut it.

And Steve suddenly yearning and talking about Peggy? When he didn't even mourned her that bad and already had let her go ages ago? They knew they fucked up in CATWS with Steve and Buckys relationship, so they tried to distance them and then inserted Peggy bc ofc

(they possibly didn't have the time for a new character and they already had fucked up pairing Nat and Bruce and Wanda and Vision). Steve didn't have anyone else he cared about so they couldn't give him a new girlfriend. So they used Peggy AGAIN.

I'm not mad bc "Stucky not canon grr"

No.

I'm fucking pissed off because they did the worst character assassination and friendship assassination possible. Every movie of Cap America revolved around Steve saving Bucky at some point and him caring about him above all else, and you want me to believe that Steven Grant Rogers didn't care about him when Bucky died in front of his eyes? AGAIN? That Peggy's death was more important and impactful for him? If that was the case then why the fuck did he crash the plane then? If he cared so much about Peggy since forever?

No, that was just lazy writing and a way to reinforce Steve's sexuality "He can't be gay and you can't say that bc he LOVES PEGGY"(even tho he only kissed her once, even tho he crashed the plane and didn’t give her the coordinates, he didn't really care that much after all) they could have paired him with Nat in later movies, but they didn't.

That's why I only raise my eyebrows a lil when people say that x character will be gay canonically in a marvel movie/series. Is more than possible they won't. And if they are they're Deadpool, a secondary character no one cares about (obscure in lore too, so they can cut them off) or is plain queerbaiting again (because yes, even if you don’t see Steve and Bucky’s relationship as romantic, they DID QUEERBAIT IT)

Steve and Buckys relationship wasn't even written in a romantic way (you can ship them or not), but they tried so hard to rectify Steve's heterosexuality in endgame, that they fucked up their character arcs on purpose. And now they will always feel hollow and inconclusive. A bad taste in the mouth, a painful reminder of what it was and a what? 11 year long? characterization.

Idk man, I know I've talked about this more than three times, but omfg Tumblr reminds me why I hate that fucking movie!!! It's not my fault!!!

I know I'm going to end up writing something out of spite bc I can't take it shdkdjjcif

"It's been more than 4 years get over it" NEVER

Also the bit with Johnny Storm in Deadpool and Wolverine was also a dig (a fuck you if you will) to the fans bc Deadpool explicitly calls him Cap. And it implies that Steve as a character (not that old Steve nonsense) won't be back.

It's funny they've remade over and over again some movies (Fantastic 4, Spiderman) changed actors for characters (James/war machine, Bruce) and they include them in the multiverse/plot, but they won't do the same to some movies and some characters when they fuck up their stories, because they know if they do, they will have to acknowledge WHY they did it. Like with James/war machine changing actors.

So yeah, that's one of the reasons I don't care about Marvel anymore.

**I mean remake the movies ((Also they Can't remake Cap America bc that would mean they need to remake every important movie. And they don't have the time, the money nor the need. So that's why they decided to fuck their character arcs))

or include some characters in multiverse (they're going to do that with Tony/RDJ/Dr Doom after all, no?) and they also won't remake Cap bc the movies are amazing.

But the point stands. Steve couldn't be in DaW bc that would imply he's an alternative one or that Old!Steve was an alternative one or wasn't even Steve to begin with. But they couldn't do that ofc, no, bc that would give the fans hope in seeing Steve and Bucky together once again. So they did a dig at the fans bc "haha you thought it was Steve, but it's Johnny!"

Idk if I'm making sense at this point I'm tired af, need to sleep.

The thing is that they fucked up Steve Rogers's arc on purpose (Bucky's too, and others charas too tbh) and now they expect the fans to accept everything they give us with open arms. And imho I won't accept shit.

"Deadpool saved the MCU" how? If the other og characters are DEAD or they fucked them up too? Or are the butt of the joke now? Don't make me laugh. Most people don't gaf bout the new charas bc they only are presented in series not everyone watches (only available in one place) or are presented with characters that are dead now or as a replacement for the og characters. They aren't interesting on their own (not really, at least in mcu) and that's why most of the new stuff isn't liked as much. If they wanted to present more characters the opportunity passed already.

Also now if you want to watch and really understand 1 movie (if you don't read the comics too) you need to watch like 20 other movies and 5 shows. it's fucking exhausting.

[ibrithir-was-here]

.

[aristocrating]

hey girl have you seen that canon kentparse timeline post? I swear I saw it floating around but now I can’t find it

this is the old guide we usually refer to but kvp90 did a recent version here:

[starry1avender]

prepared for whatever the night may bring

[sbggarakungfood]

I'm very into Jay's villain arc, it's just.. the whole Agent Walker/ the Administration set up is what I’m more into because:

The portal in Jay's division could be the key to find Arin's parents

Potential Sora vs Jay fight would be so cool

Zane's nindroid but human identity thing?? How the Administration discriminates Zane somehow

Jay. He didn't care about his job right? But does he care about his underlings? Make him see how badly injured his people are.. and make it personal. Let him invent something

And

What about this 'master of lightning joining *the path of darknessssss*'?? Would this be another "They use me because of my power" "The universe called me here" "I have to do this for (reason)" "The Administration didn't pay me enough so I'm here to get another income"

Maybe it's unfair to judge like that since the tournament episodes haven’t released yet.. I'm sorry, I might miss inventor Jay so much.. By being Agent Walker that means he has to rely on that side of him more. Him vs Sora fight would feel.. something else. It won't be just a fight but also a brain game (possible dirty play?). Jay ripping bunch of mech's cables when I just want to see him using cool gadgets more than just shooting bunch of lightning (It’s not like they're going to explore that power this time). He already did good with a gun..

Jay with any weapon actually

[voltaridylla]

god im desperate to yap

[thesapphicsoldier]

THE ALLEY ROSE BRIDGE??? HELLO???

And I don’t even care

If it makes me sound insane

I ran my fingers through your hair

And I thanked god to touch the flame (1)

‘Cause I swore necks were made for bruisin’

I swore lips were made for lies

And I thought if you’d ever leave me

That I’d be the reason why (2)

And I don’t even care

If it’s just a summer fling

If it’s all experimental

And you go back to safer things (3)

But I swore hands were made for fighting

I swore eyes were made to cry

But you’re the first person that I’ve seen

Who’s proven that might be a lie (2)

1, okay pen game

2, I’m sobbing wtf

3, this is so queer coded to me

I’m actually screaming oh my god this is definitely gonna be a favorite

[qourmet]

Genuinely tho I Am sorry that my First moshang piece is a PWP 4 page comic

[a-dragons-journal]

Thank you for answering my question! Most people who were saying that about dog breeds approached it from the way of "breeds are just what humans call dogs so they don't matter to your experience much so you're just a dog" which kinda just gave off an impression that I can only be a dog without any kind specification. As I said, the wider species isn't something I feel much of an identification as. Other dogs of other kinds are more like paratypes with a dose of "other dog" in a way.

That's........ a wild thing to say, why would anyone think that. How could being this

possibly NOT give you a pretty wildly different experience than being this?

honestly maybe it's just that I'm sick and thus cranky but that sounds like the people who think that all dog breeds are really the same on the inside and don't understand why someone who lives in a studio apartment with no ability to go out on long runs and otherwise give their dog a job to do or at least a ton of exercises owning a border collie is a bad idea.

Even within dog breeds of similar sizes and builds, breeds are typically bred with a job in mind, and their in-built instincts and behaviors are thus going to be pretty wildly different because of that. Suggesting that the internal experience, instincts, etc. of, idk, an Australian shepherd and a labrador must be ~basically the same~ is - bluntly, tell me you don't know anything about dogs without telling me. Breeds are so much more than """what humans call dogs""". If we didn't have hard evidence they're so closely related and were going strictly off morphology there's no world in which a chihuahua and an irish wolfhound would be considered the same species. Yes, there are similarities and commonalities in behavior between dog breeds that are basically universal to Dog. No, that does not mean they're the same thing! You cannot treat a husky like a chihuahua and expect good results! There's commonalities that are basically universal between primates too, does that mean that the human experience is the same as the macaque one? No!

*deep breath* okay I'm normal about this. sorry. as said, I'm sick and my filter is a bit wonky and I'm mad about both people being stupid about your experiences and people not giving their dogs adequate care because they think personality differences between dog breeds is a myth or something. the people saying these things to you are being very stupid and I'm sorry you've had to deal with them.

[dollypopup]

no but like. . .it really is just so fucking depressing. it's *so* fucking depressing walking into the tags and the archives and seeing post and after post and narrative after narrative of the same damn Pen stan power fantasy of Colin on hands and knees for forgiveness. of how stupid he is. of how we want other people to swoop in for Penelope.

I love this character. That feels like a rarity in this fandom, but fuck it, I do. I love him. I love Colin. I love Colin's recklessness and his silliness and his honor and his hero complex. I love that he doesn't say the right thing and that he's all but howling for someone to hear him. I love how he makes friends with all the unconventional people and I love how he doesn't subscribe to the same narrative as all the other couples. I love him for all he is. For his mess ups and his triumphs.

And forget what the show will have happen, but what is *wrong* with us, that we can't muster up ANY empathy for him at all? Don't you remember being 20 and with no idea what you'll do with your life? Don't you remember being young and aimless and unsure? Are you always perfect with what you say? With knowing when other people are interested in you? Have you never hurt someone's feelings without meaning to? Have you never said something about someone behind their back who means so much to you in a moment of poor judgement?

Don't you deserve tenderness and understanding, too? Why are we so punitive with him? I understand angst, I understand drama, but I don't know how we can be here for any period of time and not hate what we've done to him? Hate what we've done to *them*?

Is anyone listening? Is anyone there?

Do you know? Do you even *understand* how shitty it is? To pour so much love into this couple and see nothing but us hating on him? To have him as a favorite and see people calling him stupid, useless, hoping other people make him feel like shit? Nowhere is safe for us. Even his own SHIP isn't safe for us. It's just wanting him to grovel and be humiliated and jealous and sad. Where's her pride in him? Their support for each other? Where's the encouragement? The tenderness? Why have we taken their love story, that was meant to be about being messy, making mistakes, and being loved regardless, through it all, and turned it into a 'You have to suffer to deserve love' narrative, instead? Into having to be on hands and knees begging for care? Why is it everywhere? Why is there nowhere to go that isn't permeated with it? And why are WE the weirdos for loving him? Why are we the ones who need to suck it up and shut up? Why are we the ones getting bullied by other members of our ship? IT'S HIS SHIP.

What have we turned them into?

Colin is one of the best love leads in the entire series. THE best male love lead. No, I will not change my mind. And yes, I wholeheartedly believe it. Because I LOVE this couple. I love this couple so damn much. And every time I walk into these archives, I feel like some weirdo because everyone is salivating over the same Puritanical 'MAKE HIM SUFFER' shit and there's NOWHERE to go. There is never anywhere to go.

Why don't we love him more? Colin is fantastic. And doesn't Penelope deserve a fantastic partner? Doesn't Colin deserve a partner who strives to understand him?

Is the shape of our ultimate love story really one that's drawn facedown in the dirt?

[evilkitten3]

the one thing that's worse than having people hate on your blorbo for incorrect reasons is when their reasoning is absolutely correct. like yeah she IS badly written, lacks development, and has a role in the story that unintentionally gives her moral failings the author didn't intend her to have.

unfortunately,