#satellite functions

[adomainname]

Satellites: Their Orbits, Tracking Systems, and Essential Uses

Satellites: Their Positions, Tracking, and Importance

Satellites have become an essential part of modern life, orbiting Earth and providing us with services ranging from communication and navigation to weather forecasting and space exploration. As of 2024, thousands of active satellites are circling our planet, each performing a specific role to enhance the quality of life on Earth. This article delves into the positioning of satellites, how they are tracked, what they track, and the significance of their roles.

Types of Satellite Orbits and Their Positions

Satellites are positioned in various orbits depending on their intended functions. These orbits determine how close the satellite is to Earth, how fast it moves, and what areas it covers.

Low Earth Orbit (LEO): Altitude: 180 km to 2,000 km Satellites in LEO include most Earth observation satellites, the International Space Station (ISS), and some communication satellites. These satellites are closer to the Earth, enabling them to capture high-resolution images. Functions: Used for imaging, remote sensing, and some communication purposes. Examples: ISS, Earth observation satellites like Landsat.

Medium Earth Orbit (MEO): Altitude: 2,000 km to 35,786 km Satellites in MEO are mainly used for navigation. This orbit offers a good balance between coverage and latency. Functions: GPS satellites and other global navigation systems. Examples: GPS, GLONASS, and Galileo satellites.

Geostationary Orbit (GEO): Altitude: 35,786 km above the equator Satellites in GEO move at the same rotational speed as Earth, meaning they stay fixed over one location on Earth. These are mostly communication and weather satellites. Functions: Used for television broadcasts, weather monitoring, and some types of communication. Examples: Weather satellites (GOES series), telecommunication satellites.

Highly Elliptical Orbit (HEO): Orbit shape: An elongated orbit with one point closer to Earth (perigee) and another point much farther away (apogee). Functions: Ideal for regions at high latitudes, providing prolonged coverage over areas like Russia and parts of Canada. Examples: Molniya satellites for communication in Russia.

How Satellites Are Tracked

The sheer number of satellites in space, combined with space debris, means tracking them is essential to avoid collisions and ensure their functionality. Ground stations and dedicated space agencies continuously monitor satellites. Several methods are used to track satellites:

Radar and Ground-Based Systems: Ground stations use radar to track satellites in LEO. These systems bounce radio waves off the satellite and measure the time it takes for the signal to return. By doing this repeatedly, they can track a satellite's location and speed.

Global Positioning System (GPS): Satellites in higher orbits like MEO or GEO are tracked using onboard GPS receivers. GPS helps calculate the satellite’s position and relay that data back to Earth.

Optical Tracking: Telescopes and cameras are used to visually observe satellites in higher orbits. This method is particularly useful for tracking objects that do not emit radio signals or need to be monitored for their physical characteristics.

Space Surveillance Networks: Agencies such as the U.S. Space Surveillance Network (SSN) and similar organizations in other countries continuously monitor satellites and space debris. They catalog objects and issue alerts for potential collisions.

What Satellites Track

Satellites are equipped with various sensors, cameras, and instruments to track a wide array of data on Earth, in space, and beyond:

Weather and Climate Data: Satellites such as NOAA’s GOES series monitor weather patterns, hurricanes, and long-term climate changes. They provide crucial data for meteorological services.

Earth Observation: Satellites like Landsat capture high-resolution images of Earth's surface. These images are used for mapping, agricultural planning, disaster response, and environmental monitoring.

Navigation Signals: GPS and other GNSS (Global Navigation Satellite Systems) satellites send signals that are used for navigation by smartphones, vehicles, ships, and airplanes worldwide.

Communication: Satellites facilitate global communication by relaying TV, radio, and internet signals across vast distances.

Space Exploration: Space telescopes like the Hubble Space Telescope track distant galaxies, nebulae, and black holes, helping scientists study the universe.

Military Surveillance: Many satellites are designed for defense purposes, tracking missile launches, military movements, or spying on potential threats.

Number of Satellites in Space

As of 2024, there are approximately 8,000 operational satellites orbiting Earth. The exact number fluctuates as new satellites are launched and old ones are decommissioned. Additionally, space agencies and private companies like SpaceX continue to launch large satellite constellations, such as Starlink, which alone has over 5,000 satellites in orbit for global internet coverage.

The Usefulness of Satellites

Satellites have become indispensable in modern life, serving a wide variety of purposes that impact everyday activities and critical global functions:

Key Functions of Satellites:

Communication: Satellites enable long-distance communication by transmitting data, television, and internet services. Without them, global broadcasting and real-time communication in remote areas would be impossible.

Navigation: Systems like GPS help millions of people navigate in real-time. They are also vital for the functioning of aviation, maritime travel, and even agricultural practices.

Earth Observation: Satellites provide high-resolution imagery of Earth, helping with disaster management, urban planning, agriculture, and environmental monitoring. For instance, they can track deforestation or observe glaciers' melting rates.

Weather Forecasting: Weather satellites provide the data needed for accurate predictions, storm tracking, and climate monitoring. This information is critical for preparing for natural disasters like hurricanes or floods.

Scientific Research and Exploration: Space telescopes and interplanetary satellites gather data on space phenomena, expanding our understanding of the universe. Satellites also conduct scientific experiments in the microgravity of space.

Defense and Security: Satellites are used for military surveillance, early-warning systems, and missile detection, playing a crucial role in national security.

Satellite Highlights in Brief:

Types of orbits: LEO, MEO, GEO, HEO, each serving different purposes.

Tracking methods: Radar, GPS, optical tracking, and space surveillance networks.

Data tracked by satellites: Weather, Earth observation, navigation signals, space exploration, and military surveillance.

Number of active satellites: Approximately 8,000.

Key roles: Communication, navigation, weather forecasting, Earth observation, scientific research, and defense.

In conclusion, satellites are essential tools for global communication, navigation, monitoring Earth's environment, and scientific discovery. As technology advances and the number of satellites continues to grow, their impact on our daily lives will only increase. Whether improving how we predict the weather, navigate through traffic, or explore the universe, satellites will continue to be a critical resource for humanity.

Go To How Satellites Work and What They Track

[nitefise-art]

only in the next world.

[ltwilliammowett]

Die Mimik der Tethys (The Expressions of Tethys) is a high sea buoy (last was in Pinacoteca Agnelli, Turin, 2024), that is suspended in space and moves synchronously to another buoy in the Atlantic Ocean near Nantes. Continuously transmitting motion data via satellite to its relocated double, the information guides eight electric motors and cable winches, which precisely reproduce the buoy's movement in the ocean. The buoy functions as a hypnotising machine that inevitably leads to the idea of waves lapping around inside the exhibition space, creating an ocean in the minds of people.

Video source

Art by Julius von Bismarck

Idea sent by @macfanatic, thanks for it <3

[apocalymons]

SATTY'S SHIT SOCIAL SKILLS ARE CONTAGIOUS OML

-sky

[paeinovis]

Uhoh guess who's developing a fixation on dead/zombie satellites

[tokoyamisstuff]

omg I definetly need more about the Invincible variants if you may!!

Second Chance At Love Pt. 2

After -> this <- silly lil' adorable idea by @rainydaygotham (but I made Reader a civilian instead).

Variant! Invincible x gn! Reader

Warnings: stockholm-syndrome, mentions of death, angst, (fabricated) tragic backstory, canon divergence, not proofread

A/N: whew, I never imagined you people would enjoy it this much. thanks for all the feedback, it really means the world to me! 💌🐞

"Our satellites found the missing variant, Sir."

"And what?" Cecil unintentionally stared daggers towards Donald, probably due to the stress and the fact that both of them had given their everything those past 32 hours. "Spit it out, damn it!"

Even through the reflection of his glasses Donald's mannerism were an open book for the head of the GDA, and right now he acted like he always did when he was unsure how to deliver troublesome information to his boss.

But this time it wasn't particulary bad news that made him hesistant, but the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"He-he is...with an old friend of our Mark, and...currently not attacking anyone."

The elder man rubbed his temples, lack of sleep being a steady companion in this profession but damn his advancing age sure made it harder to function properly.

"I want him on screen immediately!" he commanded harshly, voice not even slightly hinting the extent of his exhaustion.

This one apparently is more clever than the original Mark if he was able to slip past their organization's surveilance, Cecil concluded as the spitting image of his involuntary ally popped up on the monitor.

The young Viltrumite perfectly blended in with the crowd, sitting in a tiny suburban cafè far away from all the chaos. On the opposite end of the coffee table were you - not an unknown face to the GDA solely because of your affiliation with the world's strongest hero.

Cecil worked his jaw in irritation at the unfitting piece to this mess of a puzzle he was expected to solve. No way one of them came here merely to catch up with an old acquaintace...

...and yet for now, there were more urgent matters that he was needed to tend to first.

"Keep an eye on them and report shall he do anything out of the ordinary." As if this right now wasn't enough. "As long as he's preoccupied we have one less monster to worry about...for now."

Meanwhile you were sitting in front of your still untouched drink, watching your reflection on the liquid surface.

There was a radio running in the background, almost constantly updating you about how the other variants were still wreaking havoc everywhere, laying waste to the world as you knew it while you were trapped here acting as if it's a normal fucking tuesday.

You really shouldnt't be playing all domestic with a man that's just as much of a villain as his alternate selves currently on the run, and yet you keep reminding yourself that the only reason you're still alive is the uncertain benevolence of that very same person.

Trying to convince him to see the error of his ways or maybe even switch sides was out of the question - this Mark, just as the other sociopaths you saw in the news, has totally lost it a long time ago. You should be glad that he currently entertains himself with this little obsession of his, but that's no guarantee he couldn't snap and reduce you to a bloodied pulp any time.

And still, even though you have no other choice, it felt so terribly wrong to have a date - that felt more like a hostage situation - during an international emergency of apocalyptic scale.

Starting to feel sick as reality of your predicament dawned on you once again, you shoved the cup to aside, bracing yourself to interact with your kidnapper that hasn't initiated anything by himself until now.

Invincible on the other hand had destroyed Levi's orb long before finding you, never having disclosed his true intentions of joining this war. Also, with all the damage he's done the other 19 versions of himself would be sufficient, surely their 'boss' wouldn't care if one went astray from the plan. Not that he ever trusted Angstrom to not stab him in the back at some point, so who cares.

Back in the day you always had some spare clothes for this world's Mark in your room, in case he needed them - which was frankly quite often as they tend to get either torn or bloody from spontaneous fights. Maybe it was the sentimental value that made you keep them long after your friendship had ended, but right now they came in handy.

The other Mark nervously picks and tugs on the fabric, not used to wear civilian clothing after what felt like an eternity. It made him feel incredibly vulnerable to present himself this way. For years his costume had served as a barrier between himself and humanity, a symbol that the person he once was had long since ceased to exist so his Viltrumite side could rise.

Still, those familiar clothes, especially since given to him by you of all people, offered a strange comfort all the same.

At least he looked remotely normal like this, but god this man can be awkward at times. Some things really never change, even across different dimensions. Right now he was a perfect picture of misery, looking at you expectantly like a lost puppy that had just been kicked. Almost adorable, if you shun out the circumstances.

An uninvolved stranger would never believe that this is the villain who reduced entire cities to ashes just a few hours ago.

"So" you finally dare speaking up, casually leaning back in your seat as you take a sip of your already ice cold drink."I take it you're not a Seance Dog fan anymore?"

Noticing the bright logo on his shirt, Invincible actually managed to crack a smile - that trademark lopsided smirk of his that seemed more like a snarl now that you saw it after all this time. "Oh, you'd be shocked: The author is actually one of the few people I deliberately kept alive."

He's right, you are shocked not only with the answer, but the delivery as well. Suddenly you regret having pried in the first place. "Just a joke" he adds as soon as he sees the slightest shift of your expression, clutching the edge of the tabletop in frustration until it left a dent of his handprint.

You don't want to laugh. This isn't even remotely funny, and his reaction was awfully concerning as well. And yet you force yourself to snort, nails digging into your palm in an attempt to keep up the facade. "Glad to know you're as much of a weirdo as the original one."

It amazed yourself how calm and collected you could act, despite being as terrified of him as in the very beginning. Maybe you got used to the feeling already, or you had discovered a hidden talent of working well under pressure. May apply for a job at the GDA if you're ever alive and free again.

For the remaining duration of this afternoon, the two of you exchanged trivial stories about the past with your respective counterparts, many of whom were shared experiences. And as much as you tried to deny it, deep down you were aware you enjoyed this conversation more than you should.

There were only mild differences between your two dimensions as it seemed - at least when it came to your friendship, that was.

Invincible was pretty secretive about anything else really, but judging from the bits he threw in between you deduced he got his abilities way earlier than your Mark, which caused his father to never lose track of his original goal.

Occasionally Mark would state contradictionary opinions and you were sure most of it was just him mindlessly repeating the indoctrination his father had hammered into his head through inhumane methods.

You can only imagine what it meant for a gentle, sensitive soul like Mark to be subjected to a Viltrumite upbringing.

The sun was already starting to set when you were scooped up once again, however this time around you weren't afraid of the height in the slightest. You felt his chin resting atop of your head as he carried you through the sky, holding you firmly but carefully like you were a precious porcellain doll - and compared to his strenght you might as well be.

Yet all you could think of was the beauty of the twilight sky, and how oddly content you felt at that very moment.

Your date had promised to bring you to a secret location with a breathtaking view, and he really did not disappoint. It was in the midst of nature, absent of any human intervention. Just the two of you, surrounded by the sounds of the earth and the sight of the most horrible day in history of mankind slowly coming to an end.

Invincible spread his jacket out for you to sit on, and you secretly appreciated the gesture. A murderer, but also a gentleman, you mentally noted. Ironic. He slumped down on the damp grass an appropriate distance away from you, subconsciously starting to rip out some leaves.

You lean your head against his shoulder and he freezes in his tracks at the unexpected display of affection - or at least he hopes it's the absence of fear. For a long while you remain like this, admiring the view and each other's closeness, until you disturb the comfortable silence.

"How did you..." You hesitated for a moment, but then you met his eyes, so completely and utterly filled with genuine affection that caused something to blossom beneath your ribcage which you didn't want to acknowledge.

Even though you were still wary of him, it was hard to stay objective in the proximity of a literal carbon copy of the love of your life in nearly every single way.

"...how did you become like this?"

There was a long pause between your question and his answer.

"I got my powers shortly before my 13th birthday..." In hindsight, after having met the other variants who got them even earlier, it could've been worse. At least he was granted a few good years. "...and from then on, everything suddenly changed. My mom had an 'accident', so my dad was left to raise me on his own. It was-"

Mark's voice cracked, eyes glossed with unshed tears he was long since taught to repress as they were a sign of weakness. "The only times I felt truly happy was when I sneaked out to see you...I think for a long time those visits were what kept me sane. But nothing went past him..."

He balled a fist in the fabric over his sternum, and there was so much agony in his tone that it made your own heart clench painfully. "Dad- no, he's not a father. Never was. Anyways, Nolan tolerated it for a while, thinking I'd outgrow this sentiment and understand humans are beneath us. But when I turned 18..."

A tidal wave of shame and guilt washed over him, making him unable to bear looking at you as he continued his story. "He made me watch...I should've done something, I should've defended you, but...I was so scared of him. I just stood there when he snapped your neck."

The disclosure of the other's fate ultimately caused the panic attack that was seething inside of you ever since your first encounter with this variant to finally unravel. You frantically tug on your collar as you began to hyperventillate, feeling as if it was actually your neck that was being assaulted.

"Don't worry, I took care of it..." Invincible still had his face buried in his hands, and there was an eerie coldness in the following statement. "It took me a while, but I got stronger just to avenge you...ripped his sorry excuse of a heart right out of his fucking chest."

That's hardly a solace for either of you, isn't it.

Mark looks down at his palms as vivid images of his past crimes creep up on his mind, accompanied by a neurotic laughter that could only be described as absolutely broken...

...until you cup his hands with yours, the gesture conveying emotions you would never be able to put into words.

"Everything felt so pointless after you were gone..." he snivels, not resisting as you couldn't help but tug his head towards your lap. "You have no idea what emptiness you left behind...at some point I started doing unspeakable things just in order to feel something, anything to distract myself from the grief..."

You hum in between choked sobs, weeping for this lost soul as you rake your fingers through his hair, listening to him repeat countless apologies. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry...I should've just flown into the sun...I should've been stronger, better...I didn't want to become cruel...I wanted to be good...for you..."

What were you even doing here? Have you lost your mind?! Snap out of it, this is insane!

"Shh...it's enough. Stop tormenting yourself." No. He deserves far worse. Victim of circumstance or not, this man is beyond saving.

"Accompany me to my homeworld. Let me indulge you the way you deserve. Never leave me again" was what he desperately wanted to say, but instead he gulped harshly around the lump forming in his throat before announcing "I'll take you back home soon...phase one of Angstrom's plan is over, the variants will leave and you're safe again."

"Huh? I thought-"

"Drop the performance" he ordered as he fought to regain his composure. "You can speak freely. I meant what I said, I won't hurt you. Even if you hate me, even if you hurl all kinds of insults and accusations at me...I can take it. I'm just grateful for today. I'll cherish this memory forever."

Yes. This was more than he could possibly ask for. He already destroyed the life of your counterpart in his world, it's not fair of him to do the same to someone so precious twice.

Mark doesn't care what happens to him from now on, because thanks to you he was able to make peace with what happened.

"Come." He jolts up as he wipes his tear-stained cheeks clean, not biding you another look as he fears that otherwise he won't be able to pull through with his good intentions. "It's getting cold, we should-"

"No!"

Out of a whim you tackle hug the Viltrumite, who is caught off guard enough to stagger and fall. You softly punch against his chest and he allows you to let it all out, though he has no idea what you're on about.

"You-you're not like those other variants of Mark...please..." Your bottom lip is trembling as you speak, voice wavering with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher yourself. "Don't leave. If you have nothing to live for in your timeline, then...just stay in this one."

"And then what? Go to the Pentagon and say 'hi, I'm one of the Invincibles that ruined simply everything, but now I'd like to stay here'? They'll never believe that I don't have an ulterior motive!"

"So what? It's not like they can contain or even scratch you. And even if they could, I-I'll make sure to visit you every day!" You giggle like an infatuated teenager as you add that last sentence, and even a maniac like him realizes you must've lost your mind.

God, this is all his fault...

"What are you even talking about?" he almost yells, now on top of you and softly grabbing your shoulders to shake you ever so slightly. "Why are you trying to convince me? That can't seriously be what you want!"

"I-I...don't know." You're staring straight at him now, a stubborn determination in your eyes that almost frightens this unstoppable man. Wrapping your arms around his neck to make your foreheads touch, you whisper "All I'm sure of is that you didn't deserve any of this, and maybe...shit, just give us some time to figure it out, would you?"

Mark's hands were hovering over your body, giving it his best to hold back yet it was a lost battle before it even started. He utters vile curses under his breath before finally crushing you flush against his body, lips brushing against yours as if to ask for permission. You're quick to take the initiative, tossing all reason overboard as you give in to this all-consuming madness some might call hope...

...but just when you were about to pull him in for a long overdue kiss, the man that was straddling your waist mere seconds ago had disappeared in the blink of an eye.

The soundwave reached your ears much later than the actual impact, and much to your shock, when you saw not one but two Invincibles - yours having been knocked into a nearby rock formation - you immediately understood what it meant.

"Mark, wait!" you screamed, but your plea went on deaf ears.

After everything your world's Invincible had to endure those past few days, he wasn't even slightly in an amenable constitution. The only thing he was able to feel at this moment was rage, and he needed to direct it to something or otherwise he'd burst.

Sadly the next best target of his fury was the variant right in front of him - a man who not only attacked his homeplanet, but tried to violate someone he once held dear.

Mark will make him pay for trying to harm you.

"C'mon, stand up. Right now all I want to do is hit something...as hard as I can."

[Next Part]

[thepinkpanther83]

Reader is sitting at the hellfire club table in the cafeteria when Eddie approaches with the intentions to make reader flustered but it backfires.

Please and thank you 😊

Error 404: Smoothness Not Found

One-Shot Request: “Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Huge thanks to @meankenna for sending in this funny and adorable prompt, I had fun imagining Eddie getting absolutely wrecked by a smooth, unbothered Reader. You’re keeping the Hellfire chaos alive and I love ya for it. 💖 Hope this flirty lil romp makes you smile! 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

🎸 Summary: Eddie Munson doesn’t get nervous. He’s a Dungeon Master, a guitar god, a champion of cafeteria theatrics.

But when he sets out to fluster a cool, calm outsider at the Hellfire table with one of his classic lines, he gets hit with something he didn’t expect: his own game, turned on him.

A one-shot full of sharp banter, unexpected sparks, and the kind of lunchroom showdown that might just lead to love.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”

The cafeteria was its usual midday jungle, linoleum floors sticky with mystery stains, the air thick with teenage body spray and tater tots, and the low roar of adolescent chaos echoing off the walls. But over in the far-left corner, where the Hellfire Club had permanently claimed their domain, the chaos took on a distinctly nerdy flavor.

Dustin was in full meltdown mode.

“I’m telling you, Jeff, if my d20 mysteriously lands on a one again, I’m invoking dice tampering and demanding a re-roll.”

“On what grounds?” Jeff snorted, clutching his carton of chocolate milk like it was a rare artifact. “Your own bad luck isn’t a war crime, Henderson.”

Mike chimed in with a muttered, “You’re just mad your rogue keeps falling in love with NPCs,” while Gareth and Grant broke into a cackling duet, drumming out the Jaws theme on their trays.

Amid the storm of mockery and snacks, you sat calmly at the edge of the table, a quiet satellite in the Hellfire galaxy. You weren’t a member, but you’d been absorbed into the gravitational pull somehow, maybe through mutual classes, or shared disdain for cafeteria food. Either way, no one questioned your presence anymore. You didn’t play D&D, but you definitely watched it like a sociologist. Or a cat observing a very lively fish tank.

You balanced a crossword puzzle on one knee, methodically chewing through baby carrots and ignoring the shrieking over critical failures. Your pencil tapped a rhythm against the paper as you searched for a six-letter word meaning charming but doomed. You smirked to yourself. The answer was probably Munson.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

The cafeteria doors banged open like the prelude to a boss battle, and there he was, Eddie Munson, leather-jacketed menace, King of the Freaks, and current front-runner in your personal list of “People Who Flirt Like It’s a Performance Art.”

You didn’t even have to look up to know he’d clocked you. You could feel it, that strange static charge that always rolled in with him like thunder before a storm. Somewhere between his combat boots and his wild mop of curls, the man managed to manufacture drama like it was a bodily function.

And judging by the slow curl of his smirk, he was already planning an ambush.

Eddie didn’t walk. He made an entrance.

Combat boots hit tile like a drumline. His rings clicked with every exaggerated gesture, like punctuation marks to an invisible sentence. The cafeteria didn’t look up, most of them had learned to just let Eddie Munson exist in his own dimension, but the Hellfire table definitely noticed.

Grant leaned toward Gareth with a muttered, “He’s got that look again.”

“Uh-oh,” Gareth whispered, catching the target of Eddie’s laser-focused attention. “Incoming flirt assault.”

You didn’t flinch. Pencil still in hand, you marked another square on your crossword as Eddie approached like a lion on a catwalk.

He came to a dramatic halt just beside you, resting one hand on the back of your chair and the other over his heart like he was preparing to recite Shakespeare.

His voice dropped into that low, faux-sultry register he used when he was laying it on way too thick.

“So, how’s the prettiest person in the world doing today?”

You didn’t even blink.

From across the table, Dustin made a noise like someone stepping on a wet clarinet. “Oh god,” he groaned, slapping his forehead. “Here he goes again.”

Mike muttered, “Please crash and burn,” under his breath like a spell, while Jeff and Grant leaned forward in quiet anticipation.

The table was holding its collective breath. But you? You were still calm. Unbothered. Pencil still tapping gently against your knee.

Cool as a cucumber in the middle of a microwave, you finally glanced up, lazily. Sipped your drink. Eyebrows lifted just a touch. Expression unreadable, and said flatly-

“I don’t know. How are you?”

It hit him like a crit to the chest.

Record scratch. System failure. Reboot error.

Eddie.exe had stopped responding.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Mouth parted like a Windows update was about to install. His brain buffer wheel was visibly spinning behind those wide brown eyes. For one glorious moment, the man was entirely speechless.

And the table?

Dead silent.

Even Dustin was in awe.

Eddie’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

The confidence? Gone. Swagger? Missing in action. Leather jacket? Still fabulous, but definitely not helping him now.

He cleared his throat once, then again, like he could cough the embarrassment out of his lungs.

“I’m…”

He tried again. Voice pitched slightly higher, cracked on the last syllable like an untrained choirboy.

“I’m fine.”

And just like that, the illusion shattered.

Grant choked on his apple slice.

Gareth slapped both hands on the table like he was witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god. He short-circuited.”

Dustin leaned across the table with gleeful menace. “Are you blushing, dude? Did we just watch Eddie ‘Nothing Phases Me’ Munson malfunction over a one-liner?”

“Mark the date,” Mike added, eyes wide, like he was witnessing history. “We just witnessed the fall of a legend.”

Eddie raised both middle fingers without breaking eye contact with you, the picture of performative defiance… except for the faint pink flush creeping up his cheeks, giving him away entirely.

You just sipped your drink again, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly.

You were enjoying this. Too much.

And Eddie knew it.

He was in trouble.

You watched him flounder, savoring every second of it like the first sip of something fizzy and dangerous. Eddie Munson, master of theatrics, king of the underdogs, flirt extraordinaire, was currently melting like a record left too close to a heater.

And he knew it.

Finally, after dragging the silence out just long enough to make him squirm, you tilted your head and really looked at him, slow, deliberate, eyes scanning from his tangled curls to the panicked gleam in his eyes.

Then, you smiled.

Not wide. Not dramatic.

Just the faintest upward tug at the corner of your lips, small, sharp, smug.

“Gotcha,” that smirk said without needing a word.

Eddie visibly twitched. He’d been bested. Checkmated. Absolutely wrecked.

And the worst part?

He liked it.

Your pencil returned to your crossword, but before you started filling in the next clue, you shifted slightly, nudging your tray to the side with just enough space to make the invitation obvious.

“You gonna sit or just hover there short-circuiting?”

He blinked. You watched the moment his brain reconnected with his body.

“Y-Yeah,” he muttered, trying to inject some cool back into his voice and absolutely failing. “I can… yeah.”

He slid into the seat beside you like it was his idea, like he wasn’t internally screaming, like this wasn’t the first time someone had flipped his game upside down and laughed about it.

Grant gave him a slow clap. Dustin made the international L hand sign for “Loser.” Mike stage-whispered, “He’s already down bad.”

But Eddie barely heard them.

Because now he was sitting next to you, and you were still smirking.

And he had no idea what you were going to do next.

But suddenly…

He really, really wanted to find out.

The moment Eddie sat down, you went right back to your crossword like he hadn’t just face-planted into a flirt trap of his own making. But there was a smug, satisfied ease to your posture now, and it was driving him insane in the best way.

Eddie leaned in a little, elbows on the table, trying to recover some semblance of control. “So…” he started, flashing his signature grin, though it wobbled at the edges now, like his pride had a dent in it. “You always this dangerous during lunch?”

Without looking up, you replied dryly:

“Only when provoked.”

That grin faltered again. He pushed on anyway.

“Gotta say, sweetheart, you’ve got some serious nerve turning the tables on me.”

You circled a clue. “Was that your A-game just now? Because if it was…” You finally met his eyes, head tilting.

“Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Grant wheezed. Dustin slammed his tray in approval. “SOMEONE GIVE HER A TROPHY.”

Eddie put a hand to his chest like he’d been struck. “Ouch. I come over here offering my heart, and maybe a little of my lunch money, and I get roasted like a damn marshmallow.”

“You came over here with a pickup line you’ve probably used on half the marching band.”

He gasped. “Now that’s just… okay, that’s fair.”

You turned to face him more fully, one leg crossing over the other. “Don’t take it too hard, Munson. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

For a moment, Eddie just stared. Like that one sentence had detonated whatever was left of his dignity.

“I… uh-”

He blinked rapidly. “See, now that’s just cruel. You can’t just casually say something like that. I’m emotionally fragile.”

You smirked again. “Yeah? You seem really delicate.”

“Emotionally, not physically!” he said, flailing slightly. “I’m tough. I headbang. I do mosh pits.”

“You cried during The Last Unicorn, Eddie.”

“Dustin promised he wouldn’t tell anyone that!”

“Oh, he didn’t,” you said, quirking a brow. “You did. Last week when you got drunk. Very dramatically.”

Dustin nodded solemnly. “You reenacted the scene with full narration.”

Eddie sagged into the table. “This is bullying.”

You nudged his elbow with yours. “No. This is flirting. Try to keep up.”

His head shot up, eyes wide.

Oh yeah, he was so down bad.

The banter didn’t stop, it just evolved. Sharper, brighter, like the two of you were passing jokes back and forth faster than the Hellfire boys could keep up. Eddie was grinning so hard it looked like it hurt. You were still smirking, but now there was a glint in your eyes, something softer, warmer.

It wasn’t a competition anymore.

It was a rhythm.

You reached for your juice box just as Eddie leaned over to grab a napkin, your fingers brushed.

Not full-on hand-holding. Just the tips. Just enough for his breath to catch.

And his heart? Yeah. That thing skipped like a scratched tape.

You didn’t flinch. But your eyes flicked up, met his. The faintest pulse, electric, unspoken.

He recovered fast, tossing you a wink. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cop a feel.”

“Eddie,” you said flatly, “your finger grazed mine. Settle down before you need a cigarette.”

“Oof. Brutal,” he grinned, tilting his head. “I’m just trying to build some romantic tension here. Let me live.”

“I’m still recovering from the Last Unicorn thing,” you teased, just as Eddie picked up Gareth’s half-finished can of grape soda for no reason at all.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was laughing too hard.

It came out of him in a loud, sudden honk bark, surprised and delighted by you. He threw his head back and bumped the can with the edge of his palm, sending purple fizz skittering across the table and directly into Jeff’s lap.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Jeff: “Dude.”

Eddie froze mid-cackle, still grinning like an idiot. “Oh my god. I swear that wasn’t planned.”

“I just washed these jeans!” Jeff wailed, jumping up.

But you were laughing now too.

Really laughing.

Head back, lips parted, one hand over your stomach. It hit you in a wave, sudden and genuine, the way good moments always do when you least expect them. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It was just… joy.

And Eddie looked at you like someone had just turned the sun on.

For all the chaos, for all the fizzy embarrassment, he couldn’t stop staring.

“There it is,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

You glanced over, catching the look. “There what is?”

He blinked. Smile crooked. “Nothing. Just… I win.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure you do, soda assassin.”

But your knee bumped against his under the table and neither of you moved away.

The table was still buzzing with secondhand embarrassment and grape soda residue, but Eddie had stopped noticing everything around him.

He was fully zeroed in on you now, watching the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the way you kept nudging him like the two of you had done this a thousand times before. Like it was natural.

You teased him again about the soda, something about “friendly fire” and “reckless endangerment of cafeteria fashion,” and he just grinned, all teeth and dimples and overwhelmed brain cells.

And then-

“Oh my god,” Dustin groaned loudly. “You’re literally drooling. Just ask her out already.”

Eddie choked.

Mike, who hadn’t looked up from his peanut butter sandwich in minutes, casually added, “Seriously. You’re embarrassing yourself and the dice gods.”

Eddie whipped his head around, eyes wide, face flaming. “I am not drooling!”

Dustin raised his brows. “Your mouth’s open. You keep staring. You just spilled a drink because she laughed. That’s a rom-com trifecta, man.”

Eddie looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth out of sheer panic.

You, meanwhile, turned toward him slowly, resting your chin in your hand, eyes twinkling with dangerous amusement.

“Is that true?” you asked, voice light. “You planning to ask me out?”

The whole table went still.

Gareth’s spoon halfway to his mouth. Jeff frozen mid-blotting his jeans. Even Grant paused mid-sip of whatever mystery fluid he’d found in the vending machine.

Eddie swallowed hard.

You tilted your head. Not pushing. Not teasing this time.

Just… curious.

And flirtatious as hell.

Eddie’s mouth opened. Then closed. Like he was loading a save file from deep within his soul.

He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and, miraculously, dialed it down. Just a notch. Enough that the swagger melted into something real beneath the surface noise. Less Dungeon Master, more Eddie.

“So hey,” he said, rubbing his palms against his jeans like he wasn’t sweating bullets, “if you’re not busy Friday night…”

You raised a brow, waiting. Dangerous glint back in your eyes.

“Wanna grab a burger and shake with me or something? Nothing fancy. Just... you and me. Maybe I don’t trip over anything or knock drinks over this time.”

The table leaned in as one collective being, holding its breath.

You let the silence stretch, just long enough to make him squirm. Not cruelly. Just a moment of power. Of play.

And then, with the faintest smile tugging at your lips:

“Only if you promise not to start with another cheesy line.”

Eddie exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. Grin spreading again, lopsided and a little dazed.

“No promises,” he said, “but I’ll try my best.”

From across the table, Gareth let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “God, finally. I was about to start drawing hearts around your names on my character sheet.”

Dustin fist-pumped. “Hellfire matchmaking is real.”

You turned to Eddie one last time, eyes warm now, no teasing, just interested.

“Pick me up at seven, Munson.”

And just like that, you turned back to your crossword. Calm. Casual. Still in control.

Eddie sat there stunned for a second, watching you like you’d just cast a spell he didn’t know how to break.

“Holy shit,” he whispered to no one in particular.

“Did that just work?”

The moment you agreed to the date, all hell broke loose.

“WOOOOOO!” Dustin shot up from his seat like a firework. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Gareth banged a plastic fork against his tray like it was a gong. “Get it, Munson!”

Mike, ever the realist, just shook his head with a smirk. “She’s way out of your league, man.”

Jeff added dryly, “I think she just asked you out, technically.”

Eddie threw his hands in the air. “Okay, okay, calm down, you gremlins! You’re embarrassing me in front of my date.”

Dustin grinned. “You embarrassed yourself, dude. We’re just the backup dancers.”

You stood up slowly, collecting your tray with easy grace, as if you hadn’t just turned Eddie Munson into a walking heart-eye emoji in front of half the cafeteria.

As you passed behind him, you casually reached out, fingers threading through a few curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly, just enough to make him sit up straighter.

Your hand drifted forward, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw with the softest tease of a caress.

“See you at seven, Eddie.”

And just like that, you walked away, cool, unbothered, radiant.

Eddie was left blinking at the air you left behind, looking like he’d just astral projected. He turned slowly back to the table, eyes wide and slightly unfocused.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

“Did that really just happen?” He looked around. “You guys saw that, right?”

Dustin patted his shoulder solemnly. “We saw, buddy. We all saw.”

Gareth nodded. “You okay? You look like you got hit with a charm spell.”

Eddie just stared into the distance, a soft, stunned smile curling on his lips.

“I think I’m in love.”

Part Two Follow Up: "Error 404: First Date Loading"

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially

Masterlist

[frownyalfred]

Fic idea: Ra’s al Ghul grows tired of waiting for Bruce Wayne to come back to his service in the League of Assassins after spurring his offer ten years ago at the end of his training. He can no longer function as the Demon’s Head due to repeated exposure to the Lazarus Pits, and Talia cannot take his place. Ra’s travels to Gotham with his closest shadows/guards, desperate to make a deal. He corners Bruce Wayne as his famed Bat on a rooftop and gives him an ultimatum: one year of service, one year as the Demon’s Head in his place, and Ra’s will spare his city and family.

Bruce, as Batman, prepares to fight the League shadows and Ra’s, defending his beloved Gotham, until Ra’s adds that amid the carnage and confusion of their resulting fight, he will take a son — any son — and force them to the Demon’s Head in Bruce’s stead. Even the Bat cannot run forever, not from the League. Their existence has always been in passive recognition of the other; fighting will draw heavy losses on both sides.

And so, recalling his own days of training under Ra’s and the horror that await, Bruce agrees. He swears to service for one year, and one year only; no more, no less. No killing. Ra’s tells him his moral code may outlast all of them.

Bruce returns with Ra’s and Talia, faking his death for his family to discover. He hides the traces of League activity and follows them back to Nanda Parbat, where he had trained ten years before. As he embraces his year as the Demon’s Head, certain strained seams begin to appear. Ra’s is dying, and will not return to service in a year. There is no clear successor after Bruce. Killing is “off the table” when he meets with his advisors, but everyone gives him an amused, indulgent look when he mentions it. Talia is not interested in him romantically or sexually, but he gets the impression the word soon is floating around somewhere in her mind.

Soon comes around quickly into his tenure and new life. Ra’s orders him bathed in the Lazarus Pits one night. It takes sixteen League shadows to wrestle him into the water. Once submerged, he sinks without knowing how, all the way down. In the waters, he realizes that the Pits remember everything. This cave system knew Ra’s, it held Jason, and it drowned and changed dozens of powerful men over the years. The waters know, and he knows. He sinks past the shallow cove of Jason’s trauma, so blotted out that he cannot remember the Pit at all; he sinks down into Ra’s life, at the very bottom, and it becomes him. He becomes it. There is no line between them down here, where knowledge simply is.

The man who emerges from the Pits is not Bruce Wayne, not entirely. But it is the man he would have been, had he agreed to LoA service all those years ago. He is sharp and uncompromising. He is the Bat without his code, without his guardrails or rules. He is everything the Demon Head had lost, in the last few centuries of existence. He glows with a dark fire so bright, it sucks away the light from every other source in the room. He is dressed in dark, simple armor and black robes that call back to his former life. His face is bare. His eyes are a bright, all-knowing green.

Our fic picks up after this Demon’s Head comes into his own destiny and power. Told from the perspective of the children Bruce Wayne left behind, who find themselves chasing a shadowy figure around the world with the help of the Justice League. The new Demon’s Head is causing problems for everyone, and things have changed at the global level under his mysterious hand — so why does it feel like the Batkids know him?

It all comes to a head (heh) when the Justice League arrest the Demon’s Head and bring him up to the Watchtower. Only for him to be unmasked as Bruce Wayne, a dead man walking, an unfulfilled legacy, the person who built the very satellite under their feet in another life. Batman himself, with glowing green eyes and a Father’s face. Gone, but remade again. All in service of something greater than one man.

[keferon]

Odds of Survival Part 4

Jazz thinks he’s starting to figure stuff out and finds entirely new ways to concern Prowl.

———————————————————————

The flashing visual feedback from the cracked visor felt like his brain was being used for target practice by a middle schooler with a BB gun and the school just canceled pizza day forever.

Jazz was feeling pretty grateful to Prowl right now. Between the glitching visual feed and the misshapen state of his feet, Jazz wasn’t totally confident he could get into the mecha cradle on his own.

At least not without stumbling around like he was completely plastered and trying to decipher a fancy ass hotels space age shower controls.

Seriously, seven different knobs and a touch screen.

Blurr. Dude. Why.

As Prowl walked him through the outpost, Jazz continually got snapshots of his surroundings. Doorway, hallway, door again, room. Another mecha was inside.

At a glance, they looked like the same class type as Prowl. Face, wing thingy’s, and wheels. All the same but with a slightly different color scheme of red and grey.

Jazz was slowly working out what class of mecha they were supposed to be. They couldn’t be Striker class. Not with attachments Prowl straight up specified were delicate.

What even were they? They weren’t thrusters. The wings took the place of where car doors were on a regular car. Which, holy shit, Prowls mecha can turn into a fucking car.

Prowl also flexed and twitched them around a bunch, kinda like how Jazz used his horns to emote. Not that Prowl needed wings to emote because holy FUCK that face. It had micro expressions!!

Okay. Prowl had three things that were cool as fuck going on. An expressive face, delicate wings and the ability to turn into a (fucking) car.

What does that mean? Why would someone build a mecha like that?

Ever since Jazz got spat out by the wormhole and woke up surrounded by aliens, he’s felt like his brain has been slowly circling the drain of a sink. There was some missing piece to all of this that he could feel himself just skirting by over and over again.

Oh fuck right. The other aliens. There was alien life other than tentacle monsters out there. They were dicks sure but at least you could share a train car without any murder attempts.

Ooooohhh. Jazz swayed backwards a little as the tilted his head back in realization. Prowl catching him.

Prowl’s mecha was built to work with other fighters in space. He clearly had a life support system to survive in a vacuum. He had a highly expressive face to help communicate with aliens. The wings must be satellites for communication. The car mode was for fast tracking across planet surfaces. Prowl was crazy smart, over and over again Jazz had watched him figure out exactly where they needed to go and how to get there. Of course there was a reason he was so easy to work with. It was his job.

Prowl wasn’t any kind of pre-existing class from Jazz’s mecha program. Prowl was every Strikers pipe dream that kept getting brought up and then thrown out for “not being cost effective”.

Prowl was a Support Class Mecha.

Live on the field, giving real time updates and backup.

Damn.

Whatever shadow government Prowl worked for must be insanely rich. Wonder if they’re taking applications.

Prowl unhooked Jazz’s remaining functional arm from over his shoulders. He maneuvered Jazz to sit on a bench height concrete extension from the floor.

The microphones in his horns were still working fine despite one of them sending many unhappy damage report messages.

“Sit here and don’t move.” From the glimpses Jazz could catch, Prowl looked concerned but focused. Jazz wanted to ask why they didn’t go to some kind of docking station but figured Prowl knew what was up and went along with it.

Jazz could hear the mystery mecha talking. A lot.

It was in that other language Prowl had initially tried talking to Jazz with, except speed up by a bajillion percent.

From the tone, the new mecha was asking Prowl a barrage of questions. Prowl, for his part, replied in short concise sentences or occasionally a silent glare. The other mecha didn’t seem put off by this and merrily continued talking as he lined up another shot through some kind of rail gun setup built into the slit window.

Eventually, the new mecha started directing his questions at him. Apparently stopping to breath wasn’t a thing with this guy.

Jazz did his best to shrug. “Sorry man. No idea what you’re saying.”

Prowl interceded in common, “Jazz, this is Bluestreak.” He waved in the direction of the sniper, who smiled and waved.

“Bluestreak, this is Jazz. He is only just learning Common.” Prowl turned to Bluestreak with a scolding look. “I need to focus on helping him while you focus on the remaining quintessons. Understood?”

“I got it! I got it. I can stop talking when I’m working you know.” Bluestreak nodded and turned back towards the view port, but not without calling over his shoulder, “So Jazz, my brothers face is emotion positive positive positive?”

Oh Jazz could hear the shit eating grin from the other side of the room.

“HAH!” Jazz accidentally knocked his head back against the wall and visor started glitching worse. “Eugh. Eh, worth it.”

“Both of you be quiet or I will separate you.” Prowl threatened.

Jazz, chuckled good naturally but otherwise quieted down. He watched the stop motion footage of Prowl opening some kind of crate and collecting what looked like a tube of glue, a pair of giant tweezers and some kind of mecha sized chrome-mesh duct tape.

His face was suddenly very close and Jazz did not startle. Nope. Who said that?

He felt the pressure of a hand settling on his good shoulder. Prowl was wearing that highly concentrated look again. And Jazz was so focused trying to work out what the internal mechanisms of his eyes were that he missed what Prowl was saying to him.

“Could you say that again? My…uh.”

M’kay, how to translate ‘I definitely have whiplash and maybe also sort of a Concussion’ into common. “Head function negative? Uh, too much motion. Broken but small negative?”

Yeaaaah Prowl did not seem reassured by Jazz’s attempt to downplay his condition. Which meant he nailed the translation! He was so getting at least a B+ in this language class.

Fuck his head hurt.

“I want to help you as much as I can. I am not a person-profession-help. Can I help you with what I have?” Prowl had a little furrow between his eyebrows.

“Sure, I won’t fight you.” Jazz stabilized himself best he could. The sentence must have translated weird, because Prowl looked kinda concerned before pulling out a strip of shiny duct tape.

The winged mecha paused, examining Jazz’s busted shoulder, and then doubled the length of tape.

When Prowl wrapped the mesh textured tape around and just above the breakage, something weird started happening to Jazz’s systems. The Severe Damage Warnings and big bright Error messages Jazz had been actively ignoring for the past half hour started to reduce in number. One by one they all quieted down. Checking his mechas systems, the arm was still marked as compromised, but the ai wasn’t actively screaming into his poor brain anymore.

The quiet was such an overwhelming balm Jazz audibly groaned in relief. “I owe you so, so, many drinks. What is that stuff?”

Prowl stilled, “It is-“ he paused, clearly trying to work out how to translate a complicated term into a common equivalent. “It is a kind of repair mesh. You…you don’t know what repair mesh is?”

Jazz got a snapshot of Prowl and even Bluestreak’s expressions. The sniper looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and mouth open in silent confusion. Prowl’s stare was boring into him, making Jazz squirm.

“Um. Yes? At least it’s not something I’ve ever seen before. I mean, I don’t actually need it if it’s too expensive.” Jazz turned owlishly between the two.

Jazz heard Bluestreak start to make a questioning noise before having his focus be pulled back to the winding down invasion outside. Prowl looked into the distance for a moment, then took up the tweezers. He schooled his expression like he was about to do brain surgery.

“I’m going to work on your helm and visor now. Please hold still.” Prowl placed his hand against the side of his head, stabilizing.

“M’kay. Go ahead.” And Jazz put his mecha into Maintenance Mode.

The lights inside the mecha dimmed down to a low glow. Like this, the engine dropped into an idle hum, and the mecha could only move very slowly. Jazz had to hold a position for a few seconds before anything would respond, giving plenty of time for engineers to move out of the way.

Jazz also shut off the incoming feed from the visor, since looking at a bright flashing screen was probably on the list of things you’re not supposed to do while concussed. As well as fall asleep. Or operate heavy machinery.

Two out of three ain’t bad. Call it another B+.

Jazz felt like he might be dropping a letter grade soon though. He usually associated Maintenance Mode with being bored out of his mind, but after the insane last few hour’s, the slow quiet was practically a spa session.

It didn’t hurt that Jazz could feel Prowls hand cradling the side of his head. Technically, the mechas could only sense pressure. No heat. No texture. Given a reference point though, the human brain was pretty fantastic at filling in the gaps.

It felt warm. And soft.

“Jazz?” Prowl stopped what he’d been doing.

Ah.

Jazz came back into full awareness from where he’d been drifting off. He was pressing into Prowls hand.

“Sorry, sorry.” He lethargically pulled away. How do you explain “Hey! Sorry about pushing against you like a stray cat! I’m just kinda super into piloting mecha and being held like that is kind of a novel experience.” in a completely foreign language you learned that morning?

Jazz dragged his ass back upright.

“I’m not, uh, familiar? With a hold like that. Touch-positive. Normally I only feel touch-fight or touch-medical.” Jazz meant to say touch-maintenance, but he was already rambling and for some reason the words were really similar in Common.

Prowl didn’t respond.

Jazz felt his chest tighten. “Prowl?”

“I’m here.” Prowl said quickly. There was an edge of static to his voice.

He didn’t remove his hand. “I’m still here.”

The rest of Jazz’s maintenance went by quietly. Prowl kept his hand where it was for the majority of it, only repositioning once to tilt his head back while working on the cracks of his visor.

Jazz wasn’t 100% sure why Prowl indulged him. Maybe got it? Or maybe he just thought Jazz was passing out and needed to be grounded. Okay yeah, that actually makes the most sense. Plus it was also what literally happened.

Eventually, the pilots heart finally slowed to a resting rate. Mostly. Jazz kept jerking awake.

If falling asleep with a concussion was bad, then falling asleep with a concussion while piloting a mecha would probably do very bad things to his lightly fried meatball of a brain.

He tried remembering what he could of his mandatory pilot safety course he took with Ratchet before the doctor left the program. He mostly remembered sneaking out.

It was fortunate then the pilot was just delirious enough that every time he almost conked out, the spiritual embodiment of Ratchet would scare the fuck out of him.

Thanks Ratchet.

See? I did learn something.

He heard a tarp rustling, and then his busted arm was being manipulated. Jazz brought his visor back online, pleased to see it wasn’t flashing anymore. His vision was a little distorted in the corner on the left side but he could deal with that.

When he looked around, Prowl was in the process of tying makeshift sling in place to keep his damaged bits from jostling around.

Jazz also got a good look at the emblem on his mecha’s chest. It kinda looked like an angular mecha face. Jazz didn’t recognize brand design though. Maybe he’d remember once he’d recovered from the bullshit of the day.

He was kinda too tired to think properly at the moment. That circling-the-sink-drain feeling hadn’t actually left, even with the Support Class revelation.

“That is the best I can do for now. Our ship should arrive in five breems.” Prowl hesitantly let go of Jazz.

“Thanks Prowler, you’re the best.” He wriggled now free horns at him. Incrementally, Jazz brought his systems back online, running through well practiced motions to ensure everything was working. Well, everything that was supposed to be working anyways.

He heard a raspberry being blown by Bluestreak, the mecha had his hands on his knees and he was looking from Jazz to Prowl.

“Prowler?”

Prowl frowned. “Yes?”

“Prow-ler.”

Prowl frowned harder, “I’m aware.”

Bluestreak straightened up, “Okay, you’ve delayed this long enough. I need to talk to this guy one on one. Go talk to the Big Boss and I’ll watch Jazz. Please mech. I gotta. I gotta talk to this guy or I’m going to explode. Like, where is he from? Why does he look like that? How’d he end up floating in space? What’s his native language? Does he know any other languages? Why has he never heard of Common before? Is he super young? How are the others gonna react? What are you going to say to Elita? Oh Elita says hi by the way. Or, not really, she said ‘contact me as soon as possible’ and then hung up on me. Which is fine. Oh but you should seriously respond to you-know-who first.”

Jazz was getting maybe every third word of that. Bluestreak was still going. Wow. Impressive breath control no lie.

Prowl visibly sighed, straightening his posture into something military grade. Immune to the conversation tornado.

“Jazz, I must speak with our factions leader. I will not mention you to him until you have a better understanding of our military structure and you are able to choose to engage.” Prowl kept his hands folded behind his back. The total shift in body language was jarring.

“Okay,” Jazz nodded slowly. “I’ll be here, thanks again.”

Prowl nodded curtly once before shooting a warning look at Bluestreak, and then left the room.

The loss was weird in a way Jazz couldn’t properly describe. Prowl was so easy to click with that once he was gone, Jazz remembered he was stranded in deep space surrounded by what were effectively perfect strangers.

He didn’t get to dwell on it long though, as Bluestreak sidled up to him, propping his chin on one hand.

“So! I’ll let you go first. Ask me anything and I’ll tell you all about it!”

Jazz had a lot of questions but figured he’d start with something basic to help along his language acquisition.

“What,” he poked Bluestreak in his purple badge, “Are your cuss words?”

———————————————————————

Prowl: What do you mean you are actually capable of experiencing pain?

Prowl: What do you mean you don’t know what local anesthetic is?

Prowl: What do you mean no one has ever touched you when it didn’t involve medical treatment??

Prowl: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’VE GONE THROUGH MEDICAL TREATMENT WITHOUT ANESTHETIC.

Man oh man, this is the end of this arc but there’s more I still want to write. Gonna start cataloguing and saving these as well.

-SSTP

OH MY GOD. OH NO. Oh my god

Yeah no that makes SO much sense khftugssujdsthdd. Without that one little important piece of information their understanding of each other. Oh man. It's not just bad. It's FANTASTICALLY wrong but somehow generally still in the vaguely right direction??

Like Jazz being regularly medically mistreated is kind of true BUT NOT IN THE WAY YOU THINK PROWL

And Prowl being that sweet sweet support class mecha?? FUKFDEY Y e ah.

Oh this is amazing. Oh thIS IS FUCKING GREAT SSTP I WILL DIE FOR YOU

[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

Basically, it’s discovered that to help stabilize Danielle, aka Ellie, it’d be best to have her be smaller. She refused to be turned into a kid by Frostbite/her own power ability, when Danny remembered the shrink ray his parents made. The side effect is that they’re kind of stuck as humans when they’re that small—they can use some ghost powers, but basically, it’s a weird side effect of the shrink ray. That’s canon, by the fucking way, lmao

Anyways, so Ellie agrees, and Danny will shrink himself with the ray to her size to help her out when needed/when she wants company her size, with Jazz, Sam, and Tucker occasionally helping out. Sam buys one of those really ornate Victorian dollhouses, with wooden everything, and Danny does some… renovations… so that it no longer opens and is a proper house. There’s still some oddities because it’s a dollhouse originally, but it was easier and faster to give her a home. One of the first additions was a water/wastewater system, followed like two hours later by an electrical system. Since it was so small, Danny was able to do it fairly quickly in his big size, occasionally going small and using the small window for using his powers to double check on things.

The water system had to be refilled every week, unless hooked up to a plumbing system in a house, which Danny made some outlets for in Jazz’s room—it was easier and had significantly less questions/didn’t stand out as much if placed in Jazz’s room. They usually did it every three days, though, as the plug-in process was still a bit… hinky. The tanks for holding the water were in the ‘basement’, which was mostly inaccessible from the inside of the dollhouse but basically looked like a big stand the dollhouse stayed on. Like someone ripped a full house out of the ground WITH the basement attached. There was a small access hallway down some stairs in the house for the clean water system, though.

The electric system was fairly simple, as it didn’t cost much energy to light a dollhouse and heat/cool water. There was an AC unit, Ellie’s request, but it hardly was used and was fairly efficient just due to pure size. It was fueled by ecto batteries, which Danny made sure had a few rechargability options—just because it was efficient energy didn’t mean it didn’t ever need recharging. There was a very small ecto filter, but due to its relative small size, was easy to clean and was fairly stable, so they had a whole closet of them just chilling out, both filled and empty. The battery itself could be charged by ecto sources, Danny’s own blood, or ambient ectoplasm gained by using something that looked like a solar panel and a satellite dish had a child that the batter could be placed in. The hookup also allowed for like… normal D cell batteries.

They would buy dollhouse furniture, and occasionally just buy the big version then shrink it down. Ellie had a huge old house to herself, basically, might as well go ham. And she had a fun time with the designer doll clothes Sam liked to get, although the cheap doll clothes from the store were also fun. Best option was just buying normal clothes and shrinking them, but using things that were already small or just making stuff using normal sized objects was fun.

At some point, though, the Fenton siblings decide to go on a trip. Ellie begs to be taken along, and Jazz agrees—there’s a doll showcase in Gotham, and Jazz wanted to see if anything caught Ellie’s interest. Danny, having a room in the dollhouse himself, also went along. Might as well make it a sibling’s trip, right?

Ellie can be full size for small chunks of time, which they did while exploring the expo. They found some cool things to add, and some doll clothes Ellie was far too interested in trying on, as well as some to force on Danny later. He sighed, but like—that’s his little cousin-sister, he’d put up with it. After all, he learned how to plumb an entire (miniature) house in two days when she refused to move in until it had a fully functional bathroom, so.

Anyways!

They have a fun time, and sure, lugging the relatively giant dollhouse was a PAIN, but it was Ellie’s home, and some stabilizing tech made it relatively safe to move without risking everything freaking breaking. They load everything in again, and the dollhouse is now restocked with clothes, tiny furniture, and a lot of shrunken supplies—some foods are just hard to work with full size, and are easier to shrink, okay? Also soap, paper goods, pencils and pens, books, etc. Jazz loads the thing into her car, and Danny offers to stay with Ellie in the dollhouse—so Jazz gets them in, and shrinks them down, holding onto the shrink ray in the meantime.

All is going relatively well in Gotham traffic until there’s a rogue attack.

Go figure.

Jazz ends up unconscious, and Danny and Ellie can’t do anything before the rogue is taken care of and a paramedic team comes up. They hide back in the dollhouse, listening as the medics say she seems to be okay, just unconscious. A relief, but now they’re taking Jazz away. Fenton luck states she’s one of the few actually injured. The Bat Brigade comes by, and Batman notices that there’s a wallet for one Danny Fenton. Red Robin confirms that Jazz was likely here with at least two other people, based on the ticket stubs for the expo. However, there is a strange lack of social media presence, Danny doesn’t have a photo ID, and there’s no way of knowing for SURE that it was just Danny with her, if it was just two other people, or if Danny was in the car with her. Still, as they can’t find him but DO have his sister and his wallet, they assume he might be missing, possibly kidnapped.

The Gotham PD of course take in the car, although it’s pretty trashed. Knowing well and good that the dollhouse and such things are actually quite expensive, Commissioner Gordon mentions that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Batman to maybe hold onto the Fenton’s things that *aren’t* related to the investigation.

Batman just takes everything. Including a rather peculiar looking gun that seems to have sustained some damage during the attack and car crash.

Gordon sighs. Figures.

So, Danny and Ellie end up in Wayne Manor. Most of the things end up in the Batcave, but Alfred insists that they place the doll things upstairs in the manor proper—the cave isn’t *that* damp, but doll things are small and delicate. So, upstairs they go.

At first, it’s fine. Danny and Ellie are fine in the dollhouse, and it’ll be at least a week before any of the systems NEED to be worked with.

Then Ellie ends up with a massive migraine. She gets them, on occasion, a sort of growing pain. Usually, they just shrink some medicine for her as she needs it, because she’s like—twelve. While they did have some medicine that had been pre-shrunk, when they were stocking up in Gotham, it turns out pain medicine was more expensive there. Not by much, but they figured—they’ll just stock up in Amity Park, they’ll be there in two days.

Haha. Nope.

So, Danny finally has to venture out. He lucks into finding the first aid kit—why there was one in the main living room, he’s not sure—and is currently working on trying to get open the blister packet of an ibuprofen when Alfred finds him.

Alfred stares at this tiny boy with a tiny make-shift knife trying to get into… over the counter pain medication.

Danny stares at this butler guy who had very gently cleaned the outside and noted the strange fact that the dollhouse did not open.

Danny waves at Alfred.

Alfred waves a tiny finger back.

“Hello,” Alfred says softly, which is fantastic because loud noises could get painful—part of the reason for Ellie’s headache was an argument between Tim and Damian. “How do you do?”

Danny hesitates, before he makes an exaggerated so-so gesture.

“You understand me?”

Danny nods—it’s rare for people to understand what he’s saying when he’s 5 inches tall.

“How wonderful,” Alfred smiles. “And how can I help our young guest tonight?”

Danny gestures to the blister packet.

“Pain medication? Isn’t that a little bit large for you.”

The teen thinks for a second on how to communicate. He points to the pill, then makes a slight show of pretending to grind something, like a mortar and pestle.

Thankfully, Alfred got the idea. “Would it be easier if I ground it up for you?”

Danny takes a moment to think before accepting with an enthusiastic nod.

“Very well,” Alfred says, taking the blister packet in one hand. He then hold his other out, palm up, like a platform. “Would you like to come with me?”

Danny ‘his survival instincts died when he did’ Fenton gets into Alfred’s hand.

Alfred grinds up the pill into a fine powder. Danny hands him a tiny bottle—still large in Danny’s hands, as it was not a shrunk bottle—that he had tied around his waist. Alfred fills it, and hands it back.

“I assume you came from the tiny house we have in our living room?”

Danny again nods. Alfred takes him there, setting him down outside the front door. Danny bows, and sure it’s Japanese as hell, and he’s white as all get out, but it’s a generally understood gesture of thanks. He hopes.

Alfred understands it just fine. “I bid you goodnight, then. Perhaps we will talk more, when you are feeling better?”

Danny hesitates, again, but he nods. Alfred had been nice enough, so far.

Danny heads in, quickly measuring out the medicine—shrunk pressure plates and scales and weights made what it was measuring relative—to him the weights on the hand balance scale felt the same weight. Ellie got her medicine, and they both went back to sleep.

He told her in the morning what happened. Ellie was strangely gung-ho about meeting this butler guy, and so—when no one else was around—, she and Danny went onto the tiny balcony as Alfred came in to dust.

“Oh my,” he said. “There’s two of you, now. Should I expect more?”

Both of them did an exaggerated ‘no’ dance.

“Very well, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. I’m Alfred Pennyworth, the family butler. Welcome to Wayne Manor.”

[sayruq]

The Israeli military has destroyed nearly 200,000 housing units, either completely or partially, since the start of its latest assault on the Gaza Strip following Hamas's surprise attack on October 7. Mohammad Ziyara, the Palestinian minister of public works and housing, said on Thursday the bombardment has "erased entire families from the civil registry,", as well as "neighbourhoods and residential communities". "[It] also destroyed facilities, including hospitals, places of worship, bakeries, water filling stations, markets, schools, and educational and service institutions,” Ziyara added in a statement. Home to some 2.3 million people, the Gaza Strip covers a tiny area of 365sq km (141sq miles). According to the UN's humanitarian office, at least 45 percent of all housing units in the enclave have been damaged or destroyed in the Israeli attacks. Among the areas hit the hardest have been Beit Hanoon, Beit Lahiya, Shujaiya, the neighbourhoods around the Shati refugee camp, and Abasan al-Kabira in Khan Younis. An estimated 1.4 million people in Gaza have been internally displaced due to the relentless bombardment, with some 629,000 sheltering in 150 UN-designated emergency shelters. Meanwhile, Israel's total blockade on fuel entering the enclave is seriously affecting critical functions in all hospitals, risking the lives of at least 130 premature babies in incubators, 1,000 kidney dialysis patients who have had to reduce their treatment sessions, and front-line ambulance workers who cannot access the sick when the fuel runs out. Since 2007, when Hamas came to power, Israel has maintained strict control over Gaza’s airspace and territorial waters and restricted the movement of goods and people in and out of the enclave

If you click on the article, you'll be able to see the before and after pictures of Gaza. The sheer devastation is mind boggling

[grunckle]

On stars, guardians, and Rain World’s cosmology.

One aspect of Rain World lore that’s asked about quite a lot but normally never gets satisfying answers is the topic or Rain World’s space/universe/cosmology. Despite first impressions though, there’s a lot more it than meets the eye, so I thought I would compile most everything we know about it.

For one, to get it out of the way, Rain World isn’t on a planet, and its universe is fundamentally different from our own. This is something Joar has talked about on occasion.

He also said on an earlier dev log how Rain World functions more like a fantasy world where it doesn’t hold much relevance than a real sci-fi like planet.

“Oh, another thing - Rain World isn't a planet lol Cheesy Or I guess it might probably be on a planet, just as Lord of The Rings, Sex And The City, Zelda and Frankenstein's Monster are probably technically on a planet, but just as in those examples the planet aspect isn't really relevant at all. Rain World is more of a fantasy world or a dream world, not somewhere you can go in a space ship ~”

But even if it’s not incredibly relevant, it’s clear a lot of thought was put into Rain Worlds fictional cosmology, this was even mentioned by James.

So, that being said here's what we know about Rain World's cosmology in game.

The biggest indicator of Rain World's unique cosmology is that the Farm Arrays deep pink pearl just mentions celestial spheres, which are aspects of older cosmological models.

"This one is just plain text. I will read it to you. "On regards of the (by spiritual splendor eternally graced) people of the Congregation of Never Dwindling Righteousness, we Wish to congratulate (o so thankfully) this Facility on its Loyal and Relished services, and to Offer our Hopes and Aspirations that the Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory Cooperation may continue, for as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres and/or the Cooperation continues to be Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory." ...May Not as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres Grey Hand, Impure Blood, Inheritable Corruption, Parasites, or malfunction settle in Your establishment."

More subtly, there's also a mention of the ground colliding with the sky.

"If you leave a stone on the ground, and come back some time later, it's covered in dust. This happens everywhere, and over several lifetimes of creatures such as you, the ground slowly builds upwards. So why doesn't the ground collide with the sky? Because far down, under the very very old layers of the earth, the rock is being dissolved or removed. The entity which does this is known as the Void Sea."

You could chalk this line up to flowery language, but considering the presentation of the rest of the dialogue, it sounds more like an actual aspect of this world.

We know from the Chimney Canopy echo that the sun rises.

"From within my vessel of flesh, I would perch upon this spot to observe the rising of the sun."

And from the top of The Wall we can see the moon and stars (confirmed to be stars by Joar in the previous screenshot, instead of satellites or something else) , which are green!

So, what does this all mean? I think we can entail a few things with what they've given us.

For one, the mention of the ground colliding with the sky implies some sort of firmament, which isn't an unusual concept in the general realm of celestial spheres.

But on the topic of celestial spheres, the pearl actually isn't the only place we see the concept. Guardian halos are very similar to depictions of celestial spheres, and also astrological clocks.

You can make of this as you will, perhaps the astrological references being tied to guardians could hint at the nature of karma, but there isn't much to really delve into that idea.

For what it's worth, celestial spheres are also core concepts in Gnosticism, which Rain World is heavily inspired by. I explain it more in this post about Void Worms, but for a quick synopsis in Gnosticism there are seven planetary spheres, and an eighth above them; the planets and stars are fixed to their spheres. These things just further cement the fact that celestial spheres seem to be a key aspect of Rain World's cosmology, and it would also likely imply it's universe follows a geocentric model.

For a bit of a more out-there theory, people have pointed out how the view atop the wall stretches really far, going far beyond what we could see on a spherical planet like Earth, which has led some to theorize that the world is also flat.

But what is probably the most important aspect of Rain World's cosmology is the nature of dust. Dust builds up, and the bedrock of the world is eaten away at by the Void Sea. Civilizations rise and fall into the sea as new ones are built above it. Many, including myself, believe that the world exists in a sort of state of equilibrium. The world is dissolved from the bottom, then that falls back on the world as dust; even in the final moments of the game we see dust suspended in the void sea depths.

And hey, even void worms are described as being star-like.

"Oh, interesting. This is a diary entry of a pre-Iterator era laborer during the construction of the subterranean transit system south of here. In it they describe restless nights filled with disturbing dreams, where millions glowing stars move menacingly in the distance."

Cyclical, recursive, something else entirely? We can never really pin down the true nature of Rain World's cosmology, but the things we do get hint at something strange and unique. It's such an interesting aspect of the lore, and it seems like Videocult will continue to make mysterious cosmologies in their future projects...

[themayorautumn]

yes it is AND THAT'S THE POINT!! here's my lengthy explanation i typed out some other time but it's relevant so i'm sharing it here too:

ok so. pre-martinaise harry is the definition of toxic masculinity. he's insecure as hell and keeps trying to prove to others (and himself) how super macho and cool he is. especially after being dumped by a gorgeous woman. therefore he's also "ashamed" of being bisexual. he likes vic (loves him, even) but all his public displays of affection are masked as "jokes" and playful workplace banter. he keeps the facade of confidence so perfectly that even though people joke about them being gay it's in a way that is "oh du bois is so straight, there's no way any of this is true.", which is why it doesn't bother him.

he loves how dependent vic is on him and he is possessive about it. someone hurts vic? they'll regret it immensely. someone gets too close to him? he'll de-escalate that relationship and keep jean close to him. jean is also dependent on him in a technical sense of course, being his junior/satellite officer and jumping rank so fast thanks to him, but it goes beyond that. from the outside, he's jean's protector. he's the one holding the leash.

though this isn't entirely true when they're alone. harry would never let vic take the reigns in any situation, romantic, platonic, sexual, whatever, but there is a part of him that desperately wants to. he doesn't allow himself to be vulnerable, would never be the one submitting to jean, but there are times where jean has had to comfort him sobbing on his shoulder, on his chest. where he had to force the gun out of his mouth. as protective as harry is of jean from the outside, jean protects harry when they're alone and at their worst. it gives him purpose, combined with work and working out. keep harrier alive. keep him functioning.

so it is sort of a mutual understanding, a game they play where jean lets harry be in control and in a sense he is, cause jean would never be able to leave him, no matter how horrible it got. harry takes the initiative, he kisses jean first, he fucks him, he tells him to meet up in his apartment, etc. yet a part of both of them know that it's mutual. that harry needs vic as much as he needs harry, and they perpetuate this cycle by depending on each other endlessly and never working to get better. they enable each other in the worst ways while also keeping each other alive. toxic, cursed, but it is inevitable.

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Renault Modus Concept, 1994. A prototype multi-function modular commercial vehicle that had a base cab/chassis and a series of pods that could be fitted to suit multiple services. Presented at the Paris Motor Show, it could be transitioned from a pick-up, to a van, a refrigerated van or a 6 passenger taxi. The fully glazed cabin was equipped with an early satellite navigation system, telephone and fax machine.

[buckyseternaldoll]

Stitched Into Forever

⤷ Part 1 | Part 2

Bucky Barnes x Fate-Weaver!Reader | Soulmate AU

Summary: The dream becomes real. Souls entwine, fates anchor, and in the quiet aftermath of war, Bucky finally learns the truth behind the golden thread that’s pulled him toward her all his life.

Disclaimer: 18+ content (mdni!), soft smut, emotional climax, metaphysical exploration, shared dreams, spiritual intimacy, post-conflict vulnerability, heavy aftercare, contains consensual intimacy, dream-based power use, and a strong emotional resolution to a lifelong soul-bond. Sets during and after the events of Captain America: Civil War, but follows a largely canon-divergent path

Word Count: 6,052

Author's Note: Maybe I should focus on Bucky x civilian!Reader only, from now on 🙂‍↔️ this was challenging!

One Year Later

You and Bucky had become something solid. Sacred. Official.

Everyone knew.

There was no hiding it anymore.

Not with the way he stood behind you during mission briefings, chin hooked lazily over your shoulder, metal hand spread over your stomach like a claim—casual but impossible to ignore. Not with the way you sat in his lap during long debriefs, legs curled under you, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the lines on his flesh hand while his thumb circled the soft bend of your knee.

Wanda had teased you both once, calling it “emotional osmosis.”

“You’re worse than Vision and I ever were,” she said, sipping tea like it wasn’t a warning.

Sam had begged—more than once—for you two to either soundproof your damn room or move out of the shared safehouse.

“I don’t need to wake up to surround-sound porn rattling the goddamn vents,” he muttered once over breakfast. “This is a war bunker, not a brothel.”

You and Bucky had just shared a knowing look. Then smiled. Then did it again—just to be petty.

But it wasn’t just the walls that gave you away.

It was the battlefield.

Because even now—especially now—Bucky never stopped hovering.

You could be mid-mission, half-shifted into the In-Between, guiding a thread with eyes glazed and voice low, and he’d still be there.

Always there.

Even though you’d trained to remain physically functional while weaving—able to run, shoot, speak—Bucky couldn’t shake the urge to guard you. To orbit your body like a satellite. His metal arm would block stray bullets without thinking. He’d slide in front of you to intercept danger before you even noticed it.

Once, during a blackout operation in Latvia, you’d dropped into the In-Between mid-fight—reading a splintering thread of fate that could’ve saved a hostage. Bucky had tracked your body through the chaos like a shadow, taking down six men without ever straying more than ten feet from your side.

You didn’t remember the bullet that nearly grazed your cheek.

But he did.

“I’m not taking chances,” he’d muttered later, kneeling between your thighs to check you for wounds. “Not with you.”

So it became a ritual.

Whenever you fate-wove in battle, he watched you like a fixed star—never interfering, never questioning, just anchoring. Your reality-check in a world where time bent sideways.

Because no matter how strong you became, no matter how precise your weaving was—

He refused to leave your body unguarded.

And now?

Now you had the whole damn safehouse to yourselves.

Steve and Sam were off-grid on a recon mission. Clint had gone home for a while. Wanda had politely not offered to stay.

Just you. And him.

No schedules. No alarms. No earpieces chirping about protocols or enemies inbound.

Just a wide, empty bed you didn’t have to be quiet in.

—

You were already waiting when he stepped out of the bathroom.

Hair damp, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, towel slung over his shoulder—he froze.

And the sight of you hit him like a landmine.

Not in one of his shirts.

Not wrapped in a blanket.

Not sweet and sleepy.

No.

You were standing by the foot of the bed like a vision torn from every single dream he ever had.

In navy silk.

Dark as midnight.

Shimmering in the faint spill of moonlight, clinging to your curves like a second skin.

The bodice hugged your waist and dipped at your cleavage—framed so perfectly he swore his mouth watered. The lace cutouts kissed your hips and dipped just high enough to tease him with the line of your thighs. Sheer fabric caressed the top of your legs, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. A sliver of garter strap peeked at the edge of your thigh.

And around your neck?

That choker.

Dark blue.

Snug.

With the silver ribbon pendant—gleaming like a sigil above the starburst birthmark he now considered sacred.

He sucked in a breath.

“Jesus,” he rasped.

You smiled softly.

Tilted your head slightly.

Didn’t say a word.

You didn’t need to.

His mouth parted.

Eyes darkened, slow and hungry.

Something inside him—tight and reverent—snapped.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he asked, voice low with reverence.

“No,” you murmured, stepping closer. “Just wanted to give you something nice to look at.”

Your hips swayed.

Silk whispered with your every step.

The pendant at your throat swayed like it had a pulse of its own.

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, eyes trailing down your body like a man in prayer. “If you weren’t already mine—I’d be on my knees begging for you.”

You stopped in front of him.

Lifted your hands.

Ran them down his chest, slow.

Fingertips grazing damp skin.

Your nails caught lightly on the ridges of his abs and he shuddered beneath your touch.

You felt the heat pour off him.

Felt the tension under your hands.

Felt the ache rolling off him in waves.

“You’ve begged before,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “But not while you were wearing this.”

He reached for your hips, groaning softly when your silk-clad body met his bare chest.

His hands found your waist like they belonged there.

One slid to your lower back, the other resting on your hip, possessive but patient.

“You wore this for me?” he asked, voice thick.

You leaned in.

Breath warm near his ear.

“I wore this…”

Your lips grazed the shell of his ear.

“…to wreck you.”

He cursed under his breath.

His hands tightened.

He stepped toward you like gravity didn’t matter—like your body was the only thing pulling him through time and space.

Because the lingerie had wrecked him.

But it wasn’t just the silk or the lace or the ribbon at your throat.

It was the look in your eyes.

That soft command.

That unshaken calm.

The way you didn’t ask for him—you summoned him.

And he stood there, jaw slack, chest rising like he’d just run a mile, mouth parted like he didn’t know whether to moan or pray.

You placed your hand over his chest.

Slow.

Soft.

Sure.

And he exhaled like your touch was oxygen.

Like he’d been drowning until you grounded him.

“Sit,” you said, voice like silk wrapping around his ribs.

He blinked once.

Then obeyed.

Dropped to the edge of the bed, legs apart, bracing himself with hands on his thighs.

A perfect soldier waiting for orders.

But his eyes?

They burned.

They devoured you.

And you stood between his knees like a goddess sculpted by starlight.

Palms on his shoulders.

Thumb brushing over the metal collarbone on his left.

“Touch me,” you said softly.

“Only where I ask.”

He groaned.

Head tilted back, neck arched, breath stuttering like he couldn’t believe he was alive in this moment.

“Fuck,” he said, voice wrecked. “Okay—yeah—anything. Just tell me what you need, baby. I got you.”

You felt it.

How he meant it.

Felt it in the tremble in his breath, the way his body vibrated beneath your hands.

He was yours—every inch.

Ready to be guided.

Worshiped you for leading.

Your heart stuttered.

Your thighs clenched.

A slow throb built deep inside you.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was a promise.

—

You reached for his wrists first.

Guided his hands, slow and deliberate, until his palms met your hips.

The moment he touched you—his fingers curled in tight.

Gripping the silk like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Like if he let go, he’d float straight to hell or heaven—he didn’t care which, as long as you were with him.

The pads of his fingers flexed once, then again.

Like he couldn’t believe how soft you felt under his hands.

Like he was afraid he’d ruin it if he gripped too hard.

You leaned forward slightly, letting your breath fan over his cheek, and whispered:

“Now kiss my neck.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t question.

He leaned in like he needed to. Like his lungs only worked when his mouth was on you.

His lips were hot.

Breath shaky.

He started just beneath your jaw—a reverent brush of heat—and then he trailed lower.

Open-mouthed kisses, one after another, slow and worshipful. Each one sent tiny sparks zipping through your skin.

He kissed down the line of your throat, tongue grazing lightly where your pulse fluttered fast.

Then he reached the choker.

He paused.

And you felt him smile against your skin.

He bit it—softly. A teasing pressure.

Your breath caught.

Your stomach flipped.

Your thighs tensed, trembling just slightly around his.

“Good,” you murmured, voice velvet. “Again.”

He obeyed instantly.

Bit it again—this time harder, just enough for you to feel your skin prickle in response.

Then his tongue flicked beneath the silver charm, slow and sinful, like he was tasting something sacred.

He dragged his mouth downward, tracing a path over your collarbone with open kisses, pausing only to groan into your skin.

“You taste better than I remembered,” he rasped, voice ragged. “Fuck, you’re—”

“Shhh,” you hushed, one hand sliding into his damp hair, the other cupping his jaw.

You tilted his face up toward you, thumb brushing just beneath his eye.

“You’ll talk when I let you.”

His head fell back with a wrecked sound in his throat.

He looked half-possessed.

Chest heaving.

Neck arched.

Like a sinner about to beg at your altar.

And you?

You climbed into his lap.

Slow.

Steady.

Knees sliding against the mattress, silk rustling faintly.

The friction between your thighs and his sweatpants was torture.

Your core already aching.

You straddled him like you were claiming your throne.

And then you rocked down.

Once.

The pressure was perfect.

Hot.

Blinding.

His hips jerked beneath you, a guttural moan catching in his throat.

“Can I taste you?” he asked, voice trembling. “Please?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth—just a tease, just a brush.

“Later.”

His breath stuttered.

His head fell back again.

“Fuck—okay.”

You moved his hands up, slowly.

Guided them from your waist to your ribs—over silk and lace and bare skin.

His palms slid reverently up your torso, until they brushed beneath the curve of your breasts.

“Touch here,” you told him, voice low and firm.

He cupped you like you were something precious.

Fingers trembling.

Thumbnails grazing the edge of the fabric.

His thumbs traced slow, worshipful circles over the hard peaks beneath the lace.

He was breathing hard now.

So were you.

You felt every pulse of heat between your thighs.

Felt your body clench with anticipation.

And then his head dipped.

His mouth pressed to your breast—right over the fabric.

His tongue flicked once, quick and teasing.

Then again.

Then he sucked lightly, silk dampening between his lips, heat radiating through the lace straight to your core.

He groaned—deep and low.

Like you were ruining him.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, mouth still full of you.

“You like it,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, pupils blown, lips parted, flushed with pure need.

“I fucking love it.”

—

You shifted against him again.

Slow. Controlled.

Your hips rolled down, deliberately this time—grinding against the rigid length of him trapped beneath your center.

His cock, hard and flushed, pressed snug between your folds and the silk of your lingerie.

Even through the barrier, the heat of him seared into your skin.

You rocked once—just enough to feel the full weight of him, to remind him what you were giving.

Bucky gasped into your throat.

His breath hitched hard. His fingers flexed against your waist like he was trying not to lose control.

You cupped his jaw with both hands.

Held his face in your palms, your thumbs brushing over the stubble that lined his cheeks.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

And he did.

Eyes blown wide.

Lips parted.

Wrecked.

Like a man watching his entire world kneel into his lap.

“Do you want to take control now?” you asked softly.

His pupils were gone—swallowed in that stormy steel-blue haze.

But his focus never faltered.

Not from you.

“Only if you want me to,” he rasped, voice hoarse.

The gentleness in his tone undid you.

You leaned in.

Kissed him like you already knew—deep, slow, tongue sliding past his lips to taste the heat of him, the ache he’d held for you for decades.

You kissed him like you’d already memorized the rhythm of him moving inside you.

Then you whispered against his mouth:

“Then take me. Now.”

And though your voice stayed calm, your body betrayed you.

You were trembling.

Your breath shivered in your lungs.

Your core ached with anticipation.

And Bucky—

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t growl.

Didn’t flip you over or tear the lace.

He just breathed.

Like you’d handed him something sacred.

Like the weight of your trust broke something open in him.

Then he moved.

Both arms slid around you—one warm, one cool.

Flesh and metal, cradling you like you were made of starfire.

He pulled you in close, pressed his forehead against yours.

Your noses brushed. Your lips hovered. Your hearts beat in sync.

“I’m gonna make love to you,” he whispered.

“Slow.”

“Like we’ve got forever.”

And he meant it.

He laid you down like you were holy.

Spine against the mattress. Legs spreading instinctively to welcome him in.

The silk beneath you cooled your fevered skin, but his body—God, his body—was molten.

He kissed your jaw first.

Then your cheek.

Then your throat, his lips barely brushing—like a prayer in motion.

He hooked a finger beneath the strap of your lingerie and pulled it down, inch by inch, exposing your shoulder with reverence.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

Not like a compliment.

Like a truth.

Like he’d found a lost work of art and couldn’t believe it was his.

You touched his face, fingertips trailing along the edge of his cheekbone.

“Only when you look at me like that.”

His eyes met yours—and stayed.

Even as he shifted lower.

Even as he kissed between the valley of your breasts, his breath warm through the lace.

Even as he rolled your panties down slow and kissed the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh with aching restraint.

His gaze never faltered.

You were panting now, soft and needy.

His lips pressed just above your knee. Then mid-thigh. Then the tender spot that always made you twitch.

And when his mouth ghosted over your birthmark—the star-shaped bloom on your nape, your shoulder, or wherever you placed it in canon—he pressed his lips to it like a vow.

“Mine,” he whispered.

Like he’d been waiting a lifetime just to say it.

—

He didn’t move fast.

Didn’t even breathe at first.

Just hovered—forehead to forehead—his cock nestled against your slick folds, the warmth of him making you twitch from sheer anticipation.

His chest rose and fell in deep, measured exhales, like he was trying to ground himself—because you? You were everything. Right here. Right now. And he didn’t want to miss a single second.

The tip of him slid along your entrance—slow, deliberate. Up. Down. Parting your folds, catching ever so slightly at your clit—and your hips jerked reflexively.

Your breath hitched.

“Shit,” he whispered. “You’re so warm already…”

His gaze dropped between you, and he groaned—soft and reverent—at the sight of how wet you were for him. Slick and swollen, your body already aching to take him in.

“That all for me?” he rasped, the words spoken like a prayer.

You leaned up—kissed him, slow and molten—and whispered against his lips, “Always.”

He moaned—low, broken—and finally, finally… he pushed in.

Inches.

Slow.

The stretch was instant. Maddening. Your walls fluttered around him in hungry waves, trying to pull him in faster—but Bucky held still halfway through, shaking from the restraint, forehead pressed to the crook of your neck.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah… it’s just—fuck, you’re big.”

That pulled a husky chuckle from him, rough and ruined.

“Didn’t mean to ruin you already.”

“Then stop teasing.”

He kissed you again—tender and slow—and thrust deeper, hips pressing forward until he was buried inside you. Every inch. Every heartbeat.

Your back arched. Your fingers clutched the sheets.

You gasped.

And he groaned, long and guttural.

His hands braced on either side of your head—his right, soft and calloused, cradled your jaw; his left, metal and unyielding, anchored into the mattress like he’d collapse otherwise.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel so—so good… so fuckin’ good…”

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there.

Heavy. Deep. Rooted.

Like he wanted to feel every heartbeat with his body pressed inside yours.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice thick. “I want your eyes on mine when I make love to you.”

And you did.

Your eyes met his—and in that moment, the rest of the world disappeared.

Because in his gaze, you saw everything.

Need. Reverence. Relief.

That trembling, sacred kind of love that ached to be poured into every thrust, every breath.

And then—he moved.

Slow.

Measured.

The drag of him pulling out just enough to make you whimper, only to roll his hips back in, deep and smooth.

Your toes curled. Your head fell back—but he caught it gently with his palm, guiding you to keep your eyes locked with his.

“Stay with me,” he whispered.

You moaned—quiet, breathy, desperate. Your thighs clenched around his waist.

“F-Fuck, Bucky…”

“You’re squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

His strokes deepened—still slow, still worshipful—but now edged with hunger. The kind of hunger only love could feed.

He kissed you again. Longer this time. Mouth slanted over yours, tongue claiming, savoring—like he was trying to brand himself into your soul.

You could barely think.

Only feel.

Feel his cock dragging against your walls with perfect, devastating pressure. Feel his groans against your lips. Feel the worship in every whisper:

“You’re mine…”

“Fuck, I dreamed of this for decades…”

“You were always real to me…”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tight around his hips, your body trembling with every thrust. He was buried so deep inside you, it felt like you were made for this—for him.

Your voice broke on a whimper. “Don’t stop…”

He didn’t.

“I’m not gonna, baby,” he panted. “Not ever…”

And as he dropped his head to your shoulder, his body rocked into yours with a rhythm that made the universe feel small.

“You were made for me,” he murmured, breath shaky. “I knew it the first time I dreamed of you…”

You cupped his cheeks, pulling his face back up, locking eyes once more.

Because yes.

You knew it too.

You were made for him.

And now—finally—he was yours.

—

The rhythm picked up—not frantic, not rough, but desperate in its need.

Bucky’s hips rocked into you with aching precision, every thrust dragging him along your soaked walls in that maddening sweet spot. The air around you was heavy with heat, sweat, and the faint burn of want that hadn’t been touched in days.

Your bodies met again and again—hips colliding, slick skin slapping, your breasts bouncing gently with every movement.

His pelvis brushed your clit just right with each roll of his hips, that perfect angle making your breath stutter, your hands clutch at the sheets.

Your thighs quivered, legs tightening around his waist.

He felt it.

His head snapped up, eyes locked to yours, feral and aching.

“You close, baby?” he rasped, voice cracking on the last word.

You nodded, helpless.

Whimpered.

Tried to answer but couldn’t find the air.

“Say it,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “Let me hear you. C’mon, sweetheart.”

“I—I’m so close, Bucky—please—”

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s my girl.”

His right hand slid down between your slick bodies, fingers finding your clit with that soldier’s precision. He circled it slowly at first—just enough to tease.

You bucked against him with a cry.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re shaking.”

He picked up pace—not wild, still steady—but now his hips hit deeper, his strokes more desperate. Like he wanted to burn the memory of your body into his bones. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned.

“God—just like that—don’t stop, baby—fuck, I’m right there with you—”

His lips found your jaw, then your mouth. You kissed him like you needed air, like he was the only thing keeping your soul from spilling out.

Sweat slicked your skin.

The sheets were damp beneath you.

Your moans echoed off the walls, rising with every thrust. Wet. Raw. Real.

And then—

You shattered.

You came hard—harder than you thought possible. Your thighs locked around him, back arching into the air as pleasure ripped through your spine like lightning. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry before his name tore from your throat.

“Bucky—!”

Your walls fluttered violently around his cock.

And he broke.

He cried out—hoarse and guttural—your name like it was the only word he’d ever known.

His hips stuttered once, twice, then buried himself deep with a final, shaking thrust as he came—thick and hot inside you. You felt it—every pulse of him, every tremble of his thighs as he held himself there, spilling into you with a low, desperate moan pressed into your neck.

His hands clung to your hips, fingers bruising. One palm splayed across your belly. The other slid beneath your back like he needed to hold you closer than physically possible.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t roll away.

He stayed—pressed to the hilt, his chest heaving against yours, skin hot and slick.

His nose nudged your neck, inhaling like your scent might anchor him.

Your arms wrapped around him lazily, fingers drawing slow, grounding circles on his shoulder blades.

“You okay?” you whispered, voice half-gone, shaky.

He nodded—slow, eyes closed, forehead resting to yours.

“You feel like… safety.”

Your chest clenched, breath catching in your throat.

“So do you.”

You ran your hand through his damp hair, your other tracing the line of his spine. You could still feel him twitching inside you—small aftershocks of pleasure rolling through both your bodies.

He let out a breathless laugh, still trembling.

“You fuckin’ wrecked me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against his.

“You wrecked me, Barnes.”

His lips brushed your cheek. Your jaw. Your throat. Soft and slow—kisses of gratitude, not lust. The kind of kisses meant to make a home of your skin.

“Still with me?” he murmured, thumb stroking your side.

“Mmhm.”

“Next time…” he mumbled, trailing his lips to your ear, “I want you on top.”

You laughed quietly, breathless. “Yeah?”

“Wanna see you take me slow,” he whispered. “Wanna watch your face when you sink down on me. I wanna see it all.”

You bit your lip, still flushed. Your heart thudded against his.

“We’ve got time.”

He lifted his head just enough to look at you. Blue eyes, molten and soft, still dark from afterglow.

“We’ve got forever.”

—

The room was quiet.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t need words.

Only breath. Only skin.

You were spooned against him, the blanket pulled halfway over your legs, both of you still sticky with sweat and each other.

His arm wrapped snug across your waist—the vibranium one, cool and steady, heavier than it looked, the gleam of its plating softened by the tenderness in his touch. There was strength in that hold, yes—but more than that, there was restraint. Reverence. Like he knew exactly how easy it would be to break things—and had never wanted less to do so.

His other hand—flesh and warm—was cupped beneath your chest, palm resting between the swell of your breasts like he couldn’t stand to be anywhere else. As if your heartbeat beneath his skin grounded him more than air ever could.

Your back pressed into the heat of him.

Your thighs tangled lazily.

And his breath—slow, steady—rose behind you like waves lapping a shore.

Then—

He kissed your shoulder.

Then again.

Then your neck.

Small, fluttering things. Feather-soft reminders that you were real. That he was real. That this—this stillness, this warmth, this peace—wasn’t some fleeting echo of a dream.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough and scratchy from afterglow.

“Mmhm.” You shifted slightly, tugging his arm tighter around you. “Perfect.”

He smiled into your skin.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not lettin’ go.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And just when you thought maybe the quiet would settle again, Bucky spoke—so soft, so low, it barely stirred the air between you.

“You know what’s crazy?”

His thumb brushed over your skin.

“I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

You blinked, your brow creasing faintly.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He kept going. Like the words had been resting behind his teeth for decades, just waiting for the right moment to be let out.

“For years, I only had you in dreams. And not the kind where I watched from the outside. You were… there. Touching me. Talking to me. Holding me when I couldn’t hold myself together.”

He swallowed.

“And it felt real. Every time. Too real.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I used to wake up thinking maybe I was losing my mind,” he said, voice barely audible. “Because how could someone like you exist? Someone who knew how to hold me right. Who said my name like it meant something. Who stayed, even when everything else was stripped from me.”

He paused.

You reached for his hand over your chest, laced your fingers with his.

He held you tighter. Tucked his face into your shoulder like it was home.

“But now you’re here,” he whispered. “And I don’t feel like I’ve woken up. I don’t feel different. That’s the part that gets me.”

You turned your face slightly. Just enough to brush your lips to his forehead.

“Because this is the dream,” he murmured. “The real one. Not the ones Hydra tried to erase. Not the ones where I lost you every time the light came back.”

You could feel his heartbeat now—faint against your spine. Steady. Anchored.

“You’re real. You’re here. And for the first time since they took me, the nightmares don’t reach me anymore.”

You closed your eyes.

Tears welled silently.

His metal arm squeezed your waist just slightly. Not possessively—never that. Just a little tighter. Like he needed to feel your shape against his. Your body. Your presence.

“You saved me,” he whispered.

You turned in his arms slowly, gently, until your chest was pressed to his. You cupped his cheek—metal fingers brushing your waist, flesh ones slipping to your back.

And you kissed him.

Long. Deep. Soft.

When you pulled back, you whispered against his lips:

“I didn’t save you, Bucky. You found me.”

His eyes fluttered shut.

He smiled.

And in that quiet, breath-steeped dark, he whispered back:

“Same thing, doll. Same thing.”

—

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Like something sacred had been spoken into the room and now the world had nothing left to say.

You lay there, breathing together.

His chest rose against yours in rhythm, your fingers still laced over your belly beneath the covers. Every shared inhale, every small exhale, felt like a vow repeated—not aloud, not deliberately. But felt. Deep in your bones.

Warm.

Bare.

Still intertwined.

Your skin hummed where he touched you—where his stubble grazed your temple, where his vibranium arm rested securely at your waist, where his thigh slid snugly between yours. You could still feel the echo of him inside you. Not just physically. But cosmically. Like his soul had marked something in you—and you had marked something in him in return.

Outside the window, the darkness softened to blue.

That liminal hour.

Not night. Not morning.

The sacred edge of time where dreams slip through the cracks of the world and fate presses its thumbprint into your ribs.

It was the moment between.

Between sleep and waking.

Between past and future.

Between the life you had and the one waiting just ahead.

You could feel it. So could he.

Bucky’s hand found yours again under the blanket. His fingers threaded between yours—rough, warm, steady. His knuckles brushed softly over your lower belly like he was memorizing the shape of your existence. Grounding himself in it.

You tilted your head back slightly, just enough to brush your lips over his.

“Sleep,” you whispered.

He nodded against your skin. But he didn’t let go.

His nose nuzzled at the curve of your shoulder.

His leg curled tighter around yours.

And his breath—warm, rhythmic—settled at the nape of your neck.

A beat passed.

Then—barely a murmur, voice wrapped in reverence—he whispered:

“You were always worth the wait.”

Your heart clenched.

He hadn’t said it to be romantic.

He hadn’t said it to make you cry.

He’d said it because it was true. Because he meant it.

Because for nearly a century, he had waited.

In cryo.

In silence.

In chaos.

In darkness.

And now here you were.

In his arms.

In his bed.

In the same timeline.

Real. Tangible. Breathing the same air he was.

He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder.

And then—finally—

The world exhaled.

—

A Few Nights Later…

The safehouse had gone still.

No assignments. No alarms. Just the hush of late hours, and the soft rhythm of your breaths tangled with his beneath shared blankets.

You and Bucky had fallen asleep curled together, his vibranium arm wrapped around your waist, his heartbeat slow and steady against your back.

And that night, as your eyes slipped shut, you didn’t enter the dream alone.

You brought him with you.

Not by accident.

Not because your bond flickered open.

You chose it.

Because you wanted to show him something new.

—

Bucky’s consciousness blinked into existence beside you with a slight jolt. Like his body hadn’t realized it had left the waking world.

He looked around.

You were both standing in the cockpit of a sleek, futuristic jet—chrome and curved glass, console lights glowing faintly, stars sprawling beyond the windshield.

Bucky glanced down at himself—black tactical shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dream-hair perfectly tousled. He looked damn good.

He turned to you, stunned and smiling.

“You did this?” he asked, voice low with wonder.

You nodded, already slipping into the pilot seat. “Figured you’d like it.”

His grin cracked wide as he eased down into the co-pilot chair beside you, his hand sliding easily into yours on the console.

“You dream of space often?”

You smirked. “Only when I want to impress someone.”

The jet hummed to life beneath your hands—silent, smooth—and lifted effortlessly. Earth fell away beneath you in a swirl of blue and green, and starlight wrapped around the hull like a second skin.

You leaned your head on his shoulder as the ship soared forward, coasting past Saturn’s rings and through glittering nebulae like petals scattered in the dark.

No missions.

No Hydra.

No gunfire.

Just him.

And stars.

“I didn’t know I could dream this soft,” Bucky murmured.

You smiled against his arm.

“Maybe you just needed someone to guide you there.”

He looked at you—gaze full of something that reached deeper than just affection. It was recognition. And awe.

“I didn’t know I could have this,” he whispered.

You laced your fingers with his.

“You do now.”

—

The cockpit dissolved.

Starlight stretched around you and pulled inward—shaping something vast and sacred.

The In-Between welcomed you both with open arms.

Bucky stood still beside you. Silent. Reverent.

You felt him reach for your hand. His touch trembled.

“What is this…?” he whispered, voice hushed like he was in a cathedral.

“This is where I go,” you said. “When I weave fate. When I need to feel the shape of someone’s soul.”

You walked forward together through the glowing lattice of threads—blue, silver, white… and gold. Each line shimmered faintly, some taut, others loose. All alive.

“I wasn’t sure I could ever bring someone here,” you confessed. “But after months with Wanda and Strange… I learned how.”

Wanda had anchored you.

Taught you to center your mind.

To breathe through chaos.

Strange had carved paths through your logic.

Taught you laws. Boundaries.

And then how to break them.

From both, you learned how to keep your soul tethered—even in battle.

Even in grief.

Even here.

You glanced at Bucky—his awe written in every line of his face.

“I used to think this place was too dangerous to share,” you murmured. “But when you’re beside me, I don’t drift as far. You ground me.”

He didn’t speak.

So you showed him.

Your hand rose.

Two threads shimmered into view before you—distinct, yet inseparable.

Yours.

And his.

Gold.

Twisting, coiling, folded over each other so many times they no longer looked like separate lives. They looked like one.

Bucky’s breath caught.

“That’s us?”

You nodded.

“I didn’t know who owned the golden thread. Not until I found your dream. I just… kept seeing it. For years.”

He reached out. Touched it.

The glow flared faintly beneath his fingers.

“All the dreams. The ones I couldn’t explain…”

“They weren’t just dreams,” you said. “They were echoes. Premonitions. Warnings. Promises.”

He stared, overwhelmed.

“You’re telling me… we’ve been tied like this before you were even born.”

“The threads existed long before us. They just… found shape in us.”

You guided his hand to yours. Let him feel the pulse in both.

“This isn’t something I control,” you whispered. “It’s not a spell or a curse or a story I wrote.”

“It just is.”

He stepped closer. Leaned in.

And when his lips touched yours, it wasn’t hungry.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was grateful.

A kiss that said: Thank you for waiting.

For finding him.

For guiding him home.

—

When you woke, the sun was just beginning to stretch across the floorboards.

Golden light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and warm against your bare shoulder. The scent of morning clung to the sheets—cotton, skin, a faint trace of lavender from your pillow. Your body was still tangled with his—limbs entwined, breath shared, your leg draped easily over his hip.

No sweat.

No ache.

Just the hush of morning and the quiet thrum of something whole.

Bucky stirred beside you. His chest rose beneath your cheek. His lashes fluttered once, then again. His brow—usually tense, furrowed, always half-braced for pain—remained relaxed. Like peace had finally touched even the deepest part of his sleep.

He blinked slowly. Turned his head toward you.

And then he smiled.

Soft. Disbelieving. Like he hadn’t stopped dreaming even with his eyes open.

“You showed me your world,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“And you believed it.”

His gaze searched yours for a long, quiet beat.

“Baby,” he said, thumb brushing the back of your hand, “I felt it.”

The way he said it—like truth, like reverence—made your chest ache.

You leaned in, and he met you halfway.

The kiss was slow. Gentle. No tongue, no pressure. Just lips pressed to lips like a thank-you. Like a sunrise. Like a prayer answered after years of silence.

When you pulled back, he didn’t let go.

Not even when you both sank back into the mattress. Not even when the morning light warmed to gold and painted sunstripes over your bodies like fate herself was etching you into the moment.

His thumb traced lazy circles into your palm.

You dragged the tip of your finger slowly across his chest—mapping out constellations between the ridges of his muscles. Dotting stars over the scar near his clavicle. Drawing soft spirals where your soul still buzzed from the dream.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing your hairline, “next time you travel through space-time…”

You glanced up.

“Yeah?”

“…Bring me a souvenir.”

You huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling.

“You already have me.”

He smiled—wide and quiet, the kind that curved all the way up into his eyes. He turned his face into your hair, breathed you in like you were the last safe place in the world.

“I know,” he whispered. “And that’s the part that still feels unreal.”

Your hand slipped around his waist.

His arm curled tighter around you.

And the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Full of the stars you carried between your ribs.

Full of his heart beating against your spine like a vow.

Full of fate, finally aligned.

No nightmares.

No desperate yesterdays.

Just you.

And him.

Two souls, finally home.

[tetevesselsheep]

4t2 - Korea's Old Rooftop Room

The file is compressed and contains:

→ 9 meshes, being 2 master and 2 slaves;

→ two preview;

→ 6 rcs;

→ a collection file;

→ a preview of the collection;

→ a text document informing the number of polygons.

They are found in: Surfaces - Miscellaneous, Electronics - Small Electronics, Electronics - TVs and Computers and Electronics - Miscellaneous

Functional:

• TV Table has 12 slots and and there is no rc;

• TV is functional and and there is no rc.

Decorative:

• 2 Antennas (master and slave) has 1 rc;

• 2 Satellite antennas (the master is roof and slave is wall) has 2 rcs (dirty and very dirty);

• TV remote control there is no rc;

• TV set-top box has 1 rc;

• Wi-Fi modem has 2 rcs.

Credits: Meshes & Textures by @algu-sims

The original file is on the Patreon

Download on my Blog