#Weapon Plus Program

[it-hurts-because-it-mattered]

Morrison's run on X-Men is such a fascinating thing to look back on because he establishes explicitly that Magneto can apply his control of electromagnetism to do... Basically anything on the small scale, and to apply unimaginable force on the large scale. He's more powerful than many gods in the marvel universe. And he also establishes that Magneto can work perfectly well with the X Men and follow his own principles and make his own decisions.

But he also caps off his run by making Magneto a deranged eugenicist concentration camp running monster out of absolutely nowhere.

All of which eventually earned the retcon that he can't apply his full mutant power because if he does then it fucks with the EM fields around his body enough that his brain goes fucky (which is a similar handwave to how Logan's agility and healing are *severely* inhibited by the adamantium) and he loses his mind.

He made the worst narrative choices he could and it was still salvaged into amazing character development.

[buckyseternaldoll]

Code Red

Summary: The mission was intel. But when you went dark, Bucky lost all control—and the code turned personal.

Disclaimer: graphic violence, captivity, non-consensual restrain/touch, implied sexual threat, psychological trauma, physical degradation, feral violence (Bucky), verbal abuse, violent confrontation, bloodshed, reader described as plus-size, TB* members appearance, happy ending

Word Count: 8,558

Author's note: I'm sorry for the dark theme. I'm at the hospital, drowned by my own unsafe thoughts due to my surroundings. I understand this would trigger many things so please, please scroll away if this is not for you.

Bucky had been tense ever since the mission briefing with Valentina.

You and he had been assigned to extract intel from someone out of his worst memories—someone from the part of his past he’d spent years trying to bury. And as fate would have it, you were going to be the one sent in close. Personal.

The cherry on top? No one else in the building—except Walker—knew you and Bucky were married.

It hadn’t been a deliberate secret at first. You both just liked the simplicity of it. No questions, no gossip. Quiet. Private. You’d meant to tell the others eventually, maybe once things calmed down between missions. But three years and numerous near-death assignments later, it was still just you, Bucky, and that worn silver band threaded through the chain of his dog tags; kept tucked beneath his shirt, close to his chest where no one ever thought to look.

Walker had only found out by accident—he’d overheard you both talking, low and domestic, about decorating the new apartment Bucky had gotten you. Being a married man himself, he clocked it immediately and, to his credit, had kept his mouth shut ever since.

But the issue wasn’t the secrecy.

It was the mission.

You were going undercover to get close to Volkov—a former HYDRA taskmaster who’d gone dark for years, now resurfacing through underground ops and illegal tech smuggling. Worse still, the tech in question was rumored to be more powerful than both vibranium and adamantium combined.

And Volkov?

He had a type. Curvy. Plus-size. Long, wavy red hair.

And within a heartbeat, Valentina had already decided it would be you—hair dye on standby before you even left the room.

Bucky hated every second of it.

Not because he didn’t trust you, but because he knew Volkov.

Volkov had been there during the brainwashing. Watching. Smiling. Not the man who gave the orders, but the one who enjoyed watching them followed. Bucky remembered him leaning in from the shadows, jaw sharp, eyes gleaming with control like it made him feel divine.

He wasn’t just another piece of the HYDRA machine.

He was proud of what Bucky became. Of how many he broke.

Volkov had chosen him to fight other enhanced soldiers. Had studied him like a weapon. Had whispered twisted encouragement while the programming crushed him over and over again.

And Bucky hated the idea of you having to flirt with the demon from his past.

He understood the mission’s importance. He really did. But logic had never stood a chance against this—being forced to stare down the man who once stripped him of everything, while watching the woman he loved play nice to get information.

There was no good place for him in this. No role that didn’t make his blood boil.

You noticed the tension winding through him as you both walked back to the common room. His steps were stiff, calculated. His jaw had been clenched since the briefing. He hadn’t said a word.

You knew why. You always did.

Bucky had told you pieces of his nightmares—never the full picture, but enough. The burn of restraints against his skin. The cold metal table under his back. The sterile sting of alcohol. And Volkov’s voice cutting through the silence like a blade, low and proud and amused. Watching. Always watching. Like a man admiring a piece of art that he thought he owned.

The moment you stepped into the common room, Bucky blew out a harsh breath. His eyes were distant, like he was already somewhere else. The muscles in his neck and jaw were drawn tight, veins standing out starkly against his skin like they could split open.

Without a word, he dropped onto the couch, his body sinking in as if gravity had gotten heavier. The worn leather creaked beneath him as he leaned his head back against the cushions, eyes slipping closed for just a moment.

Valentina wasn’t going to change her mind. That much was written across his face. She never did.

You followed, settling beside him, the fabric of your tactical pants brushing softly against his. The air between you still carried the faint antiseptic scent of the briefing room—cold, clinical, suffocating.

Your hand found his, and you laced your fingers through his metal ones, your palm warm against the chill of the vibranium plates. He flexed just slightly, like even that much touch reminded him he was here. With you. Not in that chair. Not in the red room.

“You okay?” you asked gently, your thumb sweeping over the knuckles of his hand.

He didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled again, slower this time, like he was trying to pace himself through the storm still building inside his chest.

“I’m not,” he admitted at last. His voice was gravel-thick, barely above a whisper. “But…”

He turned toward you, his blue eyes heavy with something unreadable—part awe, part ache. He took you in like you were the only stable point left in the room. Your hair still its natural color, your body warm and solid beside him, your expression carved with concern. Your wedding band, stacked with a few others, caught the low lighting just enough to glint—hidden in plain sight.

His gaze lingered there for a second, and then moved back up to your face. You looked worried. You looked like his, and that was what kept him grounded.

“But I’ll be fine,” he said, his tone softening just enough. He gave a quick glance around, then lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, lingering there like he could breathe you in.

“We got this.”

He wasn’t saying it for you. He was saying it for himself. To remind himself that this time, he wasn’t going in alone. That even if you had to play nice with the monster, it was your mission. Not theirs. Not Volkov’s.

He’d been fighting demons for years.

And maybe he hadn’t slayed them all.

But he’d survived them. And now, he had you.

That was all that mattered.

─

Your jaw went slack the moment you saw the dress that Valentina had personally picked—laid out on the bed.

Red.

Not just red—blood red, silky, and scandalous. The neckline plunged lower than anything you’d worn outside of your own bedroom, and the hem looked like it might start a fight with gravity if you so much as bent over. You didn’t even have to lift it to know it would barely cover your ass.

You didn’t bother hiding your disgust. “Is she serious?”

You turned toward Bucky, dress still dangling from your fingers like it might bite. He hadn’t moved. Just sat there on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the garment with unreadable eyes. His face was a perfect mask—stone-cold, emotionless—but the vein ticking in his jaw betrayed him.

“I can ask for another one,” you said, your tone careful. “Too sexy for a married woman.”

You added a dry scoff under your breath, “Not like she knows, but—”

Bucky cut in, voice low and rough. “It’s nice.” A pause. “Should work on him.”

Another pause—longer this time—and then, his mouth twitched at the corner. “Definitely working on me.”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a light smack on the arm, but heat curled in your chest at the compliment. No smirk followed his words, no leering grin—just that quiet, reverent tone he saved only for you. The kind of tone that made you fall in love with him all over again.

He could’ve raged. Should’ve, maybe. But instead, Bucky just stood up and helped you with steady hands. Held out the necklace, clipped the clasp. Watched you with hungry eyes but never crossed a line. You knew he was mentally filing this all away—every curve revealed, every breath you took in that sinful dress—for when the mission was over and you were safely back in his arms.

You stepped behind the privacy divider and changed quickly, tugging the soft silk over your skin. The fabric clung like it had been sewn onto you, stretching taut across your hips and hugging the dip of your waist. You stepped back into view, adjusting the neckline in vain, before reaching for your hairpins.

Bucky helped you curl a few strands loose around your face, fingers gentle, eyes tracking every movement like he was touching something sacred.

You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and froze.

The red was devastating against your skin tone. Your curves poured into the fabric like molten gold into a cast, the neckline dipping low enough to hint danger and promise. Your breasts rose and fell in time with your breath, almost spilling over the fabric with every inhale. Your hair was gathered to one side in soft, tousled curls—polished, sultry, lethal.

And in the mirror, you saw him.

Bucky, still behind you, watching. His reflection stared like he wanted to devour something—someone. Like he was holding back a war.

His hands found your waist slowly, possessively. He pulled you back against him, his vibranium arm firm and cool against your side, his flesh hand sliding along the curve of your stomach. He pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, the heat of his breath scattering goosebumps across your neck.

“So fucking gorgeous, doll,” he murmured.

You felt the soft drag of his lips as he kissed down to your pulse point, then the gentle scrape of his teeth as he sucked lightly—just enough to tease, not enough to leave a mark. Professional. Barely.

The urge to melt into him nearly overrode the mission entirely.

“Your necklace,” he murmured, pulling back slightly. “Camera’s built in. I’ll be your eyes.”

He passed you the earpiece—small, skin-toned, nearly invisible. “For comms.”

You nodded, slipping it in, but your hands trembled just slightly from adrenaline or nerves—or the way he was still looking at you like the mission could go to hell for all he cared.

He took a step back and made you twirl once.

The silk flared high with the motion, fluttering like smoke around your hips. For a breathless second, the hem rode up just enough to expose the curve of your ass—barely covered by the black tactical shorts beneath. A teasing flash. A threat. A promise.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto the sight, and a low, guttural sound tore from his throat—half groan, half growl. He dragged a hand through his hair, like he was trying to keep himself from losing it right there.

“Fuck me, doll…” he muttered, voice thick. “You tryna kill me before the mission even starts?”

You gave him a soft, steady look—part smile, part shield. “You ready?” you asked.

But it was really him asking you.

His fingers brushed your wrist—once, twice—like a final tether before the storm. His voice came low and sure.

“With you?” His lips quirked. “Always.”

─

The nightclub, VØLT, was buried beneath a defunct hotel in the heart of the city—a forgotten husk above, but alive and feral below. Coded entry only, shielded from satellites, and loud enough to shake the bones in your chest. The air was thick with secrets and sin. Shadows clung to the corners, pierced only by strobes and flashing crimson lights. Bodies moved like smoke across the dancefloor, heat and perfume curling in the air like incense. The bass thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless, primal.

You walked through it all like you owned the place. Head high, hips steady. The red dress painted on your curves, your heels clicking sharp across the concrete floor. The music pulsed low and sexual, the bass vibrating through your ribs.

Bucky’s voice was in your ear—steady, low, grounding. “Cam’s good. I’ve got eyes. You’re clear to move.”

You didn’t answer. Just exhaled slowly and zeroed in on the booth near the back.

Volkov looked different, but not enough. His hair was grayer, his jawline looser, but his posture—relaxed, draped across the velvet like he owned the room—was the same. A monster’s throne.

He was smoking something sharp and spiced, the bitter tang of his cigar mixing with the scent of the club. It made your throat itch. His smile was practiced, sculpted into something that almost passed for charm. Almost.

He watched you approach like a man dissecting prey.

“Evening,” you said, voice wrapped in heat and silk.

He didn’t return the greeting. Just looked you up and down with a hunger that made your skin crawl. “You’re late.”

“I like making an entrance.” You sat, legs crossed slowly, the hem of your dress sliding up to reveal just enough thigh. “I heard you’re holding something I want.”

His eyes dropped lower. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, tapping a fingernail against the glass in front of you. “I have the money. I want the weapon.”

Volkov watched you with unsettling calm, blowing smoke sideways. You could feel the nicotine cloud brush against your cheek.

“You ask for quite a bit,” he said eventually. “Trust doesn’t come cheap.”

“Then tell me what does,” you countered.

He smirked, teeth glinting behind his cigar smoke like a wolf sizing up a meal.

“Come closer, принцесса (printsessa). Let me feel what I’m selling to.”

Your breath hitched. Just a split-second delay, but it was enough.

The music felt louder now, bassline pounding through the soles of your heels, up into your spine. Your blood thudded in your ears, hot and slow, like it was being pulled toward danger. You could feel every eye in the room watching you, sizing you up the way he was. Like meat. Like leverage.

Bucky’s voice sliced through the comm, low and razor-sharp:

“Don’t do it. You don’t have to—”

“I got this,” you whispered back. It was the only thing you could say. You had to say it for both of you.

Volkov patted his thigh, thick fingers spread. His smirk widened. His gold ring caught the red light like blood in moonlight.

Your feet moved on instinct, each step heavy with something coiled in your gut. You slid into his lap like silk stretched over barbed wire—fluid on the outside, jagged underneath. You perched carefully, your weight held taut in your thighs to avoid giving him too much.

But it didn’t matter. His hand snapped around your waist like a shackle, possessive and greedy. His palm was hot through the thin silk, rough where the rings dug into your flesh. A predator’s grip.

Then the second hand came up—slow, deliberate. It skimmed along the bare skin of your back where the dress dipped low, each finger a cold brush of oil-slicked arrogance. Your breath caught. The nausea started in your stomach and crept higher.

He leaned in close, his breath warm and sickly sweet from brandy and smoke.

“Mmm… you smell like sugar and sweat. Dangerous mix.”

His voice dropped, coiled around your throat like a rope.

“Do you make sounds when you wear red like this? Or do you just lay there and kill slowly?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You forced a smile, teeth aching from the tension in your jaw.

In your ear, Bucky’s comm had gone silent.

Then: a sharp inhale. Metal hitting something solid.

CLUNK.

You could hear it—his vibranium fist slamming the edge of a table, or a wall, anything to keep from tearing the comm from his ear.

He wasn’t speaking. But you could feel him—burning, locked down, seconds from detonation.

Volkov’s hand crept lower on your spine, fingers dragging over your skin in slow, possessive circles. He lingered at the small of your back, thumb teasing just beneath the fabric now, pushing boundaries with the casual boldness of a man who’d never been told no.

His breath rasped against your ear, faster now—he was getting off on this. On the power. On you.

“Such a soft thing,” he murmured. “You ever had someone ruin you just to rebuild you sweeter?”

Your body went cold. You kept the mask on, but your fists were curled in your lap, nails digging into your skin to keep the rage from surfacing.

Then he raised his voice, just enough for the nearby guards to hear. Mocking.

“She’s the kind that moans when you just touch her. Right here—”

His hand pressed hard against your lower back, fingers flexing, suggestive.

“—and she melts.”

And that was it.

Bucky’s voice cracked back through the comm, no longer calm. He sounded wrecked.

“Pull out. Now. I swear to God—”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, through clenched teeth. “Just another minute.”

But he wasn’t fine. You could hear it now—his breath was short, shallow, furious. He was pacing, maybe. Staring at your feed. Muscles bunched and twitching, jaw locked so tight it probably ached.

His voice returned, low but raw, like it scraped up from his ribs:

“You’re not a pawn,” he hissed. “You’re my goddamn wife.”

Those words landed low in your chest, sharp and full of heat.

You inhaled slowly, steadied your hands, and leaned in just enough for Volkov to think he’d won. Close enough to feel the heat of his neck.

“Dock 65,” he finally whispered. “Tomorrow. Midnight. Alone.”

You smiled, soft and slow. Then you rose—graceful but fast, sliding off his lap like a knife from its sheath.

His hand didn’t leave you until the last second, dragging over the curve of your ass like he had the right. Like he owned even the air between your bodies.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look back.

You walked toward the exit with your chin high, every muscle taut, your dress swaying around your hips like liquid flame. But your legs trembled from effort. Not fear—restraint.

Then his voice filled your ear again, low and ruined.

“Come back to me. Now.”

─

You entered the hotel room, hit by the a of heat that had nothing to do with temperature. Rage hung in the air—thick, suffocating. Something acrid and metallic burned your nose. The air felt charged, like a thunderstorm was caught in the walls.

Your eyes dropped to the corner where your shared luggage sat—shredded, the zipper teeth split wide like a scream. One of the hard cases was caved in, the shape unmistakable. That was the sound you heard through your comm. The clunk. His fist.

Bucky stood near the window, shoulders heaving like a man coming down from battle. His chest moved fast, his breathing ragged. The moonlight through the blinds glanced off his metal arm, glinting off the knuckles that were still clenched, twitching. His jaw flexed, teeth grinding so hard you thought you could hear the bone creak.

Then his eyes found yours. And the fire there almost knocked you back.

“Goddamn doll,” he growled, voice barely human, thick with rage. “I swear to God, I’m going to rip that fucker’s head off with my bare hands.” His vibranium hand flexed again, sharp and jerky. “I’ll carve his spine out and feed it to him.”

But you were already crossing the room. No hesitation.

You threw your arms around him before he could move again, before he could spiral deeper into that dark place. Your cheek pressed to his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp with sweat, heart pounding like a war drum beneath it.

“I hated every second of it,” you whispered, your voice raw and tight. “That wasn’t easy for me.”

His arms wrapped around you a beat too late, stiff and tensed—as if he was afraid he’d break you. You held him tighter, anchoring both of you. His body trembled—not fear, not grief. Fury. A possessive, helpless rage that had nowhere to go.

“Baby,” you whispered, tilting your face up to his, “shhh. Baby, look at me.”

He didn’t. Not right away. His eyes were still far away—still watching that bastard touch you, still hearing the way he spoke to you like you were something he owned. You knew the image was carved into Bucky’s mind like a scar.

“I’m fine,” you said, brushing your fingers over his jaw. “He didn’t get me.”

His eyes finally snapped to yours. Hungry, desperate, searching for proof. For any sign that Volkov had left a mark.

“He touched you,” he said, voice hoarse, almost childlike with the weight of it. “He fucking touched you. I watched it—I felt it, like it was me.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But we got what we needed. Dock 65. Tomorrow. He bought it. It worked.”

His hands came up slowly, cupping your face like you might vanish if he let go. He exhaled a long, shaky breath against your forehead. The scent of him—sweat, adrenaline, and the lingering trace of that smoky cologne he wore on missions wrapped around you like armor.

“We can kill him later,” you whispered with a small, bitter smile.

Bucky still didn’t smile. He pulled you tighter against him, one hand sliding to the back of your head, cradling it.

“You’re not bait,” he murmured, voice low and guttural. “You’re not some decoy for men like him. You’re my wife.”

The word cracked open something raw between you.

Wife. Not asset. Not agent. Not distraction.

Just his.

You didn’t speak. You just stayed pressed against him, holding his trembling body as he tried to cage the storm inside him.

His arms were iron around you, but the tension in him was raw, barely contained fury simmering just beneath the surface. Yet somehow, he held you like you were fragile glass—his fingers digging into your sides not to hurt, but as if afraid to let go, afraid you’d slip away. You wanted more than anything to let yourself be crushed by him, to be pressed into his heat so hard that every memory of Volkov’s filthy hands was scorched away.

You pulled back just a fraction, enough to look up into those icy blue eyes—eyes that burned with a jealousy so fierce it made your skin tingle. Your voice was low, smooth but thick with emotion, a threadbare mix of exhaustion, defiance, and need.

“Bucky…”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away a phantom tear you didn’t realize you’d shed. You saw the flicker of guilt, the sharp edge of helplessness. But there was no brokenness in you to find, only fire.

You stepped closer, letting the soft rustle of your dress brush against his worn tactical vest—the fabric whispering secrets of where you’d been, what you’d endured.

The red silk clung to your curves like a second skin, a promise, a warning. The slit teasing open your thigh, the low back bare and vulnerable, but now reclaimed, like a battlefield you’d already won.

You reached up slowly, your fingers threading into the thick strands of his dark hair, pulling him closer—closer than the sharp scent of gunmetal and sweat that clung to him after every fight. His breath hitched in a way that made your heart shatter and heal all at once.

“I don’t want to remember him,” you said, voice a velvet thread laced with steel. “Not how he touched me. Not how he looked at me like I was a prize to be bought or broken.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched until the muscle twitched. But you pressed your hand to his chest, feeling the steady, heavy beat of his heart beneath the fabric, slow and sure under your palm.

“I want to remember you.”

His breath was shallow, erratic, like he was drowning in everything you were saying—and everything you weren’t.

You carefully removed your earpiece—the faint click breaking the silence between you like a vow. You set it aside, eyes never leaving his.

You slid your hands down the ridge of his collarbone, across the hard planes of his chest, tracing the line of muscle and scars that made him whole—the man you loved.

You stepped close, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper that barely brushed his skin. “You know,” you murmured, eyes locked on his, “when we were in front of the mirror earlier… I couldn’t stop noticing you.”

His gaze sharpened, dark and dangerous, like a storm about to break.

“You were so hard, pressed against me like you wanted to claim every inch of me. Like you wanted to tear me apart and make me yours right then and there.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, thick and ragged. His chest rose sharply beneath his shirt, muscles taut, pulsing with a tension that was almost unbearable. You could feel it—his need, his fury, his desperate hunger—all radiating off him in waves.

You lifted your hand slowly, deliberately, and pressed a featherlight kiss just below his ear, where his pulse beat wildly. The heat of your lips sent a shiver racing down your spine and made his whole body tense against yours.

His breath caught, low and rough, a sound raw with longing and restraint. His metal hand slid to your waist, firm and possessive, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

You trailed your fingers up the curve of his neck, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your touch, the scar beneath his jaw like a secret you were privileged to trace.

Your lips hovered over his skin, voice husky with need. “I want you, Bucky. Right here. Right now.”

His lips crashed against your neck, hot and demanding, searing a trail of fire down your skin. His mouth was hungry, worshipful, each kiss a claim—a promise and a warning.

But then his eyes flicked to the door, the weight of the mission pulling him back like a chain.

You pulled away slowly, breath mingling with his, your fingers still curled possessively against his neck.

“We’ll finish this,” you promised, voice thick with heat and something deeper. “I’d rather die tangled in your arms than spend one more second remembering Volkov’s filthy hands on me.”

His jaw clenched, voice low and rough, trembling with rage and need. “You’re mine, doll. No one’s going to touch you like that. Not while I’m breathing.”

His grip tightened around your waist, holding you close as if letting go might make you vanish.

And in that fierce embrace, you both found a fierce kind of sanctuary—a quiet promise that no matter what came next, you belonged only to each other.

─

You’d arrived at Dock 65 before the promised time, hidden beneath the skeleton of an abandoned shipping yard on the outskirts of Salzburg. The salt from the sea clung to the air, sharp and metallic, biting into your nose with every breath. Bucky had come with you, shadow-silent and lethal, staying just out of range to avoid compromising your cover. His presence was a tether, his voice in your ear a steady heartbeat.

“This feels off,” he murmured, low and tight. “Too quiet. Too clean.”

He was right.

The plan was simple—classic infiltration: see the tech, verify it, grab what we need, then vanish. You’d done this a dozen times with him. It should’ve been routine. It felt like muscle memory.

But the silence was heavy. Not tactical—vacant.

You padded across concrete in soft boots, slipping between rusted containers and steel pylons slick with dew. Your heartbeat matched your footfalls—measured. Focused.

Bucky’s voice hummed in your ear again. “Back’s clear. But I don’t like how easy this is.”

You were already at the final checkpoint—a thick steel door sunk into the loading bay, blinking with a red biometric scanner. The security was laughable. Almost like an invitation. A bad joke wrapped in confidence.

Still, you knelt and worked the panel, fingers flying. “Almost in,” you whispered.

The door clicked. The metal whirled and groaned as it peeled open.

And that’s when it hit.

A sharp prick—hot and thin, like fire beneath your skin. You gasped, stumbling back.

“Fuck,” you hissed, stumbling back instinctively. You reached for your weapon, but your fingers fumbled.

Bucky’s voice snapped in your comm. “What happened? What was that—?”

Your limbs went liquid. Your knees buckled.

You saw the hallway shift and blur. Lights smeared into streaks. A cold wave swept over you, then nothing.

Everything went black.

─

You woke up to cold. Not just in the air, but in your bones.

The scent hit first—rust and sweat and old blood. Your head pounded, dull and heavy, like you were underwater. Every sound was muffled.

Then came the sting in your wrists. The raw burn of rope—tight, too tight. Ankles too. Spread just far enough that it made your muscles ache.

Your gear was still on. Mostly.

But it didn’t feel like armor anymore.

The sleeves of your tactical suit had been shredded—slashed open by a knife meant to scare more than wound. Your zipper had been dragged halfway down your chest, the thick material parting under Volkov’s probing hands. One shoulder was bare where the fabric had been tugged aside, revealing the flush of your skin beneath the cold air. Your belt hung lopsided—holsters gone, gear stripped like trophies. Gloves missing. Boots scuffed from a fight you barely remembered before the sedative hit.

The chill in the room clung to your exposed skin, humid and damp like sweat that didn’t belong to you. And those cameras—silent red eyes blinking from the corners—watched you without blinking. Recording every breath. Every tremor.

You were still conscious. Still aware. And that was the worst part.

Volkov wanted you lucid for this.

Your arms ached from being bound above your head—metal cuffs cutting into your wrists, slick with sweat and blood. Your legs were tied at the ankles, the chair cold beneath you, bolts secured to the floor like this was always part of the plan. Like he’d been waiting to catch you like this. Waiting to make a spectacle of you.

Of course he was talking. He always talked first—like the sound of his voice was foreplay.

“I told them,” he muttered, dragging a chair toward you with a long, grating screech that raked across your skull. “Told them you’d fall. Doesn’t matter how trained you are. Everyone breaks. Especially the pretty ones.”

He sat. Legs wide. Elbows on his knees. Staring at you like you were already bleeding. Like you were his.

“You’ve lasted longer than I expected,” he said, his tone almost admiring. “But it’s coming. The breaking.”

His fingers reached forward again—those same thick, ringed fingers that had unzipped your suit, that had ghosted down your neck when you were half-awake. The scent of cigar smoke and synthetic cologne still clung to them, mixing with the tang of sweat and metal in the room.

His knuckles brushed your cheek. You flinched.

Not because you were afraid. But because you were furious.

And that fury—white-hot and blinding—was the only thing keeping you upright. And Bucky. Out there. Closing in like a storm beneath your skin.

But you couldn’t let Volkov see that.

So you swallowed the bile in your throat, forced your limbs to sag like the sedative still held you. You let your eyes flutter, like you were slipping under again. You made your voice small. Weak.

Why me?” you rasped, voice thin but laced with just enough bait. “What is it you want, really?”

He chuckled, the sound low and cruel. “Why not you? You were on my list the moment I saw you in that club. All that attitude, all that strength. It’ll make the footage better.”

Your stomach turned, a leaden knot of disgust and rage.

Still, you kept your face slack. You played your part.

“You kill me,” you whispered, slurring the words just enough, “you lose what I know. HYDRA vaults. Weapon caches. Secure lines. Things your people couldn’t even find.”

He paused.

There it was. That flicker of greed in his eyes. That hesitation.

You leaned into it.

“Let me talk,” you said, breathing shallowly, trembling just right. “Water. Hands free. Just a little. I’ll give you something.”

He stood again—slow and amused—and crossed to a small metal table at the side of the room. Tools. Restraints. Maybe something sharper. You couldn’t see all of it, but you heard the clink of something metal. A chain. A blade.

You clenched your teeth. Not yet.

A drop of sweat rolled from your temple down to your jaw, and you caught your reflection in one of the black-glass camera lenses. You barely recognized yourself.

But your eyes—your eyes still held fire.

You could see it.

And somewhere out there, Bucky saw it too.

Because you knew. You felt him like gravity. The echo of his fury, the weight of it marching toward you. He’d tear through walls for you. And he was close. So close.

You just had to survive a few more minutes.

Volkov picked up something—something you didn’t want to look at—and turned back toward you.

“You think you’re stalling,” he said with a grin, eyes glinting like broken glass. “But this? This is the good part.”

Your jaw tightened.

You let your chin drop forward, your eyes go dull again.

But inside, you were coiled wire, stretched thin. Every heartbeat was a countdown.

You weren’t stalling for your life.

You were setting the stage for his execution.

─

(Bucky's POV)

He heard it—the faint pop of compressed air, like a dart or a silenced shot. Then a low thud.

Your voice followed, barely audible in the comms—one last breathy fragment before the drug pulled you under. Slurred. Straining.

“Sweet, sweet printsessa. I’ll ruin every tight little hole until you’re nothing but broken.”

Volkov.

That voice.

That fucking voice.

Bucky didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Every muscle in his body locked, like a tripwire had snapped taut in his chest. The world around him went sharp and silent—no more footfalls, no night breeze, no humming electricity from the docks.

Then—

Static.

Your line went dead.

Gone.

And Bucky snapped.

He was moving before he even realized it—sprinting, boots pounding against the dock’s gravel and steel. The radio in his ear buzzed, someone trying to hail him, but it was just noise. White noise. Meaningless.

His blood roared like fire through his veins, hot and bitter, his heartbeat hammering so loud it drowned out everything but the image—you, helpless, in danger, with that bastard’s voice still echoing in his head. That threat. Those words.

It wasn’t just rage. It was something deeper. Older. Something that lived in the marrow of his bones, coiled like a beast.

But he didn’t lose himself.

Not this time.

No—he harnessed it. Focused it. Weaponized it.

The Winter Soldier was awake—but for once, he wasn’t in control. Bucky was. And that made him even more dangerous.

His metal hand clenched so tightly the plates creaked, servos humming under strain. He leapt over the low railing between two shipping containers, landed in a crouch, and kept going—his movements faster, heavier, more brutal with each second.

He tore through a bolted gate, didn’t even feel the sting of metal slicing his palm. Pain didn’t register. Nothing did. Just the map in his mind—your last known location. The building ahead. That thick steel door.

He saw it, even as his breath fogged in the night air—what Volkov must’ve done. You’d been careful. So fucking careful. But he’d planned for this. Had something in place. A trap meant for you.

The woman he loved.

His wife.

Mine. Mine. MINE.

The thought pulsed with every stride, every heartbeat.

He hit the access panel beside the locked door with the full weight of his vibranium fist. It shattered instantly. Sparks rained as he jammed a wire into the circuitry, bypassing the system with muscle and rage, not finesse.

The door creaked open—and what Bucky saw beyond it turned his fury into something nuclear.

Cameras. Chairs bolted to the ground. A metal table with restraints. Tools. Blood.

And your scent—faint, but there.

He felt his soul fracture for half a second.

Then he moved.

Fast.

Silently.

A predator.

He would tear Volkov apart piece by piece—not for the information, not for revenge. But for you. For every breath he stole from your lungs, for every second of fear he put in your eyes, for daring to think he could touch you.

And if there was a god—he hoped Volkov would scream.

Because Bucky wanted him to scream.

─

The second Bucky breached the reinforced door, the scent of blood, sweat, and fear punched him in the gut.

You.

He felt you in the room before he saw you—your pain, your rage, your heartbeat fraying at the edges. Something ancient and monstrous twisted inside him.

The air changed. He knew before he looked. And then he saw you…

Strapped to a bolted-down chair. Tactical gear torn open. Skin bruised and shivering under flickering light. One wrist raw where the rope had bitten deep. A trail of dried blood traced the curve of your neck. The air hung heavy with copper and mildew, and the blinking red cameras watched like silent executioners.

You looked up—just barely. Your eyes found him.

Fire behind glass.

Tears unshed. Fury held in trembling muscle.

Then Bucky saw him.

Volkov.

Standing just feet away, an iron rod clutched lazily in one hand. A SIG-Sauer P226 slung at his hip. His lips curled into a grin that didn’t quite hide the madness beneath. He hadn’t touched you again—not yet. But the look on his face said he planned to.

“You should’ve brought flowers if you wanted to interrupt,” Volkov sneered. “Didn’t know they let backup dogs run loose these days.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

Not yet.

He walked forward—slow, deliberate, methodical. His breaths were sharp and clipped, like drawing air through broken glass. A predator’s prowl. Precision in every step.

“You here for a trade? A martyr’s end?” Volkov taunted. “C’mon then. Let’s make it cinematic.”

Still, Bucky said nothing.

He moved until he stood directly between you and Volkov—shoulders squared, stance rooted. His left hand—vibranium—automatically reached back, as if shielding you by instinct alone.

Then—

He snapped forward.

His voice tore through the room like a thundercrack.

“This woman—” he roared, pointing directly at you, body shaking with raw fury, “—is my wife!”

The word wife detonated in the air.

Your head jerked slightly. Even through the haze, even through the pain—you heard him.

“MY FUCKING WIFE! Not your toy. Not your hostage. Not something for your sick little games.”

Volkov’s smirk cracked. It slipped—just slightly—but enough to see the twitch in his jaw.

Bucky’s vibranium fingers curled into a fist. The sound was like metal grinding on metal.

“You touched her,” he seethed. “You looked at her like she was yours. I’m going to make you regret ever drawing breath.”

Volkov moved first—fast, confident, stupid.

Bucky met him halfway.

He pulled his sidearm mid-stride and fired. Two shots. One aimed for Volkov’s shoulder, the other for his thigh. Volkov twisted with inhuman reflexes—the first bullet grazed his bicep, the second slammed into a steel support behind him.

Volkov returned fire—a sharp, calculated double tap.

Bucky slid sideways, felt the bullet nick the edge of his arm. Didn’t matter. He was already moving.

They collided like freight trains.

Bucky’s knife flashed out from his belt—a matte black combat blade, narrow and deadly. He slashed upward, fast, aiming for Volkov’s abdomen. The Russian twisted, caught the blow with his forearm—blood sprayed in a fine arc.

Volkov spun, boot kicking Bucky square in the chest. He staggered back one step—just one.

Then launched himself forward again.

Knife to knife now.

Volkov drew his own—shorter, serrated, HYDRA-issued. Their blades clashed, metal sparking, skimming skin and armor. The room filled with the sound of grunts and steel colliding. Bucky’s body was pure muscle and memory—every move learned in blood, every strike meant to kill.

Volkov ducked a slash and drove his blade into Bucky’s left side, just under the ribs.

Shit.

Bucky grunted. Twisted. Let it dig an inch deeper—then used it. He grabbed Volkov’s wrist and pulled, driving his own blade straight into Volkov’s thigh, burying it deep.

Volkov howled.

But he was trained. He didn’t drop.

He struck back with his elbow, cracked it into Bucky’s jaw. The blow rattled Bucky’s brain for half a second—enough for Volkov to sweep his leg under Bucky’s and take him to the floor.

They rolled—grappling, snarling, blades scraping armor and bone. Bucky’s metal hand caught Volkov’s throat. He squeezed—hard. Volkov gagged, slammed his elbow into Bucky’s side, but Bucky didn’t let go.

“You think pain makes you strong?” Bucky growled. “You don’t know pain.”

He slammed Volkov’s head into the ground. Concrete split beneath.

Volkov, bloody and furious, managed to roll away. Pulled a hidden pistol from his ankle holster and fired.

One shot went wild.

The other grazed Bucky’s shoulder, slicing through the edge of his suit.

Bucky dove low—shoulder-first—tackled him against the metal table. It folded in half under their combined weight. Chains rattled down like rain.

Bucky disarmed him in a heartbeat—knife spinning across the floor. Pistol kicked away.

Now it was just them.

Fists.

Steel.

And rage.

Bucky landed a blow to the ribs that bent Volkov sideways, then drove a knee into his gut. Volkov coughed blood, still fighting, still moving. He threw a headbutt. Connected.

Bucky’s vision flashed white. But his body kept going.

He ducked under a punch and drove his metal arm up into Volkov’s chin.

Crack.

Teeth scattered.

Volkov dropped.

But Bucky wasn’t done.

He grabbed him by the collar and threw him across the room—into the steel wall. The impact echoed like thunder. Volkov slumped, dazed, broken.

Bucky moved in.

Each step was deliberate. Measured. Deadly.

Volkov made one last move—limping, bleeding—toward a blade still on the floor.

Bucky stepped into him.

And drove his vibranium fist into Volkov’s gut. Deep. Bones snapped. Blood spattered.

Then came the uppercut. Vicious. Perfect.

Volkov flew backward. Hit the floor. Didn’t get back up.

Bucky stood over him, breathing like a war engine, sweat and blood dripping from his brow, muscles flexing with each ragged inhale.

He could kill him.

One more hit.

One.

But then—

He looked at you.

Your bruised wrists. The blood on your neck. The silent strength in your eyes.

And the fury softened—just enough to make room for control.

Bucky stepped back.

Grabbed one of the thick cargo chains from the floor. Industrial. Cold.

He wrapped it around Volkov like a vice. Again. Tighter. Again. Until Volkov’s ribs creaked and his mouth filled with the taste of metal.

Bucky looped it through the floor bolt. Yanked it tight.

Then knelt, voice low and lethal in Volkov’s ear.

“You’ll live just long enough to rot in a black site,” he hissed. “Every day knowing you lost to me. That you never got to touch her again.”

He stood.

Wiped the blood from his mouth.

Then turned.

And saw you.

Bruised. Bleeding. Breathing.

Still you.

And in that instant, everything else in the world disappeared.

—

The moment his eyes met yours, something in him shattered.

He crossed the room in a heartbeat.

“Doll—” His voice broke, hoarse with something primal.

His hands were already on the restraints, fingers shaking as he worked through the tight buckles with mechanical precision. The cold touch of his vibranium palm met your bruised wrist, and you winced—more from reflex than pain.

“Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He flinched like he’d hurt you.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “It’s okay. I’m—”

“No,” he rasped, his gaze sweeping over you like he was cataloging every mark, every scratch, every tear in your clothes. “It’s not. Look at you. Fucking look at you.”

His breath hitched. Blood smeared his temple, a gash cut across his jaw, and the left side of his torso was soaked in red—where Volkov’s blade had torn beneath his ribs—but he didn’t register it. Didn’t care.

He knelt in front of you like a soldier before an altar, pulling the bindings off your ankles with a desperate kind of tenderness. Every time the rope gave way, he touched the skin beneath, thumb brushing gently across raw flesh like he could erase it.

“I should’ve gotten here sooner. I should’ve known.” His voice cracked again. “I heard what he said to you over the comms—I heard—God, baby, I should’ve fucking—”

“Bucky,” you said again, firmer this time. You leaned forward weakly, your hands finding his bloodied face and cupping it between your palms. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He shook his head like he didn’t believe you. Or couldn’t.

“I saw your face when I walked in,” he whispered. “I saw what he did.”

Your lip trembled, but you forced it still. “He didn’t… get far. I was drugged, restrained—but I don’t think he…” You swallowed hard, bile rising. “I think he wanted to wait. To make it worse. I could feel it.”

Bucky’s entire body stilled. Frozen.

Then his jaw flexed, and a tremor rolled through his shoulders.

“I was going to kill him,” he admitted, voice like shattered glass. “Right there. Would’ve torn him apart with my bare hands and smiled while I did it.”

“I know,” you said softly. “And if you had, I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

His eyes met yours again—steel blue, raw. “But you did stop me, didn’t you?”

You nodded. “Because I still need you, Bucky. I don’t need vengeance. I need you.”

For a long second, neither of you moved.

Then he slowly leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His blood mixed with your tears. His hand—metal, unyielding—cupped your jaw with a touch softer than silk.

“You’re my whole goddamn world, doll,” he whispered. “They can take the mission. They can take the tech. But they touch you—”

“I know.” You closed your eyes. “They didn’t.”

You sat in silence another beat. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to feel your body again. It hurt—every inch—but it was still yours.

And you were still his.

Finally, you pulled back just enough to look at him again. “Can you move?”

He nodded, wincing as he stood. The stab wound was clearly more than a graze now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

“Good. Because we’re not done yet.” You exhaled and braced a hand on the chair, pushing to your feet.

He immediately steadied you.

“Hey—slow. You sure you’re okay?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I’m upright. I’m breathing. We came here for more than him.”

Bucky looked at you like you’d just grown wings. Like maybe you were the strongest person he’d ever met.

You gestured to the side door—half-open, dimly lit.

“Volkov said he kept it behind security doors. Tech that could outrun vibranium and adamantium. We find it, we finish this. Together.”

He gave you a long look. Then nodded, bloody and steady.

“Together,” he said.

And this time, it wasn’t a promise.

It was a war cry.

—

You settled beside Bucky, your fingers still trembling from the adrenaline, but your voice stayed steady as you pulled out your comms. The sterile hum of the damaged room was pierced by your quiet command.

“Val, I need backup. Volkov’s down, but his intel’s too valuable to lose.”

Your words felt heavier than air, each syllable soaked in urgency and the weight of what you both had just survived. The faint crackle in your ear answered with Val’s cool, unwavering voice—a beacon cutting through the dark.

“Copy that. Bob and Yelena are on standby in the city. They’re moving in now.”

Relief unfurled inside you—a fragile thread of hope amid the storm. Familiar voices. Reinforcements racing through the city’s shadows toward your location. A lifeline tethered to survival.

You glanced at Bucky, whose breathing had slowed, chest rising and falling like a war drum now beating for peace. Your touch found his bruised shoulder, gentle but grounding—an unspoken promise that this fight wasn’t over, but you’d face it together.

Meanwhile, Bucky turned back to Volkov, seizing the moment to inflict just enough pain to crack the enemy’s stoic facade.

Codes and coordinates spilled out under Bucky’s relentless pressure—every word a strike against Volkov’s will. The new tech’s location was now clear, an ominous prize tucked in a forgotten warehouse.

Without hesitation, Bucky led the way.

Your mind raced as you scanned the data, heart pounding in your chest. The place was rigged—dangerous. Lethal. But destruction was necessary.

Bucky moved with purpose, expertly setting charges that would erase the tech and any trace of its existence.

Explosions roared behind you, shaking the ground. The acrid scent of burning metal and plastic filled the air.

Back in the quiet aftermath, you knelt beside Bucky. Your hands moved carefully over his wounds—bruises blooming purple, cuts still fresh. You ignored the heat of your own exhaustion, focusing on him.

The metallic taste of blood still lingered on his lips, but his skin was warm under your fingertips—healing fast, fueled by sheer will and some stubborn human resilience.

Your touch was gentle. Deliberate. Calming the storm inside him.

His wild eyes softened. He exhaled. The tension in his jaw eased under your care.

Volkov lay unconscious, wrapped tight in steel chains—conscious enough to curse in his dreams, but powerless.

You met Bucky’s gaze.

And in that look, shared a quiet understanding:

The worst was behind you.

For now.

—

The low hum of the jet thrummed around you, the tension from the mission fading like smoke.

Bucky lounged back in his seat, that cocky smirk never leaving his face as he nudged you gently with his metal arm.

“You comfortable now, wife?”

The moment the word left his mouth, Yelena shot upright like a firecracker had gone off beside her. She slammed her fist on the intercom button with enough force to rattle the entire jet cabin.

“You two were fucking?!”

Your cheeks flushed a hot, creeping red, heat blooming across your neck as all eyes snapped to you and Bucky.

Bob burst into delighted applause, grinning ear to ear like he’d just won the lottery.

Yelena’s glare sharpened, her voice dripping with playful disgust.

“Seriously? You could do so much better than some grumpy, hundred-year-old man.”

She shot you a smirk full of challenge.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the soft smile tugging at your lips, your voice low and teasing as you leaned into Bucky’s side.

“I’m too down bad for him already, Lena.”

Bucky caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles, his steel-blue eyes sparkling with a tenderness that made your heart thud painfully in your chest.

The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the sterile hum of the jet’s engines.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.

“I’d rather die than witness all this PDA shit in real life. Please, no more!”

Before you could respond, the intercom crackled to life.

Ava’s voice came through, shocked and high-pitched:

“Who—what??”

Then Walker cut in, with his usual dry edge:

“Is the cat out of the bag now?”

Bob chimed in happily, clapping again.

“Finally! Took you two long enough.”

Suddenly, the intercom blasted again, this time it was Alexei—loud, exuberant, completely unfiltered:

“YESSSSSS, AVENGER PAPA AND MAMAAAAAAA!! AVENGER BABY IN MAKINGGG!!”

The cabin exploded into laughter.

Yelena groaned as she slammed the intercom button once more, shaking her head at the glorious madness surrounding you.

Bucky smirked down at you, eyes soft but mischievous.

“Looks like we’re famous now, love.”

You nestled closer, hand tightening around his, feeling the rare calm of being home amidst the chaos of your lives.

[genderkoolaid]

The young men in our study were between the ages of 14 and 17 from families with low incomes and lived in high-crime neighborhoods. They were split into three groups. The first group received money on reloadable gift cards every week. The second group was offered an after-school program and received money on a gift card as long as they attended the first few sessions. The third group served as a comparison or “control,” and participants were able to take advantage of the programming after the completion of the study. When asked about how they spent the money they had received, participants reported a variety of expenses. Some spent it on personal items and entertainment like clothes, video games, and activities such as amusement parks. Others reported using the money for necessities, such as helping out a parent with groceries or fixing a car. Some participants reported that they saved the money to reach goals such as purchasing a car or helping their family move out of their neighborhood and purchase a house. Receiving the cash transfer alone led to an increase in healthy behaviors. Participants who received the cash transfer were less likely than the control group to do things like drink alcohol, use marijuana, take prescription medication without a prescription, be in a physical fight, carry a weapon, or use a vapor product. Some participants said they felt the extra money helped them to perform better in school by allowing them to buy supplies, and others felt that the cash alone helped reduce crime. We also found that the cash transfer plus programming improved the financial health of participants, which may be because the after-school programming included financial education. Beyond the benefits of the cash, the young men who were offered and attended the after-school program noted that having a safe, neutral space to go after school helped them stay away from the violence in their neighborhoods.

[roseband]

im FINALLY (literally ten years too late) helping my fiance collect the documents for his brother to get his 1.5 time on tests, after their mom denied his disability services for over a fucking decade cause she realized the 700 sat scores are kinda her fault...........after a decade of not listening to any of his teachers

god I fucking detest the twat they came out of.

[petalbcrnes]

❀﹒﹒⇅﹒𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ╱ with JASON TODD & DICK GRAYSON ㄨ BLACK WIDOW ! READER ꩜ .ᐟ ⠀⠀ hcs & drabbles. ⠀·⠀ ୭

　　﹕   (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈)   ┈ #directory #rules .   ♡   ﹒ this ask made me rethink the whole ‘reqs closed but suggestions open’ deal i gave going on rn. i cannot physically write everything req i get in my inbox,,, so i just take suggestions— no pressure to write it like a request.

❛   ꜝ   ┈   ✺ cw  ﹒ violence and abuse described in this work— it doesn’t take a big part of it though. a bit of angst because i cannot control myself.

𓏲𓏲⠀⠀.. ⠀Your reputation precedes you—former Black Widow, perfectly trained killer, someone who understands that justice isn’t always clean or merciful. But Gotham’s protectors seem determined to complicate things. You find yourself in unfamiliar territory— a certain vigilante has wormed his way into your heart. ✶

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ︶︶

The warehouse explosion lit up Crime Alley like the Fourth of July, and Jason couldn’t help but grin as you dropped down beside him from seemingly nowhere, not even slightly singed despite having been inside thirty seconds ago.

“Show off,” he muttered, but there was admiration in his voice.

“Says the man who literally just drove his motorcycle through a second-story window.” You checked your weapons with practiced efficiency, muscle memory from a lifetime of survival. “Find what we needed?”

“Financial records, shipping manifests, and enough evidence to put half of Falcone’s operation away.” Jason held up a hard drive. “Plus whatever you did in there should send a nice message to the rest.”

You shrugged, the movement elegant even in tactical gear. “The message needed to be loud.”

“No arguments here.” He stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in your eyes. “Bruce is gonna have an aneurysm when he finds out about tonight.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll keep him busy enough to stop lecturing us about ‘excessive force.’” Your fingers found the edge of his jacket, tugging him closer. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind my methods when I saved your ass in there.”

Jason’s laugh was rough around the edges. “Pretty, I never mind your methods. Just wish you’d give me a heads up. I like to watch.”

Your smile was dangerous and entirely too appealing. “Next time, I’ll put on a show.”

Jason absolutely gets your approach to justice and rarely questions your methods— if anything, he thinks you’re more efficient than the Bat-family’s usual “catch and release” program.

Will definitely team up with you on missions and enjoys the hell out of it, especially since you don’t try to hold him back from doing what needs to be done.

Gets incredibly protective when other people criticize your past or your methods, even though he knows you can handle yourself— old habits from his own experience being judged.

Loves sparring with you because you’re one of the few people who can actually challenge him, and there’s something thrilling about fighting someone who’s genuinely dangerous.

Sometimes you’ll find him reading up on Red Room techniques or Widow operations, not to judge but to better understand what made you who you are.

Has absolutely gotten into arguments with Dick and Bruce about your relationship. It’s a delicate situation. While Bruce and Dick understand you would never hurt Jason on purpose, they do worry how the methods you two choose will affect not only Jason— you as well.

There’s a twisted kind of understanding between you and Jason. I think in the end Bruce only wants the two of you to be able to find peace and not feel trapped by the blood you two have spilled.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 ︶︶

The Blüdhaven rooftop was slick with rain as you materialized from the shadows, silent as death itself. Dick didn’t even flinch— he’d learned to sense your presence weeks ago, though he still couldn’t figure out how you moved so quietly in those boots.

“You’re late,” he said, not turning around.

“I’m exactly on time. You’re just early because you’re nervous.” You stepped beside him, close enough that he could smell gunpowder and vanilla perfume. “The target’s already handled.”

“Handled how?” Dick’s voice carried that careful neutrality he used when he was trying not to lecture you.

You tilted your head. “Does it matter? The trafficking ring is shut down, the girls are safe, and the world has three fewer monsters in it.”

Dick closed his eyes briefly. “We talked about this—”

“No, you talked. I listened.” Your gloved fingers traced along his jaw, gentle despite the calluses from trigger guards and knife hilts. “I know you want to save everyone, even the ones who don’t deserve it. It’s what makes you beautiful, Dick Grayson. But some people can only be stopped one way.”

He caught your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And what does that make you?”

Your smile was sharp as broken glass. “Practical.”

Dick tries so hard to be the moral compass in the relationship, constantly walking the line between accepting who you are and hoping he can influence you toward less lethal methods. (He’s like “I can fix them” and just makes it even worse). It’s not as if he doesn’t want to see this side of you. He does. He just wants to help you navigate the pain jt took to get here.

He’s genuinely fascinated by your skills and will ask you to teach him your stealth techniques, though he draws the line at the more assassination-focused training.

Gets genuinely distressed when you disappear for days on missions, not because he doesn’t trust your abilities, but because he worries about what those missions might be doing to your body and mind.

Has definitely tried to introduce you to everyone else as a “reformed” anti-hero, which backfired spectacularly when you made a casual comment about eliminating witnesses. He learned not to sugar-coat you and your methods after that. Better to accept them head on.

Loves the way you move— there’s something almost hypnotic about your grace in combat that he finds beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

Will patch up your wounds without question, but always with that worried crease between his brows that you’ve learned means he’s planning another “conversation” about your methods and how you cannot keep putting yourself in so much danger.

Sometimes catches you staring at him like you’re memorizing his face, and it breaks his heart a little because he knows it means you’re always prepared to run.

Has started leaving his window unlocked specifically for you, even though you’ve never actually needed to use the window.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

﹒   ♪   ┊ INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

˖ `· . 𓏵 © 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐂𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 don’t use my work without my consent. ... ⏤ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

[blasphemousclaw]

why Divine Beast Dancing Lion has the best soundtrack in the entire game

When I watched the first DLC trailer 6 months ago, I was so focused on Messmer that I never gave the lion dancers a second thought. But in a shocking turn of events, Divine Beast Dancing Lion is now my favorite boss in the whole game. To me, what makes this fight truly exceptional is its soundtrack, so I want to go through the music and outline all the things that make it so great!

What makes the music stand out is that it feels SO different from the rest of the OST… the majority of the boss tracks have a pretty similar style and instrumentation, but Divine Beast stands out in my opinion because of how it emphasizes its rhythm and texture.

Conceptually, this boss fight is first and foremost a dance — you are fighting two Hornsent warriors operating a lion costume based on the traditional Chinese lion dance in an arena that’s actually a giant stage.

The Chinese lion dance is typically accompanied only by percussion (drums, gongs, and cymbals). So naturally, Divine Beast’s soundtrack has much more pronounced percussion in comparison to the rest of the soundtrack, featuring heavy drum beats and cymbals, plus shouts and chants from the choir. The music is in a steady 6/8, with 2 beats per measure divided into three pulses (think 1 2 3, 1 2 3) giving it a lilting, dancelike quality (this type of meter is often used in folk and traditional dances!). And, in the boss’s second phase, the dancing lion’s lightning, wind, and frost phases each have their own music and are timed to transition as the music transitions. The whole boss fight is programmed like a dance, so when you fight the boss it feels like you’re dancing with it too!

The choir has a range of vocalizations that goes beyond singing melodies and harmonies; as I touched on before, they’re also shouting and chanting. The shouts are used percussively and help accent the rhythm of the dance, and the low chanting also brings to mind a sort of religious ritual? Which is exactly what this boss fight is… in Hornsent culture, the lion dance is a ritual for invoking divinity:

“A charm depicting the crazed, cavorting dance of the divine beast conducted at the tower festival. Raises potency of storms. Divine beasts are messengers of the heavens, and their rage mirrors the tumult of the skies, of which storms are the pinnacle.” (Enraged Divine Beast talisman)

The lion dancers, or “sculpted keepers,” are those amongst the divine beast warriors (themselves the chosen amongst the tower’s horned warriors) who truly excelled at divine invocation, and were “granted the honor of the lion dance” (Divine Beast Warrior Armor). In the boss cutscene, the Hornsent Grandam calls upon the divine beast to possess the bodies of the sculpted keepers, and rise again to defend the tower… so the lion dance, performed by warriors skilled in divine invocation, is essentially a ritual for invoking the presence of the divine beast within the dancers in order to commune with the heavens.

The sculpted keepers, having invoked the rage of the divine beast, are able to channel the forces of the stormy skies — lightning, wind, and frost. The force of the storm is represented in the music by quick runs in the high woodwinds and strings that come and go like gusts of wind. The music almost never lets up or loses momentum; it goes at a powerful, furious pace until the end, embodying the divine beast’s fury.

But the Divine Beast that we fight has an extra layer of emotion that goes beyond divine ritual:

“When the Impaler's army assailed the tower, the ritual of the lion dance was turned toward martial ends—its divinity, its fury, its light-footed beauty.” (Remembrance of the Dancing Lion)

What was once a beautiful ritual dance conducted at the tower festival was forced to become a weapon of war in order to fight against their people’s annihilation at the hands of Messmer’s crusade. And even this was not enough…

The Dancing Lion that we fight was slain, lying in a pool of dried blood, when it is miraculously awoken again with a fervent prayer. This is the last lion dance that may ever take place, giving us a mere glimpse of this ruined city’s long-vanished splendor.

Listening to the soundtrack, there is not only pride in the music, but also an urgent, visceral, warlike rage, a multitude of voices joining in a desperate fight for their civilization’s very survival.

[2stepadmiral]

After the reconstruction of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, Han Solo's constant presence at the Temple begins to confuse the younger knights and apprentices.

At first, it makes some degree of sense. He usually shows up with Leia or one of his kids, and he is well-known as a friend and ally of the Order, so it makes sense for him to eat meals with Jaina, or attend meetings with the Masters, or assist Corran Horn in overseeing pilot training, or walk little Ben around the Stealth-X hangar. Plus, Lando Calrissian, Wedge Antilles, Booster Terrik, and Talon Karrde, also prominent allies and friends, are frequent visitors as well, so it makes sense.

But one day, some of the apprentices start noticing that Han is around a little bit more often than a non-member really should be. Maybe its been a while since he came for a briefing or training exercise, and maybe his reasons to visit lately have become a little too casual. Now, he's showing up alone just to try out the flight simulators new Chiss clawcraft program, or because it's nerf sausage day in the cafeteria, and more often than not, its on days where his kids are off on missions and Luke and Mara are tied up in council business.

It reaches a whole new level during a pilot exercise led by Corran, Kyp, and Jaina, when one of the apprentices ask who's the best pilot they know, and three of the Order's premiere pilots, two of whom are Rogue Squadron veterans and all three of whom spent most of the Yuuzhan Vong war in a cockpit, unanimously agree on Han Solo.

Then, two months later, when the Temple's security system is being updated and Master Kyle Katarn gives strict orders that no one is to enter or exit the temple until the update is completed, Han casually walks right up to the two senior apprentices guarding the temple entrance. When told that there's a security lockdown due to system updates, Han doesn't "want to hear about security updates, I want to know where my wife is. It's our wedding anniversary and I'm taking her someplace nice in the Falcon, now tell me where she is so we can get going." After several minutes of arguing, a visibly frustrated Han decides to just go get her himself, and when one of the apprentices tries to stop him, Han somehow disarms him of his lightsaber and throws it outside of his telekinetic range, leaving him chasing after his weapon and his partner following Han, trying to talk him into stopping. All while Jaden Korr is watching, shaking his head, and mouthing, "You'll be sorry."

Han quickly finds Jedi Knight and former New Republic Chief of Staff, and SHOCKS the two apprentices with his absolute immunity to her infamous and feared anger before sweet talking the lifelong diplomat into leaving the temple in the middle of the lockdown for an anniversary escapade. Then, he casually walks out of the Jedi Temple in the middle of a security lockdown like it's kriffing nothing with one of the most prominent Knights in the Order. And when the two apprentices finally get a hold of Master Katarn to advise that Han Solo just infiltrated the Temple and absconded with Jedi Organa-Solo, his reaction is something like "<pause> and you idiots actually tried to stop him?" "Well, yes, Master, you said no one comes in or out." "<pause> Yes, but what in the Sithspit made you think that you should try to stop Han Solo from getting to his wife on their anniversary?"

A month after that, he walks up to the High Council chambers right in the middle of a serious meeting. The apprentices standing watch outside (one of the same from the security incident) assume that he's been summoned to answer to the rumors that he started hosting a weekly Sabaac tournament in one of the temple classrooms (the rumor is completely true, just last week Kenth Hamner nearly ragequit after Han cleaned him out for the fifth consecutive week) and assure him that the Masters will call him when they're ready for him. Han ignores this and walks right in, right as the masters are in the middle of a discussion about potential Dark Jedi sightings on Corellia, to demand that Mara make good on all the lost bets she owes from the previous few Sabaac nights. After several minutes heated discussion (the Dark Jedi are almost forgotten at this point), the entire council comes out, and Master Cilghal informs the incredulous apprentices that Mara owes Han so many lunches from the Sabaac nights that it was agreed that she would just treat the entire council, as well as Han, to clear her tab. Mara is semi-sternly lecturing Han about interrupting council meetings for something so trivial, while Han is good-naturedly wondering if she's been deliberately scheduling meetings at lunchtime to avoid paying up, causing her to go curiously quiet (the apprentices are FLOORED that the infamously terrifying Mara Jade Skywalker isn't plugging him full of laser bolts for this whole interaction).

As the last one to leave, Luke stops to ask the apprentices if they're okay, having sensed their immense confusion.

"Well, Grand Master, it's just... it seems like Captain Solo gets away with whatever he wants. It's like the rules don't apply to him, and some of us have been wondering..." she gulps before continuing. "If it's maybe possible that Captain Solo is secretly not only a Jedi, but more powerful than you, and secretly the real Grand Master of the Order."

Grand Master Luke Skywalker, completely unable to resist this particular urge, rubs his chin thoughtfully, pretends to carefully consider the question for a moment, and then, with a small grin, responds: "That's a interesting question, Apprentice. Perhaps he is," before walking away, grinning like mad, while the apprentices stare incredulously at his back.

[fawnme1]

WINGS OF LOYALTY joaquìn torres .˚꩜ .ᐟ

summary; after meeting during the events of TFATWS, you and joaquìn began a relationship built on trust, loyalty and shared missions. now, you’re both apart of sam’s core team, and when a covert operations reveals disturbing ties to weapon plus and experimental super soldier programs, the three of you are forced to go rogue to express the truth.

an; i love joaquìn torres. thats it.

The soft hum of the jet filled the air, low and steady like a heartbeat. You sat across from Sam Wilson and Joaquìn Torres, both suited up and reviewing tactical data for the mission ahead. You weren’t new to this life, you’d worked missions with Sam before, during the aftermath of the Flag Smashes, but something about this one felt different. It wasn’t just the classified intel or the return of Thaddeus Ross as President. It was the weight of something bigger… something that could reshape the global balance.

But also? It was the way Joaquìn kept stealing glances at you when he thought no one noticed.

“Coordinates locked in,” you said, tapping a screen on your wrist-mounted device. “We’ll hit the drop zone in twenty.”

Joaquìn leaned forward, eyes warm. “You always sound so calm. Makes me feel like we’re just out for a stroll.”

You smirked. “You want me to scream and panic? Might kill the vibe.”

“Depends on the kind of scream.” He grinned, then caught Sam raising an eyebrow. “I mean, like, tactical screaming. For backup.”

“Sure,” Sam said dryly. “Tactical romance. Keep it off comms.”

You and Joaquìn had been together officially for a little under a year now. After the fall of the Flag Smashers, the post-mission bonding over cafecito and trauma turned into long phone calls, late-night flying lessons, and eventually a kiss you initiated after a shared operation in Tunisia. He was smart, loyal, and annoyingly good at making you laugh even when you were patching him up after a fight.

Now he was the new Falcon — new wings, new suit, same heart.

You’d been recruited back into field duty after intelligence flagged strange military patterns across Eastern Europe. President Ross had pulled the team together personally, and something about that rubbed you the wrong way.

But orders were orders… even if they came from someone with a Red Hulk past.

The mission started clean: reconnaissance on a suspected Hydra offshoot in Serbia. You, Sam, and Joaquìn infiltrated under the cover of night. Your instincts were sharp — trained by Steve Rogers himself back in the day — and you felt the unease ripple beneath the surface long before the first shots were fired.

Joaqìn flew overhead, wings silent against the moonlight, “Two targets on the roof. I’ve got ‘em,” he said into your comms.

“Keep it quiet,” Sam ordered. “We don’t want a firefight unless necessary.”

You ghosted up the fire escape, reaching the server room just as Joaquìn landed behind you. His presence was reassuring, he always had your six. Inside, encrypted filed lined the drives. You started uploading the data to HQ, fingers flying across the keyboard.

That’s when the explosion hit.

The floor trembled as something slammed into the building. Joaquìn threw his body over yours instinctively, wings shielding you from the shrapnel. You coughed against the dust and looked up, heart pounding.

“Joaquìn!”

“I’m okay,” he winced. “But that? That wasn’t part of the plan.”

No, it wasn’t. The building had been a trap.

Ross had known. He sent you in anyway.

Back at the safehouse, Sam paced while Joaquìn iced his bruised ribs. You leaned against the counter, jaw tight.

“He lied to us,” you said, voice sharp. “Ross knew that wasn’t just a data center. He wanted to see how we handled a full assault.”

Joaquìn nodded grimly. “We’re being tested. Or used.”

“And it’s not just us,” Sam added. “I’ve seen the reports. Experimental tech, enhanced soldiers, whispers of something deeper. Ross isn’t just cleaning up Hydra. He’s building something new.”

Your stomach sank. “Weapon Plus?”

Sam didn’t answer, but his silence said enough.

Joaquìn looked at you then, really looked. “You still in?”

You hesitated only a second. “With you? Always.”

As the mission escalated, so did the danger. You discovered that Ross had reactivated elements of Weapon Plus and was overseeing the development of a new super soldier program. Worse — he was using experimental Gamma tech, and rumours swirled of a Red Hulk.

Tensions rose between Sam and Ross, culminating in a confrontation that saw Captain America officially labeled a rogue agent. You and Joaquìn stuck by Sam, going underground as fugitives while trying to expose the truth.

One night, holed up in a hidden SHIELD outpost, you found Joaquìn in the hanger, inspecting his wings.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked.

He turned, his eyes tired but soft. “Not really. Keep thinking about what comes next. What we’re fighting for.”

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. “We’re fighting for people who can’t. For truth. For each other.”

He brought his hands up to your cheeks and kissed your forehead. “I love you, you know.”

You smiled. “I know. I love you too.”

The final battle came swiftly. You joined Sam, Joaquìn, and a ragtag group of allies — including Bucky, who’d been off-grid until now — in a strike on a secret Weapon Plus facility in Alaska. There, you faced enhanced soldiers, Gamma-powered monstrosities, and finally… Ross himself, transformed into the Red Hulk.

It took everything you had — Sam with the shield, Joaquìn flying high with precision strikes, and you using every skill Steve had ever taught you. When it was over, Ross lay defeated, exposed before the world.

Sam reclaimed the Captain America mantle, publicly revealing Ross’s experiments. The truth rocked the country. You and Joaquìn were cleared of all wrongdoing… and more importantly, you were free.

A few weeks later, you sat on the rooftop of your shared apartment in D.C., watching the sunrise. Joaquìn bought you coffee, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as you leaned into him.

“No more secrets?” you asked.

He smiled. “No more secrets.”

“You think it’s really love?”

“For now,” he said, kissing your cheek. “But whatever comes next… I want you there with me.”

You nodded. “Always.”

[bathroomcryptid]

Emotional Support

A/N: Hiii everyone, this is my first kinda work for Warhammer and I’m very excited. This is just a funny intro I came up with in my head with more to come about each legion. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: none

Are you, citizen of our great Imperium, craving a change in career? Or are you otherwise unemployed and seeking stable employment? Well, we here at Imperium of Man Inc. have just the career for you!

After years and years of research, it’s come to the attention of everyone involved that we humans are communal by nature and crave intimate relationships with other humans and have a great need for those deep fulfilling bonds (platonic, romantic, or otherwise). This also rings true for your local Space Marine Chapter. Therefore, we here at Imperium of Man inc. have a bunch of emotionally stunted Space Marines desiring people with whom they can essentially imprint on and we need the serfs to be able to do their jobs…Either way, this gap in the market has prompted us here to roll out the first of many programs designed to keep the Empire’s finest in tip top shape. We’d like to introduce to you, Imperial citizen, our newest career path - Emotional Support Human!

That’s right! Today, you could be one of a select few chosen after a series of tests to be placed with your local space marine chapter to be their Emotional Support Human and help support the Emperor’s Angels in a variety of ways.

Qualifications:

-Passing all Imperial Temperament Tests

-Excellent communication skills (verbal, written, etc)

-Happy, Courteous, Enthusiastic, Attentive and Empathetic

-Meets mobility requirements

-Proficient in the Imperial and High Gothic (High Gothic lessons available after employment)

-Ability to multitask

-Work under pressure and at a fast pace

-Willing to learn and understand complex military terminology and strategies

-Able to cope with sudden changes in elevation and being carried around

-Able to perform deep pressure therapy

-Able to cope with hearing complex trauma and lend support as needed

-Able to wield a basic knife and fire a weapon with decent accuracy (training provided if skills not already acquired)

-The mental fortitude to see eldritch horrors beyond comprehension and not go insane

-Comply with imperial policy

-First aid may be required based on legion policy

Benefits:

-competitive salary

-A clean room to sleep in (may share with other emotional support humans based on legion policy)

-At least three meals a day

-free visits to the legion Apothecary

Being an Emotional Support Human HCs:

- You were basically snatched off the street by Imperial employees with little grace. Let’s be honest here, it’s the Imperium.

- The whole time you’re convinced that they’re about to turn you into a servitor. You’re not stupid, you’ve heard the stories of people being yanked of the streets and going missing all to end up as servitors

- You just hope they lobotomize you quickly.

- To say you’re confused when they just stick you in a random room and congratulate you on being selected as a potential candidate for their newest program is an understatement and you’re even more confused when they tell you that they are about to administer their new test for you.

- Do you have to take a test to become a servitor now? You thought the only requirement was a mostly functioning brain?

- You comply (not that you have much choice with the two armed guards staring you down) and take the test, a little unnerved the whole time as the proctor administers the test, but oh well.

- Next thing you know, you’ve passed and they congratulate you on your new job - a Space Marine Emotional Support Human (SMESH/ESH but smesh is just funnier-)

- Anyway, you have no idea wtf that is, but you’re apparently not becoming a servitor and that’s about enough to get you to do anything.

- Plus, a free room and three meals a day were apart of the benefits package and they had you at that.

- You’re moved into another room with about 20 other people, all of you looking equally as confused.

- An Imperial employee gets up in front of you and congratulates you on being the first batch and trial run of the Imperium’s newest hare brained scheme (your words not theirs) - the Space Marine Emotional Support Human program.

- Your new job? Becoming your local space marine legion’s new in-house therapist/stress toy/state sponsored best friend

- Out of everyone that was tested, 21 people passed, and the lot of you were the 20 selected to be in the program (one person per legion). You think 21 people passing the stupid test is ridiculously low but whatever. (Turns out, being able to tolerate your now line of work takes a pretty optimistic and mentally sturdy person that’s not all that common)

- You’re given your new uniform and basically shunted off to your new forever home and to the people the Imperium would love for you to bond with…what could go wrong?

[lexicorp]

*plays God's Plan by Mother Mother-*

[edit: they have a Playlist now]

Sunstorm has been lingering in my brain aaannnd now theyve escaped containment sjfnskvnd

bit of lore rant under cut

So as relative standard, Sunstorm is a clone of Starscream made by Shockwave. They were presented to TC and Warp as a replacement for Star (Starscream gets rekt and peeps think he's ded for a while), made to be the idealized, perfect weapon. Shockwave had created them really as his beta test for his project of cultivating the next evolution of Cybertronians. He viewed Sunny as a partial success, given that their radioactive spark became an apparent problem quite quickly. Shockwave was still satisfied with their skill, resilience, and behavioral programming. Even when they would occasionally spout some questionable nonsense about Primus when their radiation got a bit high, it was irrelevant and an easily solved problem to Shockwave. Plus, the ridiculous energy output Sunstorm was capable of was a valuable resource to be used as a source of power for the citadel. Saved on quite a bit of energon that way lol. Speaking of energon, they rlly had to be careful when fueling of making sure their radiation was a safe level before hand so they didnt combust lol. If they're optics are red, then that's an easy indicator that they chillin.

Sunstorm very often will "translate" Shockwave to people. Insisting that Shockwave cares in his own way, and that he has the best intentions. Shockwave did kinda programmed em to be specifically loyal to him tho-- Sunstorm very much does not understand why Shockwave is imprisoned later.

They also be plagued by visions from the gods due to their heightened energy signature. Primus and Unicron sound the same to them. Unicron of course took advantage of that and starts rlly getting in their brain and manipulating em hard. I'm sure you can guess what for-

After Shockwave's imprisonment, Sunstorm starts having more trouble keeping their energy levels stable, since the citadel was decommissioned, and the others dont really know the specifics about their condition/how to handle it. Unicron's influence gets worse, and Sunstorm goes to visit Shockwave for advice. Although they aren't in their right mind anymore, so when Shockwave tries to guide them on how to expell their energy safely, they freak out that he doesn't understand. In their frenzy they almost melt Shockwave thru the bars as they're in more of a daze guided by Unicron bein like /dewit/ lol

But guards step in. They try to apprehend Sunstorm buuut they cant touch em. Sunny leaves adn there is a whole arc of that theoretical last season round them and how peeps will end up taking down unicron and Sunstorm gets a good ending.

they have a lot of issues sjnijsndv

But I think theyd still visit Shockwave later, be decent friends with Soundwave, and Thundercracker. They'd retain an aversion to Optimus, really not being a fan, much to OP's dismay smh. One quirk of theirs to Starscream that makes him find a bit of a point of conversation to start on. Star would def warm up to em /after/ all that crazed shit (Probs would even get a bit protective tbh).

[the-meme-monarch]

i really really like friendprogram and waterbottle’s arcs they’re so neat and so well executed. fp’s goal is to kill someone, wb’s is to make a friend. they, in very watered-down terms, want to do What The Other Was Made For. but you Know, that if fp had been a weapon program and wb had been a friend program they wouldn’t have been better off, they still wouldn’t actually be get what they want. fp doesn’t want to Kill People,(plus we know the reprograms aren’t About that) they just Think they're Supposed to want that bc of their corruption. and wb wants to make genuine connections, where we know the friend programs and by extension the rest of the lab were trained on this Surface Level kindness and being friends is Expected of everyone (plus we know their Designed Purpose was more nefarious than that). and in the end they don’t really Want what they set out to do anymore!!! and it’s believable and makes complete sense for them both!!! this game is good!!!!!

[mitsua]

warnings: love obsession, mentions of blood and weapons, invading reader's privacy

reader's g/n

a side character on an otome game that is about a kinda apocalypse going on in the world.

you obviously get choices every now and then, but you have to be extra careful because you could die with any wrong answer (even with some dialogues you may get with the love interests.)

so, this side character is one of the love interest's enemies and has to fulfill the role as a 'bully'. however, it somehow developed more code lines than any other character on the game, giving him the opportunity to be more observant than the others, have the consciousness to remember how many times you've died because you got on a bad route and so on.

the game itself has had its ending far long ago, the developers had announced there won't be sequels as they think one game has been more than enough and they feel proud with the story's ending and the high quality of the art as well. so yeah, you get to finish the whole game, unlocking each of the five possible routes—plus the deseasing and neutral ones.

you felt satisfied when you ended it and after giving yourself a break from the game for a couple of months, you missed some of the characters' lines and downloaded it once more for a 'warning' screen to pop up when you tried to log in with the account you saved your whole progress.

you panicked, of course, you've spent lots of time collecting the gems that were needed to select certain options and breaking your brain to remember the correct answers to not die.

after a couple of exchanged messages with the support team line the game had attached in case anything like that happened, you got your account back.

"you're finally back?! you went a long time to collect those groceries, you know? were the markets that far?"—one of the love interests' lines as a comeback.

oh yes, how you missed those dorky boys.

as you started going chapter through chapter, your phone glitched from two to three times whenever you tapped for an answer 'weird' you thought, but nothing seemed out of normal with the storyline.

when you saw your clock hit 2 a.m. you turned off your phone and went hurriedly to sleep for the next day. little did you know a character could now think for his own and move within the basement's programmed walls for all he wanted.

you spent more nights playing, oblivious to the fact that Zander could now navigate your whole phone if he wanted, his wandering eyes codes widening collecting more and more with all he learnt about you. getting obsessed with you and the fact that his miserable world was definitely not only that, but there was a whole new world were it seemed to be peaceful as your photos on cafés and school showed him to be like.

he wanted to be there, he wanted to be with you.

the next day's night after he decided he'd do anything to get with you, you opened the app to find one of the most gruesome 'welcome back!' scenes you've thought you'd ever see.

the love interests' blood-covered dismembered bodies were all over the basement you'd find later on the story, still—there was no sight of a zombie that could've do something like that to them, and even if there was; there were two reasons you were sure this was some kinda glitch or virus;

the love interests do not die at the end, only when you choose incorrectly but never in the basement.

not even zombies would get them that messed up... they would bite them and may be even get some flesh out of their arms, but there were cuts that didn't seem to be caused by claws, but more like by knifes or swords.

then you picked up on a bloody message being chaotically written in the wall behind all the chaos.

"will you look only at me now?"

here's my yandere OC's m.list if you wanna read more! remember you can ask to be tagged at any of the fandoms i write for ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

[bambifornia]

huuUOOoLRgGghh fiinnne I can't stay away from you all

i bring more autobot!swindle. plus my attempt at writing his backstory

disclaimer : most of the stuff below isn't canon i just wrote this for fun. if u guys wanna make ur own swindle backstories i invite yall to do so :D we will make our own swindle content

swindle came online during cybertron's early years of the age of expansion. the autobots (with their goal to expand cybertron's empire) engineered a set of bots who would serve cybertron as its intergalactic merchants, programmed to be ambitious bots who sought profit. they also came with bigger processors (for storing transactions and whatnot) and versatile frames (so they could withstand organic climates)

shortly after coming online, swindle was assigned a teacher (another merchant) who'd pass down the knowledge of the trade. swindle did his best to keep up with his lessons

as a student, swindle was determined and clever. as a bot, though...eughh...

- he had less of a filter, and didn't know how to keep a poker face

- his little new England accent used to be a lot thicker (think earthspark swindle)

- very friendly, had a lot of amicas back in the day (he was definitely the "I know a bot" guy). it was a struggle for him to keep quiet

- loved hands on activities, hated sitting still

- kept a journal detailing his intergalactic trips. tried to doodle any organics he found interesting

- LOVED shiny stuff. he was like a crow lmao

- his sharp glossa would sometimes get his aft beat

- despite being a chatterbox, he wasn't as suave back then. he'd often get himself in awkward situations, which he'd try to talk himself out of the embarrassment but he'd end up digging a deeper hole for himself

- petty king. also kinda nosy and had a thing for gossip

- loved pranking, and teased the bots he liked

once he was ready, swindle was given a ship and assigned a trading post (as a starting point). from that point, swindle was a rootin tootin merchant and nothing bad ever happened to him again :D...

...

until the quintessa skirmishes

the age of expansion ended with border disputes between cybertron and quintessa. multiple skirmishes sproutted along the border, and while swindle didn't fight in them, he was certainly caught in the crossfire. swindle ended up with a broken ship, a looted inventory, and a bungled up frame. he had to return to cybertron for repairs

back on cybertron, swindle finds a planet wildly different from the one he knows. tensions between autobots and decepticons are rising, and the banks aren't holding up that great. swindle finds himself in a tight spot (financially speaking) since he still has to deal with his losses from quintessa. unable to go back to his actual merchant job, swindle resorts to taking odd jobs to keep himself afloat (yes, even stealing)

when the war breaks out, swindle gets drafted into the front lines (a decision that still baffles him to this day). since he's not much of a fighter, the autobots have swindle work as a spy, ordering him to smuggle weapons out of decepticon servos...

in future hindsight, that was a poor decision

---

wrapping it up here because i don't want this post to get too long LMAO but I still have more ideas for him if yall are interested. just know that this is not the end of swindle lore

ALSO I finally came up with autobot!swindle designations :D I've narrowed it down to 3 and I need help deciding. it's either between

quickdime - cuz. you know. he's always looking to make a quick buck

treasury - his subspace acts like a treasury if you kinda think about it

fortune - idk it sounds cute. besides fortune tends to "favor the bold and clever"

if u made it this far then congrats. thank u for listening to me yap. have a bonus doodle

[heliosail]

Engineer

Always covered in grease from the last job, an Engineer never quite fits in at a fancy event, but they are second to none with machines and technology.

The Engineer's art is here! This piece was done by my good friend Phinneas Sargent (CrystalCorvid on Tumblr.)

Engineers are essential crew members on ships, as keeping everything in good condition can mean the difference between life and death in space. In the colonies, Engineers are integral to their communities in a variety of ways, often working as handymen, shipwrights, gunsmiths, or inventors.

Features

Critical Attributes

Mind. Your Mind modifier is your proficiency modifier.

Body. Your Body modifier is used for your perception checks, and to calculate your Attribute Save DC.

Skills

Engineers get special Tricks for the Crafting, Deft Fingers, Programming, and Repair skills. Choose at least 2 of these as your first skills. You may take all 4 if you like. After you have chosen, you can fill out the rest of your core skills with any skills you wish.

Combat Proficiencies

Signature Weapon

Choose 1 from: Axe, Hammer, Martial Arts, Sling, Blunderbuss, or Crossbow. Add your proficiency modifier when you attack with this weapon.

Actions.

You can take [1 + Body modifier] Actions per round in combat.

Reactions

Choose either the Parry or Dodge Reaction. When you take this Reaction in combat, add your proficiency modifier.

Archetypal Abilities

Drone

You can deploy a Drone that can see, hear, and manipulate objects for you. You can control it using your PDA from up to 50 metres away. In combat, the Drone acts as a Minion.

Drones can be upgraded over time. You can do this yourself using the Crafting skill, or you can pay a robotics shop to do it for you. You start the game with 1 Small sized Drone. You can modify your Drone to change its size, or you can purchase or build other Drones. There is no limit to how many Drones an Engineer can own at a time.

A Drone's size determines it's HP, armour, storage capacity (when a compartment is installed), and the total number of upgrades it can have. Without a storage compartment, the Drone can only hold 1 item (or set of tools) at a time, in its “hands.”

• Tiny: 1 HP, 2 DR. 2 upgrade slots. No storage compartment possible. Tiny Drones have the Subterfuge skill automatically.

• Small: 5 HP, 4 DR. 3 upgrade slots. 5-item storage capacity with compartment.

• Medium: 5 HP, 6 DR. 5 upgrade slots, 15-item storage capacity with compartment, plus straps on exterior.

• Large: 10 HP, 8 DR. 8 upgrade slots, 30-item storage capacity with compartment, plus straps on exterior, can lift oversized items. Large Drones have the Intimidation skill automatically.

Command Minion

Commanding a Drone does not require you to spend an Action. When commanded, the Drone acts immediately as part of your turn.

Each Drone has 1 Action per round. If you want your Drone to do more, you can donate as many of your own Actions as you want to 1 Drone each round. If a Drone takes an Action that affects another creature, the Spotlight is passed on and your turn ends as if you had taken the Action yourself. If it does not pass the Spotlight on, your turn resumes after the Drone has finished.

If you do not issue any commands to your Drone on your turn, it will not act unless the Spotlight is passed to it directly. You can choose how it spends its Action if the Spotlight is passed to it in this way. If the Spotlight is never passed to it during the round, its Action is forfeited so the next round can begin.

Rugged Nerd

Three times a day, you can swap your Body modifier and your Mind modifier for a single roll. You may decide to do this after you make the initial roll.

Concentration

You can focus on your current task very intensely, giving you Good Luck to all associated roles while you're working on it. However, you have Bad Luck to all rolls related to anything outside of the task you're focused on. You cannot make perception checks when using Concentration. Instead, you must use your minimum perception, if checks are required.

Travel Action: Tune Up

During travel, an Engineer can choose to spend a Travel Action helping crew members tune up their gear that week. Any crew member who chooses to spend a Travel Action working on their gear receives +1 to their Deft Fingers, Programming, and Repair skills. The Engineer receives this bonus without needing to spend another Travel Action. This bonus lasts 1 day for each time the crew member participated during travel, starting the day they disembark.

Starting Equipment

Functional Backpack or Navy Pack (holds 15 items)

Shiphand’s Uniform or Daytime Clothes

Mycelium or Porcelain Armour

Signature Weapon (See “Features”)

PDA + 1TB holodisc

Drone

50 guilders

Engineer Tricks

These Tricks are ONLY those unique to your archetype.

Crafting Tricks

Your Crafting skill is your ability to create and build.

Learn from Your Mistakes

You are used to the set backs that come with building things. The first failed roll you make during a Crafting project still counts toward the total number of Crafting sessions you need to complete it. Gain +1 Crafting Requires: Engineer archetype

Recycling

When you roll a Critical Failure while Crafting, you can salvage some of the materials. Instead of restarting the project from scratch, you can begin with 1 Crafting session already complete. If the item was going to take only a single session to craft, you lose progress as normal. Gain +1 Crafting Requires: Engineer archetype, +2 Crafting

Automation

If you have more than 1 Drone, you can have a Drone upgrade another with minimal oversight, as long as you have a ready-made Upgrade Kit. This takes twice as long as installing it yourself. Gain +1 Crafting Requires: Engineer archetype, +5 Crafting

Deft Fingers

This is your fine motor skill, like screwing in a tiny screw, or picking a lock. This can also impact your ability to multitask.

Split-Screen

You can now receive simultaneous feeds to your PDA from 2 Drones. If you are donating your Actions to your Drones, you can split your Actions between them. The Drones perform their commands at the same time. Gain +1 Deft Fingers Requires: Engineer archetype

Healing Touch

Your dexterity allows you to make the repairs others just can’t reach. When healing Drones and anthroparians, you can now add your proficiency modifier to the total HP regained. Gain +1 Deft Fingers Requires: Engineer archetype, +2 Deft Fingers

High Precision Machinery

You are able to construct machines with a higher level of accuracy than other Engineers. After taking this Trick, you can spend 2 hours to modify a Drone, giving it the ability to attack twice using a single Action. This attack must be with the same weapon. Gain +1 Deft Fingers Requires: Engineer archetype, +5 Deft Fingers

Tightly Packed

You can fit a number of extra upgrades into a Drone size Small or larger, equal to your proficiency modifier. In addition, you can double up on upgrades that affect the same part of the Drone, so you could fit 2 foot upgrades or 2 weapon upgrades into a single Drone. Gain +1 Deft Fingers Requires: Engineer archetype, +8 Deft Fingers

Programming

Programming is your ability to troubleshoot computers, write programs, and hack.

Augmentation

Using an Action, you can give 1 of your own skills to your Drone for your next 15 Actions (1 minute), as long as the skill is physically possible for the Drone to perform. The Drone’s Actions count towards the time limit as if they were your own Actions. The Drone must be within range of your PDA to activate this Trick, but it remains active even if the Drone leaves your range. For the duration, the Drone can use the skill as if it were its own, using your skill modifier. The Drone does not have access to any Tricks with the borrowed skill. Gain +1 Programming Requires: Engineer archetype

Overclock

As an Action, you can enhance any weapon that deals elemental damage for the wielder’s next 15 Actions (1 minute). If you use this Trick to enhance your Drone’s weapon, then count your own Actions, including Actions the Drone takes, for this duration. You must be able to touch the weapon to modify it. During the duration it deals an extra 3 elemental damage. You can do this a number of times a day equal to ½ your Programming skill modifier, rounded down. Gain +1 Programming Requires: Engineer archetype, + 2 Programming

Assuming Control

Using an Action, you can automatically take control of 1 Drone or turret within 6 metres of you. If the Engineer in control of the enemy Drone or turret is present, they can make a contested roll against your Programming skill to resist. If you succeed, you control this Drone’s actions, including its attack, and can receive audio and visual data from it for your next 15 Actions (1 minute.) You can only control 1 Drone or turret at a time. You cannot use the Augmentation Trick, or any other Trick that would allow you to enhance the machine’s basic capabilities. Gain +1 Programming Requires: Engineer archetype, + 5 Programming

System Administrator

Using an Action, you can take control of all Drones or turrets in a 8 metre range, following the same rules as Assuming Control. You can send mass commands to all the machines in your control, which they will execute with their own Actions. To command a Drone individually requires donating your own Actions, per the rules for Command Minion. Gain +1 Programming Requires: Engineer archetype, +8 Programming, Assuming Control

Repair

The ability to repair electronics and mechanics, if you have Engineer’s Tools.

Jury-Rig

As an Action, you can make a quick repair to something without using any supplies or tools. This repair lasts for a single use. This can be used to quick-patch a Drone or anthroparian in combat for 3 HP. Gain +1 Repair Requires: Engineer archetype

Signal Jam

You have a little radio jammer at your disposal, which you can deploy as an Action. This will block enemy Engineers from commanding their Drones 20 metre radius. The Drone will take default Actions, unless it is equipped with a Combat AI. The Drone’s controller can make a contested roll against your Repair skill to bypass this. The jammer has no effect on your own Drones’ communications. This lasts your next 15 Actions (1 minute). Gain +1 Repair Requires: Engineer archetype, +2 Repair

Tinkering

An Engineer can tinker with a piece of gear to increase its' performance, with no supplies needed. This takes 10 minutes, and lasts for 1 hour. This can be done a maximum of 3 times a day. • Armour: Increase DR by 2. • Weapon: Increase the main type of damage by 3. • PDA: Double the range of spy gear, network access, Drones, or communications. • Headgear: Create night vision or infra-red vision. Gain +1 Repair Requires: Engineer archetype, +5 Repair, Jury-Rig

Robotics Expert

You can install some Drone Upgrades into your anthroparian friends. Doing this requires twice as long as a Drone installation. Gain +1 Repair Requires: Engineer archetype, +8 Repair

[emo-crowgirl]

I guess this could count as a continuation my whole “Miko being a glitch and somehow reverting into a root form” post. Because I did a lot more thinking on Glitch!Miko-focused scenarios and just: What happens if Miko were to encounter something that also originated from her game. Ranging from an npc to an item to an enemy.

Because ignoring any kind of “Miko Encounters Herself” scenario, just imagine.

Like for an item, sure Miko would probably be drawn to it immediately, especially if it’s something that her game equivalent uses. Glitches act on their code and even if Miko is Sentient/Sapient, consciously or not her game code will definitely at least influence her.

But what if it’s an item that Miko CANT use. Like say that Miko’s game has some kind of class system and Miko’s class isn’t meant to use a specific weapon, or Miko herself originates from an enemy or NPC and therefore simply can’t use any weapons that the player would pick up, because entities that aren’t the player can’t pick up and use the player’s stuff. They just aren’t programmed to be able to do it.

For a real world equivalent or items from any other glitch, Miko’s fine. Her programming doesn’t care because there’s nothing in her code telling her that she can’t pick this thing up, plus Miko is obviously not a regular glitch. She’s Sapient and clearly capable of at least somewhat defying her programming. Or maybe her code literally does not recognize this glitch item because it’s not explicitly from her game of origin. Glitches are good at effectively ad-libbing or ignoring stuff like that.

But then Miko sees some item from her own game, and her code can TELL. Miko may or may not recognize it, maybe some deja vu, but her code knows exactly what it is and exactly how Miko is and isn’t supposed to interact with it. It could range from a complete mental block where Miko can’t get herself interact with it because her code is subconsciously preventing it, to Miko managing to pick it up, only for her code to freak out and start breaking down because it has no idea how to handle this scenario that according to it, should be impossible. Maybe the item can also tell, it’s also a glitch with its own programming, and just doesn’t let Miko touch it. Sliding away from her, doing it’s best to get the fuck out of Miko’s hands if she manages to pick it up, and also proceeding to freak out and break down if Miko holding it is such an crash-causing event.

And then there’s stuff like how characters from Miko’s game would interact with her. If Miko’s a player controlled character, enemies would probably zero in on her immediately, because even if there’s other techs around, they are literally MADE to fight Miko specifically. If she’s an enemy or boss the same goes for glitches of the player character(s). Or if she’s an NPC, who knows? Characters may not be able to interact with her at all. Enemies ignoring her because they were never programmed to attack NPCs, player characters unable to harm her because they were only programmed to speak to her, etc.

(Then again, Glitches DO seem to be able to ad-lib and operate just barely outside the normal restraints of their code if they need to, for example dialogue like Count Nogrog altering his single player dialogue to use plurals when dealing with two players or Team-Enter-Name creating dialogue on the fly when interacting with what they think is a regular map, so the glitch could just reclassify Miko as an enemy/player if they need to, but still).

But that also applies to Miko. She could see an enemy from her old game and go ballistic. Don’t even know if she’d even be aware of what she’s doing or if the sentient part of her just blacks out and whatever old programming she has buried beneath the parts of code that make her Miko takes over for a bit. Or she could see an enemy/player character/NPC and just. Not be able to harm them. She can harm other glitches, but her programming actively prevents her from harming something that according to it, should be impossible for her to harm in her original game.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

I dont know if this already exists in Canon, but what if Damian, born as a weapon and placed on the path of supervilliany from birth, convinced Batman to start a series of Justice League programs rehabilitating the children of villians and the like

Kind of like a Young Justice/ Teen Titans but for the edgier crowd. Theres even a program for children who are somewhat there against thier will (like juvie or a Court mandated therapy/ community service thing)

Long story short people can just come to an JL owned building and register regardless of where they come from or who they are.

So Cloud, who due to his trauma and torture has the mental and emotional intelligence of a 15 year old and his planet (don't ask) transformed him into an physical 15 year old to stabilize him, applied to have better control over his violent urges and other Jenova based problems.

He also applied the Remnants-Kadaj, Yazoo, and Loz-who are old like 5 year olds now- into the program for the younger more violent children using his place as thier Big Brother to authorize it.

Cloud wasn't too pleased to find out that someone would be fostering him and the triplets due to them essentially being underage and orphans (he didn't think about that) and he's nervous about his weekly therapy appointments as well. His history with scientists and doctors is a long and traumatic one.

Danny Fenton applies when his parents were killed by an invention exploding and writes about Vlad Masters being a supervillian who has tried to kidnap and torture him into compliance and is his godfather plus his history facing off against his evil future self created by Vlads meddling. Since Danny is like 15 he will also be placed in a foster program

He might also eventually convinced Dani to join the Teen Titans or the Young Justice

Other crossover ideas work with this too