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[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.

[somuchforahobby]

Misunderstanding

Summary: reader is a detective for the NYPD and arrests Bucky Word count: 900 Tags: Banter + flirt / Canon Timelapse? What is that? / you’re sarcastic girl! Warnings: you’re a cop👹 Part 2

Author’s note: Had this idea while watching Matt Murdock flirt with a DA in DDBA so… hope you enjoy!

— * — * — * — *

“NYPD HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” You announced yourself at the alley where two men were having a fight.

You kept your gun pointed at one of them while your partner handcuffed the other.

“I was trying to help” one of them said, defensively.

He had dark hair and blue eyes, and damn was he handsome. But it wasn’t the first time a troublemaker happened to be cute and tried to get away with it, and like hell you’d let him.

“Well thank you for your service, officer.” You said with sarcasm as your partner moved to cuff him as well.

“It’s Sergeant.”

“Oh?” You scoffed, “well we’ll ser about that at the station.” You quipped, putting your gun back in the holster and guiding the suspects to the car.

You walked into the interrogation room, carrying a folder below your arm. If before you were amused by the alleged sergeant now you were fuming.

“Good night, Sergeant Barnes.” You announced. He was sitting still, both hands below the table.

“Hello, detective.” His blue eyes scanned you.

“I am sure you paid a good amount of money for faking your records, and as much as I respect the work you put into this” you dropped the folder on the table, “you shouldn’t have been so stupid as to use a man born before world war two as your cover.”

His lips curved on a smirk.

“So” You sat on the chair in front of him, opening the folder, “why don’t we start with a name, Mr. Barnes?”

His eyes were focused on you, a slight glint on them. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

You scoffed, “Listen, I have the night shift so I have nowhere else to go, but I’m guessing a guy like you is losing a valuable Saturday night, so let’s try again.”

“A guy like me?”

You controlled the impulse of rolling your eyes to this fucker’s audacity to tease.

“Name?”

“James Buchanan Barnes”

You dropped the pen in your hand, sighing.

“That is my name” His eyebrows rose, “by all means, call my Captain.” The slight smirk remained on his lips.

Another sarcastic scoff left your mouth, “who is your Captain, Uncle fucking Sam?”

The smirk deepend, “Steve Rogers”

You matched his smirk, “oh I know him!”

“Really?”

“Yes! My nephew is under his command as well. He’s got the posters and all!” You gestured with your hands much to his annoyance.

“I’m serious”

“Oh, he is too! Little guy’s got a shield and all”

His eyes turned white, “call him”

“Sure thing, I’ll send him a code through my walkie-talkie”

He scoffed, looking away from you.

“You got in the middle of a mob investigation, sir. I don’t think you are a bad person but I need to know what you were doing there. The more you delay the truth, the worse the charges will be.”

He did not say a word.

“Alright, moving on. What were you doing earlier tonight, at 11 pm?”

“I was following Kuznetsov”

You focus on writing down the answers, “why?”

“I had some questions”

“Such as?”

“The red room”

You turned back to him, “is that some sort of strip club or?”

“No!” He yelled, his mouth was curled and brows furrowed. He was offended you asked.

“What is that?”

“Is a place where little girls are trained to become assassins and spies. I promised a friend I’d get information.”

Your brows furrowed, this guy is completely fucking crazy. “And what’s your friend gonna do?”

“Tear it down, of course.”

“Of course” you repeated like it was the most logical answer you have ever heard. “And did you get the information?”

“No, you interrupted my interrogation.”

You smiled, “my apologies, Sarge. I’ll try to get that intel for you.”

“Y’know, we could be having this conversation somewhere nicer”

And there it was, you smirked and returned your eyes to him, “you think so?”

“I’m certain, doll.”

“It’s detective for you, Sargeant.”

He smirked, “of course”

You sighed, trying to ignore the nerves on your knees his flirting brought, “are you employed?”

“Mmm” his head leaned back, “I don’t think so, no”

“Let me rephrase, who’s your boss?”

His gaze returned to you, “ya applying?”

Focusing your sight on the file in your hands, you took a deep breath to control the flush of your cheeks, “how clever, Sarge. Next time I’ll ask about your daddy.”

“Not if I beat you to it” he muttered.

“Excuse you?” Your voice regained the authority tone.

“Are you alright, detective?”

Your gaze returned to him, “perfect, why?”

“Your heart rate raised”

This time you did not suppress the eye roll while you closed the file, “sure thing.”

Standing up from the chair you looked back at him, “seems like tonight you’re either sleeping in jail or in a mental institution, buddy.”

He scoffed, “I can’t go to jail.”

“Haven’t I heard that before?” You muttered as you walked towards the door.

“No, seriously,”

A loud thump made you turn with your guard up.

“I can’t walk into a jail”

His hands were on the table now, but one of them was black and gold, like a… prosthetic?

You stared while the wheels of your brain worked, that could only mean that—

“Sergeant Barnes, my apologies” you walked to him, hurrying the handcuffs’ key on your hand as you took them off him.

He stood up with a smug smirk. “Nice to meet you, detective” said with a hand towards you.

You shake it, your cheeks burning in embarrassment, “I apologize for the misunderstanding. It won’t happen again.”

His lips were pressed in a shy smile, “I wouldn’t mind if it did”

[pettytiredandjewish]

yes, we are content actually. if these attacks act as a deterrent for satanyahu to end the war and stop the death (since he claims to care about the "international security" of israelis everywhere), it will be worth it.

the demand is simple: end the loss of life in gaza, and the loss of life in america will cease as well.

they never should have violated that ceasefire in march. they had a perfect peace deal, and they blew it for the sake of selfish territorial expansion. if they hadn't done that, those people would still be alive. therefore, israel is indirectly responsible for their deaths.

don't you use that same logic to blame hamas for every single palestinian death (conveniently ignoring every murder that happened pre-1980)? two can play that game.

we tried peacefully protesting in 2024. it did nothing. in 2025, we're doing revolution. remind me again what happened during the french revolution? they didn't peacefully protest outside the palace of king louis and beg him for concessions, did they?

Wowww…. So you’re just cool with innocent people (who are living outside of Israel and Palestine) getting attacked/injured/and possibly getting killed because of urban warfare?

Damn y’all really don’t give a damn about peoples lives. And y’all call us “evil” Zionist cold hearted monsters. Yikes I lowkey feel sad for you.

You do know that there are other wars happening right? Some of them are genocides. The I/P war is not a genocide. It’s a horrible urban warfare.

Urban warfare is not pretty and people does lose their lives because of it. It’s fucked up.

You do know that Hamas has been controlling the narrative of this war right? They are using their connections to spread propaganda and misinformation so they could gain sympathy.

It’s been proven multiple times but no one gives a flying fuck. Why? Because a lot of people are antisemitic. They just hate Jews.

The coverage with the I/p war is different from other ongoing (and past middle eastern) wars. Do you know why? Because Israel (which is classified as a Jewish state) is involved.

As I’ve mentioned before- a lot of people are antisemitic. That includes the media. I’ve read through so many news coverages on various wars and when comparing it to coverage of the I/p war… it’s drastically different.

A lot of their intel is from Hamas backed media (the same media that is spreading misinformation and propaganda). If they do look at non bias intel, they frame it so that Israel is a monster.

Do I think that what the current Israeli government is doing is right? No I think that they are handling some things wrong. Note I said Israeli government- not Israeli citizens.

The media has a hard time separating the Israeli government and civilians. They also have a hard time understanding that when a country was just brutally attacked (resulting in a lot of people injured/killed/ and taken hostage) by a terrorist organization, that said country is gonna fight back.

I’m pretty damn sure that if Hamas attacked a different country (similar to Oct 7) then that country would do the same thing and fight back.

The spread of misinformation and propaganda is the reason why a lot of people are supporting Hamas. It’s sad and fucked up. (It also just proves that people lack common sense and critical thinking)

Hell, even if I wasn’t Jewish- I would still be fucking horrified by what’s happening. I would be fucking asking why y’all are blindly supporting a terrorist organization.

You may think that wishing harm against a specific group of people is okay because they are “inherently evil by their “connection” to Israel because their Jewish”- but that kind of thinking is fucked up and very harmful.

Wishing and acting on this kind of thinking leads to people fearing for their lives, losing trust, getting injured, and worse- killed.

Are you okay with that? Are you okay with what’s happening? Cuz if you are, then you are really fucked in the head. Damn I do feel sad for you. This kind of thinking isn’t healthy or good for you.

[kleyasradio]

What would you say are your core (like, 3-5) Kleya headcanons that you use to inform how you write her?

Oh this is such an interesting question (lemme try to answer in a way that makes sense and isn't rambly)

I think the most important thing for me is the tension between the way Kleya presents herself to the world and how she is on the inside underneath all those barriers. She is an armor of steel covered in spikes and wrapped in barbed wire. She won't let anyone close, won't let anyone know her, in any way that matters. Down to her physical appearance, she is the embodiment of someone who is impenetrable and controlled, all the time. Why? Because if she doesn't maintain this rigidity, if she opens herself up to even a sliver of vulnerability, she is going to be swallowed alive by the pain that she's been carrying since she was a child. This is someone who very much does not want to feel anything, and yet she feels immensely, to the point that she is scared of it. The feelings that Kleya has access to are painful in a way that she cannot really resolve or move past (her anger and grief have nowhere to go but toward the Fight, and for the Fight to succeed she has convinced herself she must shut down her emotions), and the emotions that aren't negative, she experiences them not directly but through the lack of them (she can't have love, she can't have friendship or companionship). The closest thing she has to experiencing love is her relationship with Luthen, and that is a contradiction in and of itself because she wants to hate him, but she loves him despite herself.

So this is very much the main thing for me. Someone extremely restrained and emotionally guarded. She'd rather feel nothing, because when she feels, she hurts, and she's been hurting so much and for so long that she cannot open herself up to more pain. But at the same time, someone who, despite all these walls, feels extremely deeply, and when that happens, when these emotions spill out of her, she is confused and shaken by it because it's something that goes beyond logic, beyond her control. I always try to keep this contrast in mind when I'm writing her, especially as all these barriers slowly come undone and she realizes that she yearns for the very thing that terrifies her, to love and be loved.

To go a little more into specifics: • Kleya talks very little. She will never be the type of character to monologue about her feelings. If you watch her scenes in the show, her dialogue is stripped down to the bone. She reveals a lot more about herself through her physicality, the way she moves, her stillness, her little nervous twitches that reveal the cracks in her perfect armor (I made a whole thread on twitter about this lol). She's highly logical, so more often than not she's gonna try to rationalize her feelings, or find herself frustrated and confused if she can't, but she will almost never talk about them directly, and if she does, it will be in an extremely minimalistic way.

• Any display of physical intimacy or tenderness is foreign to her. Reaching out for a hug, to hold hands, any type of casual contact, does not come natural to her, and receiving it is even more difficult. Which also means she is painfully, achingly touch-starved.

• She considers herself expendable. She was saved as a little girl pretty much against her will and then spent the next 18 years dedicating her life to the Rebellion and to nothing else. She doesn't think she matters as a person, as an individual. Learning that is a looong and painful work in progress.

• She carries an excruciating amount of survivor's guilt. She survived her family, everyone she ever knew on her homeworld, she survived Luthen (who literally took her place because she was the one who was supposed to burn the comms so Dedra would have arrested her), she will survive Cassian (after giving him the intel that will lead to his very death). I don't see her as someone who has ever been or will ever be suicidal, but she often wonders why she got to live when everyone she ever cared about didn't.

Then, to mention a couple more personal head-canons that I've been thinking about while writing for her:

• She has burn marks on her back from the day her planet was attacked, which adds to this very rigid demeanor she has and also makes her resistant to touch. It's a vulnerability, a sign that she's human, that's literally etched onto her body and she can't run away from it (so if SOMEONE eventually hypothetically were to touch or kiss those scars... let's just say it would be a big big moment for her)

• She has zero experience in romantic intimacy and not much more when it comes to sexual intimacy. I think her relationship with sex was always very utilitarian and pragmatic. I imagine she had sex for the first time quite young, just to have the experience because she didn't want to have a "blind spot" and not know what it was about. After that, she perhaps had a few one-night stands here and there across the years, but I honestly can't imagine that to have happened more than a handful of times, especially when their network started taking shape. Being as logical as she is (and as emotionally restrained), she probably figured that if she needed to relieve stress she could do the job herself without risks. Also, if needed, she definitely used seduction for certain missions, to gather intel, or extricate herself from tricky situations. And I imagine this to be one of the few points of contention between her and Luthen because he's protective of her and didn't want her to do that, whereas she found his turmoil over this preposterous; with everything they've done, that he did (to her), this is what troubles him? All this to say that Kleya's relationship with sex and sexual intimacy has always been devoid of emotions. She never alIowed herself to experience love, or even just a connection with another human being because that would mean making herself vulnerable, and we've established that being vulnerable is Kleya's greatest fear. It was a tool for her and nothing else. So when she finally does discover true intimacy and what it means to be vulnerable with another person and to want that connection, to want to open up to someone, it's quite monumental for her. And once she's had that experience, it's such a paradigm shift that, for the first time, she reflects on her past and on some of the stuff she did that she told herself were not a big deal (which at the time she believed) and perhaps can finally admit her true feelings about them to herself.

• She doesn't remember many details about her family but the day of the attack is seared in her brain and she hates that that's her most vivid memory of her family.

There are so many more but these are the ones at the top of my head! I hope they make sense.

[nickeverdeen]

I saw you write for Top Gun Maverick! Can you please write an angst Natasha “Phoenix” x sibling reader where Nat finds out her sibling’s plane got shot down and R got captured, and up to you if Nat goes to save them and disobeyed orders or instead stays behind while r is saved and then a hurt/comfort reunion?

Thank you so much :))

Burn the Sky | Sister!Natasha Trace x gn!reader

Pairings: Natasha x reader (siblings), Bob x Natasha (platonic)

Type of fic: Angst, comfort, hurt

Warnings: Plane crash, injury, captivity, implied torture (not graphic), PTSD (not graphic), nightmares (not graphic), panic attacks, reckless behavior, disobeying orders, swearing.

Summary: Natasha was trained to follow orders, to stay calm under pressure, and to never let emotions cloud her judgment. But when she hears the devastating news all of that training goes out the window. She’ll burn the sky if she has to. No one is taking you from her.

Ps: Oooooh, I like this request a lot, thanks for it!

——————————

Phoenix had been on the carrier, standing next to Bob, mid-conversation about upcoming drills, when the radio transmission came in. The words slammed into her like a missile to the chest.

“Eagle-Two has been hit—repeat, Eagle-Two is down!”

Her stomach bottomed out.

Eagle-Two. Your callsign.

Everything blurred. The noise of the deck, the chatter, even the blaring sirens—none of it registered as she turned sharply toward the control tower.

“Do we have visual?”

“Negative. Last known coordinates are east of enemy airspace. No ejection confirmation.”

The world was spinning, and Nat could barely hear Bob calling her name.

“Do we have a recovery team en route?” she demanded, storming up the steps to the command center.

The captain’s response was cold. “No, Lieutenant. Not until we have more intel. We can’t risk more assets over enemy territory.”

“You’re telling me we’re just going to leave them there?!” Nat snapped, her voice shaking.

“I’m telling you to stand down, Lieutenant.”

Her hands clenched into fists. You were alone out there, and they were treating you like a lost piece of equipment, like they weren’t sure you were worth retrieving. She couldn’t just sit here while you—her sibling, her best friend—were out there, possibly injured, possibly…

No. She wouldn’t even think it.

But the pit in her stomach only grew heavier when another report came through.

“Intel suggests Eagle-Two has been captured.”

Nat barely made it to the nearest railing before throwing up.

Captured.

She had trained herself to think logically, to assess risks and act accordingly. But none of that mattered now. Because logic didn’t change the fact that her little sibling was gone.

And no one was coming to save you.

So she would.

Bob was the only one who saw her suit up in the middle of the night.

“Phoenix, don’t do this,” he pleaded. “This is a court-martial waiting to happen.”

She barely glanced at him as she strapped into her flight gear. “Then I guess I’ll see you at my hearing.”

“Dammit, Nat!” Bob grabbed her arm. “They wouldn’t want you to throw your career away—”

“My career doesn’t mean shit if they’re dead.”

Bob flinched at the raw emotion in her voice. For a second, it looked like he might try to physically stop her, but then he sighed, defeated. Instead, he pressed a folded piece of paper into her hand.

“Coordinates,” he muttered. “Satellite picked up movement. I can’t stop you, so I’ll at least help you not get killed.”

Her throat tightened. “Thank you.”

“Just… bring them home, okay?”

She gave a sharp nod. That was a promise.

Flying into enemy airspace alone was suicidal.

She did it anyway.

It wasn’t until she was in the thick of it, dodging spotlights and heat signatures, that the weight of it all truly sank in. If she got caught, she was as good as dead. If you were already gone, she had nothing to come back to.

She pushed the thought away and focused on the mission.

The makeshift enemy compound came into view as she landed nearby out of sight. Heart pounding, she hovered just outside the perimeter.

Then she saw you.

Strapped to a chair, barely upright. Blood on your face, your uniform torn. But you were alive.

Rage burned through her.

“I got you, kid,” she whispered before making her move.

The guards never saw her coming.

A knife to one, a silenced shot to the other.

She slipped into the tent, heart hammering.

“Hey,” she whispered. “We’re getting out of here.”

Your head barely lifted. “Nat…?”

God, hearing your voice—weak but there—almost broke her.

“Yeah, it’s me.” She quickly cut your restraints. You slumped forward, and she caught you, holding you up. “Shit, you’re burning up.”

“They weren’t exactly gentle,” you croaked, trying to smile.

Fury burned white-hot in her veins. She’d kill every single one of them if she had the time. But right now, getting you out was the priority.

“Can you walk?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She smirked despite herself. “Not really.”

With her arm around you, she guided you through the compound, dodging patrols. Just a few more yards to the extraction point—

“Shit.”

Gunfire erupted.

Nat shoved you behind cover, shielding you with her body as bullets tore through the air. Her heart pounded as she fired back, her only thought: They are not taking you again.

Finally, the airstrike she’d called in before landing hit its mark. The compound went up in flames, and she pulled you toward the waiting helicopter.

“You with me?” she asked as she hauled you inside.

“Always.”

As the helicopter lifted, you sagged against her. She pulled you close, not caring that you were both covered in dirt, blood, and exhaustion.

She’d gotten you back.

That was all that mattered.

Nat never let go of your hand.

Not in the helicopter.

Not in the med bay.

Not when you woke up in the hospital, blinking at her in confusion.

“You’re here,” you rasped.

A strangled laugh escaped her. “Yeah, dummy. I’m here.”

Your fingers weakly curled around hers. “You disobeyed orders, didn’t you?”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You exhaled shakily. “Thank you, Nat.”

Her chest tightened. “Don’t thank me. I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

“Natasha.” Your voice was soft but firm. “You saved me - you deserve a fucking thank you.”

She swallowed hard. “Yeah, well. Don’t make me do it again.”

“Can’t promise that.”

She scoffed but squeezed your hand tighter.

For the first time since she’d heard the words Eagle-Two is down, she allowed herself to breathe.

Because you were alive.

And no matter what came next, she’d make damn sure you stayed that way.

[princess-of-the-corner]

,https://www.tumblr.com/princess-of-the-corner/787851619859595264/au-of-miracle-queen-where-hawkmoth-targets?source=share

Honestly this is such a fun premise with a lot of potential:

1: He goes after Marinette on the logic he's not Akumatized her before and so while a touch unpredictable its also not a person who has failed him before and we know from the Ladybug episode he had eyes on her for a potential Lady Justice.

This is already a cataclysmic scenario simply cos Akuma work by exploiting your emotions and if he endangers her parents it won't matter if Marinette 'tries' to control herself she's gonna be overwhelmed.

This could indeed be story ending, or at least status quo breaking if the ear rings are revealed or tied into it. If not, its still a major bad time for all concerned, especially as Multi-Mouse Akuma would be dangerous as hell and hard as fuck to fight against. Let alone once you factor in him having all the other Miraculous.

Plus he may know Marinette can fuse them and so take it farther, possibly to Marinette's physical detriment! Though also possibly leading to a loss of control.

2: He goes after Marinette & Chloe at the same time, he was already experimenting with multi-Akuma. So engineering the same inciting incident could definitely fit for that and thus he gets a mass mind controller and super army maker in one, both of whom are subjects he's evidently marked as 'high potential'.

Again this is actually WORSE than the above because it is everything bad there, plus Chloe who is already a major threat on her lonesome. It is hard to see a way out of this one save for potential a will power save when an Akuma leading to it becoming a brawl. Which may not make things better for anyone, but could certainly make them messy.

3: Rather than going for Marinette as a replacement or partner of Miracle Queen, he does this in S 4. Possibly as part of his return to the stage after fixing the Peacock. Basically what he apparently tried with Alya and there may even be a mention to him pulling this stunt with Chloe which could at least give some context.

This is one of the less terrible options because he is likely just making a Marinette Akuma, or possibly an accidental Ladybug Akuma. Still very dangerous but he doesn't have the Miracle Box and so it is at least possible that someone else could get involved and lend a hand.

Aside, but this would be a hilarious way to use "Chloe Knows" ala how in the recent mobile game Chloe complained about Marinette not fixing the Akuma problem and then gave her intel on it. So she may be watching this shit show and be like "Oh gods, oh shit, oh fuck!

Note on 2: I now have a terrifying timeline where the real threat ends up being Akumatized Marinette & Chloe. Like possibly due to the above "Chloe Knows" & general vitriol at Hawk Moth, plus willpower. They both or at least Chloe manage to break his control post Akumatization and turn the tables, be it by escaping his radius, (Pegasus) mind control (Chloe) or wrecking him before he can withdraw the Akuma (Marinette army) to become rogue villains.

Anyway those are my immediate thoughts.

As an aside, I love one designers idea for an Akumatized mouse user to have a Plague theme going on, ala the Black plague.

All of them are fantastic tbh

[heshmylover]

· · ──────────── ꒰ঌ·MarcusLangston·໒────────────── · ·

TW: Death.

✦ Name: Marcus “Specter” Langston ✦ Age: 36 (as of 1981) ✦ Death: Presumed KIA – 1981. ✦ DOB: October 12, 1945 ✦ Nationality: American ✦ Place of Birth: Richmond, Virginia, United States ✦ Pronouns: He/Him ✦ Affiliation:  • Formerly – CIA  • Currently – Perseus As an agent. ✦ Role / Occupation:  • Ex-CIA Clandestine Operative  • Perseus Intelligence Courier, Propaganda Specialist ✦ MBTI: INTJ – The Mastermind ✦ Fandom / Verse: Call of Duty: Black Ops Cold War ✦ Alignment: True Neutral → Shifts to Neutral Evil

Peronality

Marcus Langston is a cold, methodical presence — the kind of man who speaks only when there's purpose behind the words. He isn’t driven by emotion, and rarely shows any, instead operating with a level of detachment that unsettles even his allies. His intelligence is sharp, but never showy; he calculates, observes, and waits for the most effective moment to act. Patience is one of his strongest weapons He’s not charismatic in the traditional sense — his presence is more unsettling than inviting. There's always the sense that he's holding something back, measuring every interaction like a chess move. He doesn’t trust easily, and when he does, it’s usually temporary. Marcus has little tolerance for incompetence, even less for sentimentality. Despite that, he isn't cruel — just entirely pragmatic. People are tools or obstacles, and he treats them accordingly. There’s a weariness under his surface — not exhaustion, but a kind of quiet contempt for idealism and loyalty. He isn’t reckless, but he also isn’t afraid to abandon someone if the mission demands it.

Appearance

Marcus carries himself with a composed, almost indifferent sharpness. His dark, windswept hair is kept neatly styled, streaked subtly with grey at the temples — not from age, but experience. A lean face with hard angles, a sharp jaw, and a consistently unreadable expression gives him the look of someone always watching, always calculating. He wears muted, tailored clothing — practical, yet refined — favoring earth tones that blend into urban or rural environments. His eyes are a cold, piercing shade, Every movement he makes feels controlled, like a man who doesn’t waste energy — or trust.

Background

Marcus Langston was recruited into the CIA in the early 1970s, during the height of Cold War tension. A former military intelligence officer with a background in psychological operations and fluent in Russian

Langston was precise, emotionally detached, and dependable. To his handlers, he was a cold professional. To field agents, a blank slate with too many clearances. But over time, Langston began to see the contradictions in the system he served.

He witnessed firsthand how U.S.-backed regimes collapsed into corruption. Civilians used as leverage,Still, he stayed the course — until Berlin.

He began feeding scraps of information to unknown handlers — at first, out of spite, then out of belief. He wasn’t turned by force, or ideology — but by his logic. The more he learned about Perseus, the more he saw a version of balance.

In early 1981, Langston quietly disappeared from the radar, staging a clean exit through a false death in the field. By the time Adler’s team began closing in on Perseus, Langston had already been working alongside their operatives for a few months — feeding intel, helping mask movements, and coordinating. He wasn’t loyal to Perseus. He was loyal to the shift. The idea that the Cold War had no good side lingered in his head.

That belief carried him until Cuba. And there, it died with him.

Relationships

[CIA Operator | before he became CIA Former]

✦ Russell Adler Marcus respected Adler’s efficiency, He viewed Adler as unstable beneath the surface — useful in a crisis, but dangerous in the long term and not to be trusted. He kept his distance.

✦ Jason Hudson Langston regarded Hudson as an enforcer — competent, calculating, but maybe too loyal to the system. While their methods overlapped, Marcus saw Hudson’s need for fully control as a weakness. There was a quiet, mutual distrust; Hudson likely suspected something was off about Langston, though never enough to act.

✦ Alex Mason Langston viewed Mason as a strong man tainted by psychological scars. He had no interest in the heroism attached to Mason’s name, believing the man was more good than functional asset. If anything, he saw Mason as a warning, what happens when you get too close to the job? Mason (and bell) Are the Answer.

✦ Frank Woods Woods meant nothing to Langston. He considered Woods crude and overly emotional — a soldier, not a spy. Marcus avoided interaction and had little patience for Woods’ volatility, Marcus judgement mind was seeing him as easily manipulated and easily discarded.

✦ Helen Park Park intrigued him from afar. Her calm demeanor and analytical mind. He never engaged with her, though he quietly respected her precision.

[PERSEUS]

✦ Perseus Marcus never met the true Perseus until the "End of the line mission"—no one did—but he aligned with the ideology. To him, Perseus wasn’t a person, but a force: the organized rebellion against American global control. His loyalty was strategic and philosophical, Which he sometimes thinks it's ridiculous.

✦ “Bell” Marcus had no direct interaction with Bell, but he studied the psychological files once leaked through Perseus's contacts. He found the brainwashing experiments both fascinating and horrifying. Bell, in his eyes, was a cautionary tale — a weapon shaped by trauma, proving how easily people become tools for power.

✦ Anton Volkov They worked in parallel but never together. Volkov didn’t trust him — an ex-CIA man was never going to earn that respect and Marcus saw Volkov as reckless and outdated. Their alliance was unspoken and temporary.

✦ Franz Kraus Langston had no use for Kraus. Marcus likely observed more than engaged.

✦ Vika Balshov

Vika doesn’t trust Marcus and he respects her for that. She’s sharp, ruthless, and not easily manipulated, which makes her both valuable and dangerous to him. The two work together under Perseus, but their agendas don’t always align. Vika is loyal to the Soviet Union and serves the KGB first. They understand each other, even admire each other’s efficiency, but neither would hesitate to pull the trigger if the other became a liability.

His appearance in missions:

✦ Brick In the wall [Only seen by Bell]:

After Bell sneaks into Kraus’ apartment and he got bell captured, they awaken with Greta restrained nearby. while Kraus watches with grim concern. Kraus nervously asks:

“Then you will let Perseus know i captured them?”

Volkov while answering his question mentioned the name Marcus. A figure appears in Bell’s blurred vision standing at the edge of the light. Marcus Langston silently observes Bell. His expression is unreadable. He kneels, examines Bell’s eyes and face without speaking, then abruptly stands and turns to leave, boots echoing.

Aftermath: Bell later survive with Greta (or alone, depending on choices) but Adler and his team extraction nearly misses Marcus. He vanishes into East Berlin’s streets, barely ahead of Adler’s team. CIA finds no trace — only Kraus’ body, The name “Marcus” appears later in intercepted chatter, but Langston is never conclusively placed at the scene.

✦ End of the line:

Marcus "Specter" Langston moves with purpose through the lower levels, trading fire with infiltrating CIA operatives, covering his side with the same calculated movements he learned. This was supposed to be a clean handoff — exfil, reposition the warhead, vanish. But the compound has been compromised.

In a side corridor near the core server room, Marcus breaks contact with Bell and Lazar, slipping through. His shoulder is grazed, but he keeps moving. Turning a corner, he reaches the observation deck overlooking the lab — and sees Perseus.

It’s the first time he’s seen him in person.

The man stands surrounded by the final scientists.

Without warning, Perseus turns to the scientists. Gunshots. Clean. Efficient. Every scientist collapses. Cameras are disabled with a quick burst of rifle fire. Marcus steps back, visibly stunned.

“…Sir”

Perseus looks at him, impassive. “We had a use for you.” Three shots. Marcus stumbles, breath catching. He drops to his knees, eyes locked on Perseus with shock.

Marcus said faintly “…You never planned to let me walk away.”

Perseus looking at him, coldly, Unreadable. “You are still American. I never trusted you.” “You helped me reach my goal. That makes you useful.” A pause “But not worth keeping.”

Marcus collapses, unmoving.

Later he was found by Park and Bell, Laid down on the floor, eyes open, blood drawling out of his mouth.

She kneels by Marcus’ body, inspecting the wound.

“Langston…Should’ve known Perseus doesn’t play.”

[yomica12345]

Rosettahart's Masterpost

This is my master post which should contain all my current multi-chapter fics and a few of my one shots. My Ao3 however should have all the works I have ever done. I only write Sanders Sides fanfics so if that's what you're looking for then I hope there's something for you you here in my personal master post. (Also I would be open to requests for certain dynamics for one shots for the sanders sides characters if that's something anyone would like)

Ao3 Link

Fanfics A Plenty Link - Fic Rec Doc

Discord Link

Glass-says:

Virgil’s best friend, Patton, isn’t exactly alive—he’s a ghost. But he’s no ordinary spirit. While Virgil is the only one who can hear and feel him, Patton’s ghostly form only becomes visible when someone wears his old glasses. So far, Virgil has kept Patton’s existence a secret, but secrets don’t stay hidden forever. And as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat…

(Prinxiety and Logicality centered)

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

Pane-fully Obvious:

Virgil's best friend Patton is a ghost that only Virgil can see and hear through the use of his friend's glasses until suspicion leads others to stumble upon the friendly spirits presence.

(Prinxiety and Logicality centered)(Rewrite of original Glass-says)

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

Contact Not Found:

After the events of Glass-says/Pane-fully Obvious the group is left dealing with grief amongst other things. Patton and Janus must learn to adjust after what happened at the lake and do so tentatively with each other's help.

(Prinxiety, Logicality, Loceit and Moceit centered)(Second part of Glass-says/Pane-fully Obvious)

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

Power Struggle:

Roman Prince didn’t plan on walking home in the rain after his first hero fight, dressed only in his boxers, mask, and boots. And he certainly hadn’t expected his invisibility to give out on him while he was either. But that’s what happens when you’re stuck sharing your powers with your troublesome twin.

(Prinxiety centered)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Ao3 Link

Spying on our Thoughts:

In a world where soulmates can hear each other’s thoughts when close enough, three spies—Patton, Roman, and Logan—are assigned to infiltrate a dangerous mafia trio: Janus "The Serpent" Deangelo, Virgil "The Viper" Storm, and Remus "The Rattler" Prince. Their mission is clear: gather intel, uncover the mafia's secrets, and take them down from within.

But things quickly spiral out of control when the spies discover that the mafia members are, in fact, their soulmates. Now, they must juggle their undercover roles with the delicate challenge of keeping their soulmate connections a secret—not just from the mafia, but from the agency they work for. Every shared thought is a risk, every moment of closeness an opportunity for their identities to be exposed.

As thoughts cross wires and secrets are whispered across minds, Patton, Roman, and Logan must navigate a whirlwind of misunderstandings, awkward moments, and unexpected emotional connections. With their mission on the line and the danger of exposure ever-present, the three spies are caught between their duty and their hearts in Spying on Our Thoughts—a story of secrets, lies, and soulmates who can’t seem to stay apart.

(Prinxiety, Intrulogical and Moceit centered)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Ao3 Link

Dimensional:

Virgil didn’t choose to become Thomas’s anxiety, and he certainly didn’t choose to be teleported between dimensions. Every jump thrusts him into a world where the counterparts of the sides he knows are often unfamiliar, unpredictable, and sometimes hostile. These encounters have left Virgil guarded, unwilling to share his struggles with anyone.

But the constant isolation and burden of being the only Virgil across dimensions are taking their toll. As tensions rise and unexpected alliances form, Virgil faces a choice: keep suffering in silence or find a way to connect, heal, and bridge the gaps between the fractured pieces of himself and the others.

(Analogical centered)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13

Ao3 Link

Anatomically Human:

A cryptid hunter faces a life-altering choice: reveal their groundbreaking discovery to the world or protect the cryptid from being exposed.

Logan has finally proven the existence of mer-people, but unveiling them might come at a cost he's not prepared to pay.

(Analogical centered)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

Ao3 Link

Storms, Lies and Coronets:

Prince Logan, betrothed to Prince Patton for political reasons, finds his heart belonging to Prince Virgil, a prince who fears the weight of the crown he’s meant to inherit in the kingdom of Mistwyn. As Logan helps Virgil escape to his own kingdom, their growing feelings for one another become increasingly complicated. Meanwhile, Logan’s older brothers, Prince Roman and Prince Remus, are locked in a fierce competition for the crown. The kingdom’s rule goes to whichever brother finds a partner to marry first, making the stakes higher than ever. Amidst this, Prince Janus, who has a long-standing rivalry with Roman, sneaks into Roman’s kingdom to steal something of value to use as leverage against him. However, his plan backfires when Roman catches him and forces him to spy on himself for Roman’s benefit. In a surprising twist, Roman seems less interested in the crown and more in winning Janus’s heart, leaving Janus to battle his own feelings as his rivalry with Roman shifts into something unexpected. As love, ambition, and loyalty intertwine, the princes' fates become more tangled than they could ever have imagined.

(Analogical and Roceit centered)

Chapter 1 Link, Chapter 2 Link

Ao3 Link

The Prince and the Pirate:

Logan, a gifted pirate with a painful past, is tired of being overlooked. When an unexpected opportunity arises, he seizes it. In exchange for helping Prince Virgil rescue his fiancé, Logan demands one thing: Virgil’s hand in marriage. As the two men navigate treacherous waters, Logan must confront his own struggles with trust, power, and the consequences of his gift, while Virgil grapples with the price of his rescue and an unlikely attraction to the pirate. What starts as a deal soon becomes something neither man expected.

(Analogical centered)

Chapter 1

Ao3 Link

Repetitive Misfortune:

Janus Deangelo had his school routine down to an art: be fashionably late, annoy everyone in sight, and discreetly admire his crushes during lunch—just another predictable day in the life of a self-proclaimed troublemaker. But when he wakes up to find the same day repeating over and over, his carefully planned chaos starts to unravel. Stuck in a loop, Janus must decide if breaking free means breaking his routine… or himself.

(DLAMP centered)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Ao3 Link

Just One Touch, Or Four:

Logan is reluctantly tasked with bringing his soulmates together without them realizing he knows about their bond. As the only one aware of the connection, he feels burdened by the responsibility of guiding them to each other while keeping his own involvement hidden. Though he wishes he could avoid the situation, Logan is determined to help his soulmates find each other—without revealing his bond to them.

(DLAMP centered)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Ao3 Link

A Necklace for Her, But Not for Me:

Virgil, a closeted trans boy, has been begging the universe to wait to introduce him to his soulmates. Unfortunately, fate has different plans.

(LAMP centered)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Ao3 Link

When the Light Finds Me:

Virgil is panicking. Roman is hiding. Logan is calculating. Patton is hoping.

Their necklaces are glowing, but none of them are ready to be found. When Virgil and Logan decide to fake being soulmates to avoid Roman and Patton, it seems like the perfect plan—until double dates and hidden fears push them closer to disaster. Between glowing secrets, pastel feathers, and the fragile hope of connection, these four will have to face the chaos of their own hearts.

(Analogical and Royality centered)(Reimagining of A Necklace for Her, But Not for Me)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Ao3 Link

A Snake's Familiar:

Janus, a cunning and ambitious witch, has spent months preparing to find the perfect familiar—a creature bound to him by magic. But when a sharp-eyed black cat catches his attention, Janus makes a fateful mistake, accidentally turning his ex-boyfriend, Virgil, into his new familiar instead. As they navigate the intricate bond forced upon them, Janus and Virgil must confront old feelings, new tensions, and the dangers of using magic outlawed in their country. Torn between duty, desire, and survival, they must come to terms with their past while facing the consequences of a spell gone awry.

(Anxceit centered)

Prologue, Chapter 1

Ao3 Link

Witches, Familiars, and Crushes, Oh My!

Roman, a witch with a crush on Janus, and Virgil, his familiar with a secret crush on Logan, find themselves tangled in a web of magic and awkward confessions. As their feelings come to light, Remus, another witch with a fondness for chaos, adds even more mischief to the mix. It’s a night of magic, secrets, and a whole lot of crushes—what could possibly go wrong?

(Roceit and Analogical centered)

One shot

Ao3 Link

Secure:

He was hungry, he was tired and he was sorry. Sorry before he even broke into the house. Could you blame him though? All he wanted was some sense of security, just for a while, but that's kind of hard when you're living on the streets and struggling to feed yourself every single day.

They were fed, they were wide awake and they were upset. One upset he had broken into the house. Two upset he was going to steal from them. And three upset with his current state. Should they blame him though? Doesn't everyone want and deserve at least a sense of security?

(Analogical centered)

One Shot

Ao3 Link

Excerpts:

Steady Beats in Chaos (Analogical Doctor Who) Ao3

The Eye of the Beholder (Roceit Vampire AU) Ao3

The Clumsy Collision (Prinxiety Magic Accident AU) Ao3

Taking Time (Moceit Self Health Concern) Ao3

The Frog's Prince (Moxiety Frog Prince Situation AU) Ao3

Dreamer's License (Logince Dream AU) Ao3

This is Our Get Along Suitcase (Moxiety + Logince Shenanigans) Ao3

[mistypsych]

ANATOMY OF A CRIMINAL - CHAPTER 7

/ yoongi / suga / agust d

summary: as a doctor you never expected to be dragged into “the criminal life”, nothing and no one seems to be true anymore, your whole world turns upside down after you save him.

pairings: yoongi mob boss x f.reader x non idol bts members.

warnings: smut, guns, knives, stabbings, blood, gore, murders, drugs, criminals, gang life, medical emergency, illness, abuse, swearing, angst, dubcon, gang violence, corruption, manipulation, lies, cheating - 18+ minors dni.

Note: Hi! This is an attempt of writing a fanfic long after not writing anything at all. Please keep in mind English is no longer my first language and it might be a bit rusty at times. Comments and thoughts are well appreciated. Don’t hesitate to ask questions, state your thoughts for me to post up and have me add you to the tag list!

You blinked very fast. Your thoughts were all over the place. Keeping your gaze on the KCIA badge you took a deep breath and mumbled “Yea… it does look like we need to talk…” trying to gather yourself, you turned to face the kind eyed man.

This was the moment he should start explaining, because you sure as hell had no idea what the actual fuck was going on.

He let out a long, quiet sigh, keeping his eyes on the road. “So… I am well aware you normally would not have anything to do with a gang, if it wasn’t for your reckless friend…” he started. “But… our target isn’t really the whole group. I mean yea, they are dangerous, cause some havoc but… they are also a well know danger… they keep the product they sell clean and such… yes it is bad, but how to say it? A evil you know is better than anything unknown and out of control right?”.

You tried to follow his logic, one questing popping into your head - then why was he even there? As if reading your mind he explained “We are fishing for the police… we have known the department has gotten very dirty in the recent years… and we are collecting enough evidence to be sure to take that scum down…” he turned his eyes to the road again waiting for you to slowly take in the information he has dropped on you.

You shake your head a bit and then look up as if asking the universe why the fuck this is all happening. “So… let me guess… my fiancé happens to be on the list…”. Jimin sighed and slowly nodded his head, clicking his tongue he looked at you for a second. “Listen… I know this is all a lot to take in… especially that your fiancé is an absolute dick… but… I assume you’d have nothing against putting his ass behind bars right?”.

You look at the man sitting next to you and try to think of an answer. In all honesty you would gladly have Hobi suffer since you found out not only is he dirty but also a cheater. The fact you slept with Agust-D did not seem like proper justice for the fact that asshole ruined all those years of your life. But having him locked up seemed like some kind of karma.

“Yea… I would not mind that at all…” you paused for a while and then asked “So… let me take a guess. You would love to have a spy in me huh?”. Jimin cleared his throat quietly, clearly not expecting you to be this blunt. “I won’t lie… it would probably make things easier… I believe you could fish out some important intel for us…”

Without much hesitation you say “Ok. Count me in then, as long as me and my friend Jungkook are not dragged into whatever consequences this shitshow brings…” the hazy eyed man slightly looks at you and nods “Of course… you will be my informant so I will make sure your demands are met…” you roll your eyes a bit not enjoying the fact once again you have been put in a peculiar spot.

You asked to be dropped off a couple of blocks before your building. Your neighborhood was safe enough for you to walk back and you sure as hell would not wan’t Hoseok seeing you get dropped off by Jimin.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

You will have to lie, pretend and play games with Hobi. It was not something you ever would see yourself doing but given the circumstances, you did not have many options in order to receive some sort of justice for yourself. The worst part being that you had to pretend you have no idea about what he did and that you are still oh so blindly in love with him, when in reality all you wanted is to beat him into a pulp for wasting all those important years of your life.

Walking in slowly into your apartment you gently closed the doors hoping that if your fiancé was there you would not wake him up. Looking around you saw his jacket and sighed. Luck was not on your side. It seemed that you were gonna have to deal with his company sooner then later.

You made your way passed the opened bedroom doors, making sure to be quiet and to get you the chance to sleep on the couch, but no, you had to be shit outta luck. “Y/N? Hun? That you?” you swore in your head and barely controlled your impulse to punch the wall. Silently clearing your throat you said “Yea… it’s me… I went out with Kookie and some other coworkers… since you said you would be home late again…” you lied threw your teeth.

A sound of the bed covers rustling hit your ears. You knew he was getting up, so you put your best pretend happy tipsy face on. Right then you saw him stand in the door and lean on the frame with a slightly sleepy face. He smiled at you and came up taking your hand in his. “Mmm… I’m sorry I am having to work so much lately babe…” you nodded your head afraid that if you spoke that moment he would pick up your pure rage.

After a second you gathered yourself “It’s fine, we both have jobs that can occupy us at times…” wrapping his arms around you he kissed your shoulder “What did I do to deserve such a woman?” you forced a giggle. “Can I make it up to you Y/N? Hmmm?” he hummed in a low voice pulling at your waistband. You laughed lightly and gave him a peck in the nose saying “we can discuss that after I take a shower and you make breakfast.”

He mumbled slightly disappointed but made his way to the kitchen, you on the other hand got into the bathroom. You stood there looking at your reflection in the big mirror questioning all your life decisions and if you should have ever moved to Korea. You turned on the water for it to warm up. You needed a hot shower to was off all the strain from your muscles.

Suddenly your phone rang causing you to jump up. Looking at the screen you could see a no caller ID show up. Normally you would ignore such a call but something in you gave you a hunch. Picking up the phone you quietly answered. “Hello?” you heard a deep sigh on the other side of the line and then the well know gravely voice “Didn’t take you would be the type to sneak out at dawn?” your heart clenched and then started beating like crazy. You could feel your body getting tense.

“And I wouldn’t think you’d be the type to be bothered by such a thing… I would think you’d appreciate it…” he chuckled, you could almost see him shaking his head in amusement “Nah… I was thinking of round two for breakfast…” you sigh grabbing the tip of your nose. This was all one big mess. “I have a fiancé…” you muttered hoping this would salve it and make him cancel the call, but instead he laughed loudly “Oh… I know you do and I ain’t bothered babe, because I know now when he fucks you, you’ll be thinking of me and all I can do to you”. His words rendered you speechless “Mmm just what I thought. You’ll be coming back for more Y/N and oh I will give it to you…” and at that he ended the call.

Standing there and looking at your cellphone you were trying collect yourself. This fucking cocky bastard was so sure you’d be coming back to him. “You wish… we will see who’s left begging…”

tags: @wobblewobble822 @nansasa @nochook @kootieful @kooslilhoe @yoongisducky @xjiminsthighsx @danielle143 @llallaaa @idkjustlovingbts @darcyw16 @missusally-blog @honsoolgloss @nochuel @kaitieskidmore1 @starrlo0ver @geek-lara-nerd @jwnghyuns @xyahrinx @acquiescence804

[kyndredravenstories]

Eyes of Infinity: Delirium Chapter 10

Hello, I have been posting my work on AO3 and recently decided to venture here to Tumblr. Please note: This story is 18+. No minors. Please read tags carefully. Link to AO3 below but I will also be posting the chapters here.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53564641/chapters/149322682

Pairing: Sylus/Female MC with some elements of Xavier/Female MC

Genre: Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Adventure, Smut, Porn with Big Plot and Big Feelings

Content Warning (For the entire fic): Explicit sexual content, spoilers and alterations to existing lore and cards/memories/tender moments/secret times, size kink, size difference, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, anal sex, fingering, all kinds of fingering, elements of consensual somno, dom!Sylus, jealousy, possessive!Sylus, Mephisto stalking, typical game violence, battle and combat

Summary: To love him meant stepping over the threshold and crossing into darkness. To be with him meant accepting the lure of the shadows. And to protect him from betrayal meant sacrifice. I knew not how, only that I would not let time sever our paths ever again.

Previous Chapters: Ch 1 / Ch 2 / Ch 3 / Ch 4 / Ch 5 / Ch 6 / Ch 7 / Ch 8 / Ch 9

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Give yourself to her...she's right here...so close...so very very close...

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Nearly two days after he found Ellara in the N109 Zone, Xavier stands before their shared apartment building holding his sleeping partner in his arms. Though its only been a few days, it seems like he hasn't seen this building in ages. It's a far cry from anything luxurious, but this aging building has been 'home' for several years now.

He takes a moment to collect himself, breathing deeply of the crisp winter air. The falling snow should be a relaxing sight; it typically is. But, not tonight. On this night, he can't let his guard down, can't relax yet. They left N109 and its perils behind. But, just because they've made it to Linkon doesn't mean they're safe. Eyes could still be watching. In fact, an unwelcome intruder already is.

Up above, a large crow circles and settles on a light pole. Its eerie red eyes observe his every move.

Choosing to ignore this particular development, Xavier hugs his beloved's petite body close, giving himself a moment -- just that -- to feel her warmth against his cheek. He takes it in, using it to fuel his resolve. Within his core, his Evol pulses and writhes. It eats at the edge of his awareness --whispering, beckoning -- and it takes all of Xavier's self-control to keep it in check.

He should take her to his apartment, not hers. It's only logical. She'll be safer there, on his couch, tucked against him while she sleeps. Yes, far from prying eyes. In his arms where she belongs.

With great effort, Xavier shakes off the voiceless whispers and focuses on the task before him. Right now, the priority is to get Ellara home safely. Nothing else matters. Not the mark on her neck, or the crow leering down from above, or the long-imprisoned monster now lurking in his thoughts and making its demands. Jeremiah is already working on a new Limiter. Just need to wait it out until he can get it working.

If only the last week hadn't been so harrowing. He needs sleep. And food. Medical help probably for his injuries. His body is on the verge of collapse, and losing that Limiter isn't helping anything. Breaking the collar was not something he'd intended to do. But, the battle hadn't left him much choice. Or rather, Sylus hadn't left him any recourse.

What was he supposed to do? Walk away and let that monster keep his Ellara in his claws?

Again, he shakes his head.

Escaping the N109 Zone had proven to be much harder than Xavier had anticipated, even with help from his contacts. Based on the intel he had on Noxis, only a handful of sectors and areas were free of their surveillance. He couldn't risk them catching wind of Ellara's whereabouts, so they'd had to take the long way out. Truth be told, he hadn't even wanted to take her back here.

His apartment may not be safe, either. They were watching...always watching...

No.

She needs to heal. She needs to return to some normalcy in order to recover both in mind and in body.

And, he needs time as well.

So many things will only get much harder from here. Keeping her safe will require all of his strength and fortitude. Noxis will seek every opportunity to capture Ellara's Aether Core. No doubt they want to use it to make LUMINIS even more powerful. If anything was made clear with the disaster at the Mythe, it's that Noxis isn't some two-bit upstart looking to corner the market on a simple drug. Someone is planning to do something grave with LUMINIS. This operation isn't new. It's been in play for some time, and those leading it know exactly what they're doing.

Clenching his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, Xavier looks up towards the third floor of the building. Taking the elevator seems too daunting at the moment, so he Jumps. Taking care not to jostle the sleeping woman in his arms, he teleports a few feet above her balcony then floats down until his feet softly touch the tile. The sliding door is unlocked, and he manipulates his Evol to open the door and allow him entry.

Though it's been over a week since she's been home, her apartment still smells like her. Strawberries and cherry blossoms. Sweet, addictive. Her favorite lotion from a hole in the wall boutique down in the Azure District. A pile of detective and fantasy novels sits atop her living room table, their covers full of scuffs and creases. On the couch, her Betsy doll smiles at him from beneath Ellara's favored blanket.

Everything looks as though she hasn't left. Neat. Organized. Tidy.

With one small difference.

Someone's definitely been here.

Taking great care not to wake her, Xavier lays Ellara on the couch. He adjusts her injured arm so that the sling he forced her to wear doesn't twist. She doesn't stir, sleeping like the dead. Her palor hasn't improved since he first saw her, either. He hasn't been able to confirm it, but something is definitely wrong with her Evol. Now that the collar no longer binds him, he can feel it clear as day.

A winter breeze comes through the open balcony door, and Ellara shivers in her sleep. He should lay down beside her and wrap her in his warmth. Keep her safe from the cold. But, someone's been here, and there's no telling what they took or left behind. Now was not the time to lay down arms. He needed to investigate the place first.

His gaze gentle yet alert, Xavier covers Ellara with her favorite blanket and stands up. In his hand, he summons the hilt of a golden blade, ready to engage in combat if the need arises. He moves silently to her kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. A sigh of relief; a release of tension in his shoulders. No one else is here, and Xavier takes a breath to keep his Evol and emotions steady.

He goes back to her bedroom. Her theme of gray, white, and black continues here from the living room. A cute desk stands against the wall, the cork board in front of it covered in small baubles, photo stickers, and plushies. Xavier smiles when he sees that most of the photos are of their times spent visiting the arcades in Linkon.

The bed is made, and all clothes and items are put away neatly. Not a thing looks to be out of place except for a single duffle bag sitting on Ellara's bed. It's new. Not hers. Wary, he walks up to its perch on the edge of the mattress and unzips it. Inside is a bunch of clothes packed into stacks based on use: shirts, pants, socks. Too neatly packed for his little workaholic. She always works too late on her reports and packs her things at the last minute, forgetting half of what she needs at home.

Something different about the closet, too. He shuffles to it but hesitates at the door. His instinct warns him not to open it. But, he needs to investigate. What if this is what's got him on edge? Of course. Now is not the time to hold back. He needs to ensure that this apartment is safe. Steeling himself, he grits his teeth and slides open the door.

Ellara is a frugal woman. She wears the same three sets of uniforms for work and only has a few everyday clothes that all fit neatly into bins on the closet shelves. Her hangars are usually empty. But now, something bulky hangs wrapped in a white designer clothes bag like a bright centerpiece. On the zipper hangs a slim stretch of paper with a single word on it scribbled in impeccable penmanship:

"Raincheck."

Xavier reaches for it.

Open it. Don't be a coward.

Against his better judgment, he unzips the bag all the way to the bottom. From within spills an extravagant evening dress with a stitching of the night sky stretching over a river. It's made of the finest silk and stitched with golden thread. Precious gems adorn the breathtaking scenery. A long flowing skirt ripples down to the floor. The quality is second to none. Without a doubt, it's a work of art. One of a kind.

Ellara will be a vision in this. Radiant, like a Goddess of the moon.

Shame it is not intended for you.

Anger simmers like an acid pill in his gut.

Because this item is clearly not something Ellara would ever buy for herself.

And who else could it be from but him, the same man that had dared to take her deep into the darkness, to touch her with his filthy hands, and to mark her like he owned her?

How dare he?

For centuries, Xavier had waited. Prayed and hoped. Then waited again. And at last -- at long last! -- he'd found her in a place where her life was her own. In a time when she could live as she desired and could choose him. He'd vowed not to interfere with her free will -- vowed to let her decide of her own volition whether she wanted their paths to unite. More than anything, he wanted her health and happiness, even if that wasn't by his side.

But, never had he really imagined that she might choose someone else instead.

Dizzy with fury, he stumbles back into the living room to stand before the couch. He watches Ellara sleep, his hands trembling and his heart in his throat. His nails dig into his palm as his hand clenches into a fist. He fights against the voice, so loud now. So insistent.

...she's so warm...and alive...alive at last...and mine... MINE ...

Why should he fight it? The voice was possessive, yes. Extreme, perhaps. But, it had a point. Nothing was yet decided. Sylus had played his cards, and now it was Xavier's turn. He'd waited on the sidelines long enough. He wasn't going to surrender her heart without a fight.

But, the voice was wrong, too.

Her free will mattered above all else. His vow was eternal, and he would never break it no matter how his soul cracked and shattered. He loved this woman more than his own unnatural immortal life, bought at the expense of her very heart. And it was that heart that he would protect with all he had.

From any who would harm it.

Even the monster inside of him.

As though sensing his determination, Sylus's crow flutters in through the open door and settles on a nearby bookshelf. It's crimson eyes narrow as it stares Xavier down.

Time to take care of this particular nuisance. He raises his hand, prepared to strike the unnatural thing down with his Evol, when his Hunter's watch rings with a message from an unknown number. He accepts it, grimacing when he reads the contents.

Be content with your role...or risk losing the gift you've been granted.

He types back without hesitation: "The loss will only be yours."

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Twenty four days, nineteen hours...

That's how much time passes from the moment when my life shattered on the rocks of chaos. Or maybe it wasn't a moment. Maybe it was a specific day? I can't be sure. So much happened in such a short amount of time that I can still hardly wrap my head around it all. In just a few weeks, I'd gone from living a calm and ordinary life as a Deepspace Hunter to facing one dramatic turn after another.

I'm losing my identity - my very purpose.

Who am I, if not a Hunter fighting Wanderers?

Who am I, if not Xavier's trusted partner?

Who am I, if not a lonely young woman who loves reading about detectives and fantastical new realms to a candlelit microwave dinner?

I try to think back on how it all started, wondering if maybe there was something I could have done differently to prevent this downward spiral.

Upon returning to Linkon, Xavier and I checked ourselves into Akso Hospital to treat our injuries. Doctor Zayne happened to be on shift. After hearing about my near-death experience, he was more than glad to help in screening me for any major after-effects. While succumbing to his battery of tests and inquiries, we reached out to Captain Jenna to schedule a debriefing.

As expected, the Captain was relieved to hear that I was alive and seemed to believe our story about me being injured and staying with a friend to lay low for a while. Naturally, the conversation turned to the truth about what happened in the club the night of the explosions. Reluctantly, we gave her everything we had on Noxis. There was no one better than Xavier and I to continue the investigation, and she was poised to place us at the head of it once our injuries were healed.

That's where everything started falling apart.

Doctor Zayne returned, and when he dismissed everyone from the room to speak to me, I knew something was seriously wrong. He didn't disappoint. Showing me the result of one test after another, he revealed a disturbing fact.

My Evol was gone.

Completely.

Something was blocking the Evol channels in my body, and if it wasn't resolved soon, my heart would be affected. The bouts of exhaustion I'd been facing weren't a result of the darkness in the N109 Zone. My Aether Core was shutting down, and there was no guarantee that one of these times, it wouldn't take my entire heart with it. At least, that was the theory. Not enough was really known about altered bodies like mine. Maybe Zayne was taking it too seriously; or maybe I wasn't taking it seriously enough.

Whatever the case, I asked him to keep it confidential. I didn't want anyone to know, especially Xavier. A solution was out there. I just needed to find it. Zayne said it could be temporary. If so, I just needed to figure out what would jump start my body back into its normal function. I wanted to remain positive. The alternative simply wasn't acceptable. I had too much to live for; too much still to do.

Though Zayne agreed to keep my sudden health problem a secret, I couldn't necessarily hide that something was amiss. He gave the Association a cursory diagnosis, claiming that I had a temporary disability due to my injuries. That's what we used for official record. However, the disappearance of my Evol rendered me basically useless in my former role as an S-Class Hunter. I retained my physical combat skills, but I couldn't Resonate with any of my weapons. I was more of a burden in combat than an ally, and with how fast paced and dynamic S-Class missions were, nobody could take the risk.

The first week went by in a flash of shattered hopes. I trained relentlessly, pinning everything on how weak my body was after my ordeal at the Mythe. I trained until I was ready to fall over. Yet, no matter how much I pushed my body, my Evol remained dormant.

On the second week, I was placed on extended medical leave. Suspension in all but name. Jenna wanted to reassign Xavier to a different Hunter as a partner, but he pulled some strings to avoid that. The thought was appreciated, but it did no good. Though my partnership with Xavier wasn't nullified, I was not allowed to accompany him on any missions.

After my diagnosis, he'd thrown himself into the Noxis investigations. He was determined to find out as much information as possible about the substance. We were both on the same wavelength. If my condition was caused by the LUMINIS spilling on me at the Mythe, we needed an antidote. This goal ultimately separated us for days on end, leaving me feeling useless and alone.

Tara was still in the hospital recovering after her kidnapping. She'd been transferred from the hospital in the Arctic to Akso just a few days before our return to Linkon. Unfortunately for us, she had no memory of who had attacked her. I visited her when I could, but she had her own battles to fight with physical therapy and getting back into her work at the lab.

To help ease my loneliness and help me feel more connected to what was happening, Xavier brought me to his friend Jeremiah. He was a tech genius and helped me obtain and configure a new phone and Hunter's watch. Since I was on suspension, my access to the UNICORNS database was revoked. Somehow, he helped me get past that. At the very least, I could do research now.

I started to lose hope in the third week. By the fourth, I couldn't sleep and hardly had any appetite. Worse yet, Sylus hadn't contacted me even once since we were separated on the battlefield. At first, I was worried something had happened. But then, doubts plagued me. More than once, I found myself brooding over what the twins had told me about being a prisoner or something Sylus was merely using for entertainment. A disturbing thought began to haunt me: had Sylus known about the disappearance of my Evol? Is that why he'd sent me away? Was I no longer useful to him without it?

I couldn't believe that he hadn't tried to reach me even once. The only line I had to him was Mephisto, who followed me everywhere I went. The crow's presence was oddly reassuring. At the very least, it helped remind me that I hadn't dreamed up everything that had happened in N109. Mephisto was Sylus's companion. He wouldn't have sent him to follow me if he didn't care about me. Right?

As I sit on my couch trying to understand where to turn or what to do next, my phone suddenly rings with a tone I've never heard before. I look down at the flashing notification.

Message from "Unknown". Do you accept?

I click the confirmation.

Are you tired of being on the sidelines? If you are, meet me at the Destiny Café tonight at 9PM. Come alone.

I hesitate. My hands start to tremble with excitement and fear. This doesn't sound like something Sylus would say, but who else would write a message like this?

I type back: "Who is this?"

To my surprise, my phone rings again.

What you choose to call me doesn't matter. I already told you, didn't I?

Biting my lip, I type a response: "Malakai?"

I have what you want most and a proposition to go with it. Will you wait until your heart stops beating at some random moment? Or will you come to me and make a trade? It's up to you.

I suck in a breath.

What I want most?

He can't be talking about an antidote, can he?

I jump to my feet and run to my closet. Sliding open the door, I notice a strange empty hanger I hadn't seen there before. Did Xavier bring it from his place? Shaking my head, I focus on getting dressed. I put on my Hunter uniform and holster two regular hand guns to my hips. I pull on a pair of combat boots and tie my hair into a braid. Glancing at my watch, I check the time:

2:15 PM

It's still early, but I want to go and scope out the scene before the meeting time. The Destiny Café is a very public place with many visitors and patrons. The 24-Hour venue is a popular hot spot for everyone from couples to gaming nerds who want to get away from the hustle and bustle of the every day. It has a public open bar, an internet café, and private rooms that can be rented for a fee per hour. No doubt Malakai will have rented one of these. If so, I can check the records with the staff. Though I'm on suspension, my Hunter's watch and uniform should make me look legit enough to gain some information without too much resistance. 

Would Malakai really try something under such public scrutiny? 

This could be a trap. It probably is. Absolutely. Definitely. But, I don't have the luxury to risk refusing. If Malakai has an antidote, then I have to try to get it. I don't know what connection he has to Noxis or why he was at the Mythe that fateful night, but this is a lead I absolutely can't ignore. His threat about my heart already has me sweating bullets. I've been trying to ignore Zayne's warnings, hoping that it was just his paranoia. But now, a second person has mentioned the possibility of my heart stopping. If that's true, then I'm living on borrowed time. Either I go and risk falling into a trap, or I stay here and wait for death to take me. When put that way, the choice seems clear. 

Is there anything I can do to try to protect myself, though? Jumping into the fire is something my old self would have done without thinking. But, I'm wiser now. At least, I want to believe so. I consider texting Xavier, but I hesitate. He's on a mission right now, and I don't want to distract him. But, I'd promised Sylus that I wouldn't be reckless, and I never want to see so much pain in Xavier's eyes again.

Running my hand through my hair and letting out a frustrated burst of air, I type him a quick text to let him know what's going on. Our relationship has been strange since our return to Linkon. He's been more distant than usual, though I can't really blame him after that awkward night at the bunker in the No Hunt Zone. I have no idea what he thinks of me anymore, and I'm too scared to assume. For the moment, I've chosen to stick my head in the sand until all of this blows over with my Evol.

I glance at Mephisto dozing on top of my TV and walk up to him. He lazily cracks open an eye. If I had to give an animal an emotion, I would have chosen "disgruntled" in this case. For a mechanical thing, he certainly has personality. Frowning, I clear my throat. I've haven't spoken to him in a while. Doing so always felt ridiculous. But, now...

"Sylus," I whisper, instantly feeling like an idiot. Despite that, I keep going.

"Sylus, I don't know if you can hear me. I don't know where you are or why you haven't reached out to me at all. Actually," my ears feel hot, "this just feels really stupid overall. But if there's a chance that you can hear me, then..." I take a breath. "I'm going to meet someone named Malakai. Tonight. Don't know if that name rings a bell. I met him at the Mythe the night I was injured. He was wearing a mask and seemed to be one of the people interested in buying LUMINIS. I have no idea if this is a trap, but he made me an offer I can't refuse."

My pride churns and boils inside me, but I take another breath and continue. "The truth is that I'm helpless right now. I don't have my Evol, and even if I did..." I hesitate. Why is it always so hard for me to ask anyone for help? Is it because I already feel weak and useless? Isn't asking for help just affirming that?

Another breath.

"This isn't courage. It's desperation, and if you can hear me I surely would appreciate some backup."

Mephisto is looking at me with both eyes now, the red within reminding me so much of his master. For a moment, I let myself feel how much I miss Sylus. How much I need him. The emotion is so strong that I have to immediately bury it deep within the back of my mind. Where I'm going, I can't afford distractions. I have to assume the worst case scenario: nobody will come to help me tonight. It'll be up to me and me alone to get myself out of this mess.

I turn towards the door and check my guns and clips one last time.

"Are you coming?" I ask Mephisto. He caws in his typical annoying way and makes a fuss as he flies over and reluctantly sits on my shoulder. "Alright. Let's do this."

[thalia-of-ithaca]

Thalia Of Ithaca

“Actually I’m from Athens-“

Shhh…

Age: 22

Gender: “Uhhhh..”

Prns: She/He/They

Mother: Athena “She got frustrated so bad that I came out of her brain. Weirder ways to get born.”

Bisexual. Dresses masculine but will dress feminine from time to time.

knows:

@lethia-not-athena (My mother!)

@ceixion-of-ithaca (Boyfriend…..)

“Why your mother’s brain of all places?”

“Don’t ask me. Maybe she was trying to copy gramps.”

“I have most of my mother’s traits, strategic, good with weapons, wise, blah blah blah. Except for hubris. I’m more loyalty than hubris.”

“Yes I’m a demigod… I don’t have a dad technically but I was raised by one!!”

Personality: Sarcastic, wise, strategic, loyal, caring, just chill most of the time, though she will not hesitate to slash you if needed. Patient and acknowledges that everything takes time. Cunning and extremely intelligent, manipulative, but mostly peaceful.

Distrustful and it's hard to gain their trust. On the contrary, it's really easy to lose it. Although, she is said to be the best friend that you could have.

ADHD and dyslexic.

Voiceclaim: here…

Appearance: basically the pfp? here’s a link on how she would be like. Tho she has gray eyes!!!

She uses spears and swords! Rarely a dagger or bow but she can use those!

She tends to be extremely casual to the Olympian gods and will most of the time insult their power or sass them (Percy style, but like 10x that).

No nsfw chat…

I don’t mean to offend anyone with this GUYS!!

POWERS/SKILLS:

"Possession" (Limited): Capable of viewing the world through an owls/serpent's eyes, as they are Athena's sacred animals. They can use this ability for a multitude of uses such as gathering Intel, spying, or even just for fun. Although this ability is dangerous, if the creature they are 'possessing' were to perish they would lose their sight for a week. But if it were to be harmed, they'd feel the pain of it in their eyes.

Audiokinesis & Memorization: Thalia have minor Audiokinesis. They can memorize virtually anything, whether that be a chapter from a 5,000 paged hard cover, a note from a song that was played 5 years ago, or the sound of a bird. Nothing leaves their memory vault.

Weapon Proficiency: Capable of coming in contact with an item and immediately know exactly how to use that item and what that item is for.

Telumkinesis: Can control weapons, although to a lesser degree than children of Ares.

Craftsmanship: Is a great craftswoman. They can invent weapons and newly discovered objects but to a lesser degree than children of Hephaestus.

Combat Prowess: Thalia is excellent in battle since their mother is the Goddess of Defensive Warfare and Skill. They are a beast when it comes to planning.

She can say something completely silly and to the individual they're talking to it will sound completely logical and smart.

Enhanced Intelligence.

The demigod offspring of Athena possess the unparalleled ability of Cognitive Omniscience, a divine gift that encompasses heightened Situational Awareness (SA). 2) Situational Awareness Mastery:

Contextual Perception: The demigods of Athena are attuned to their surroundings at an extraordinary level. They can instantly grasp the details of any environment, foreseeing potential challenges and opportunities.

Future Insight: Through their divine SA, these demigods can strongly anticipate not forsee future events and make strategic decisions that consider the broader context, akin to glimpses into the future.

Zoolinguism (Part 1): Being connected to the Goddess of Wisdom and War, exhibit a unique affinity with animals, characterized by a combination of intellect, empathy, and strategic understanding. Thalia possess an intellectual communication with animals. They can understand and interpret the behaviors, sounds, and body language of various creatures, forming a mental link based on wisdom and mutual understanding. Their empathy extends beyond mere emotions; it encompasses a strategic understanding of animal behavior. This allows them to anticipate the needs and reactions of animals, fostering a harmonious interaction.

Zoolinguism (Part 2): Is easily able to befriend snakes, owls, roosters, doves and eagles (symbolic for the goddess Athena) to such an extent that they are able to keep these animals as pets. They can also possess these creatures and gain their ability of flying, sight, hard but temporary venom bites etc. In short, they are able to gain all the abilities of these animals and if the creatures they are possessing get hurt the demigod kids of Athena will accurately feel their pain and emotions. Several times they get so close to their pets that they are able to communicate telepathically, and the children of Athena can hear the thoughts of their beloved companions and same goes from the side of the creatures. However, they can accurately feel their emotional and physical pain more. As a result, a lot of them refrain from keeping these creatures as pets because they get so close to them at times, that its' not possible to differentiate between who the animal and master is so they look like crazy people walking on half-blood hill. Also, the goddess Athena prefers her children to maintain some secrecy over their abilities and powers for safety purposes. In fact, a lot of demigods from a multiple number of cabins keep a lot of their powers private to maintain some confidentiality among the other campers who may get envious for different reasons.

Psychokinesis

Telepathy: She has the ability to read minds and the ability to send messages to other people's minds.

Tactical Agility:

They have an uncanny ability to navigate physical challenges with unparalleled agility and grace. Their movements are strategic, allowing them to outmaneuver opponents in athletic competitions or battles

Enhanced Reflexes:

Quick thinking and sharp reflexes define the athleticism of Athena’s children. Whether in a fast-paced sport or a combat scenario, they can react with extraordinary speed, evading obstacles or opponents effortlessly.

Strategic Endurance:

Athena's offspring possess endurance rooted in mental fortitude. Their ability to strategize during long physical endeavors, such as marathons or extended battles, sets them apart, showcasing the fusion of physical and intellectual strength.

Observational Precision: They excel in observing their surroundings with acute precision. This extends to their athletic endeavors, where they can analyze opponents' movements, identify weaknesses, and formulate strategies on the fly.

Death Count: 0

Kill Count: 47

Stab Count: 100+

Stabbed Count: 12 (“I know.”)

Cunning Deception : In competitive scenarios, they can employ cunning tactics to deceive opponents. Whether in a strategic game or a physical contest, they may use misdirection, feints, or unexpected maneuvers to gain the upper hand.

Intellectual Training Regimens:

They develop specialized training regimens that blend physical conditioning with intellectual exercises. This unique approach ensures that their bodies and minds are in sync, maximizing their athletic potential.

Strategic Sportsmanship: They embody sportsmanship with a strategic mindset. They understand when to compete fiercely and when to extend a hand in cooperation, showcasing a balance between cunning competition and honorable conduct. Enhanced Precision in Sports Skills: Whether it's archery, martial arts, or other sports requiring precision, Athena's demigods exhibit an exceptional level of accuracy. Their clever understanding of physics and strategy allows them to excel in activities that demand precision.

Quick Thought.

[kristiliqua]

im just thinking about wil’s stream today and how much it revealed abt q!wilbur’s character based off of his actions and behavior . help .

(TLDR at the end)

likeee . bro was so quick to draw conclusions , assume , and then put blame on others , despite have little to no information on literally anything abt the eggs’ disappearance . he was quick to blame everyone who was active on the server , saying that the eggs are still missing bc they “havent tried hard enough” and are just “doing nothing” , in terms of searching for them — all of which is untrue , but he says it as if its a fact anyway . even finding q!cellbit sus and not trusting him , despite knowing (again) little to nothing abt the guy , about his character and who he’s like as a person (that he cares a fuck ton abt the eggs and has been trying so hard to find any clues as to where they are) , the fact that he’s been gathering all the info he could ever since they disappeared (and before that , with other shit) . but he blames and finds him suspicious anyway .

he blames everyone else , when everything is and has been out of their control . they dont know much and Cant know much bc they know jack shit abt what could Actually be happening with the eggs . they only have theories and ideas

realistically , the thing q!wilbur should blame is ,, whoever or Whatever took the eggs away . but since he doesnt know wtf thatd be , its not as easy or assuring as it were to be if he blamed it on an actual Person or people he knows , instead of smth he doesnt know at all . its easier for his grief , to blame someone for the cause of it , to be angry and upset at someone . a physical person he can blame . and this irrational/illogical behavior is probably caused by the , yk . reasonably upset reaction that came with the bad news of his daughter being gone

plus the way he went to just ,, do it all by himself , despite the Very limited intel he had , saying that theyll never find the eggs if they just “follow the rules” (in his words) and all “do the same thing” . so he does it his own way , searching for any clues on anything , despite knowing practically nothing abt anything thats happened these past few months . even tho he knows that , logically , everyone else on the island probably has a bunch of info already , info that they could give him to help in his search (bc they all have the same goal in mind) . but instead he’s stubborn and doesnt want anybody else’s help , thinking theyre too incompetent and dont care enough abt the eggs — so he does it by himself , all up until someone reaches out to help him , rather than him asking for help himself (that someone being q!phil) . and in his attempts he ofc fails miserably , bc he Doesnt Know Anything . he has limited access to everything that could potentially be helpful (doesnt know where or what the order is and barely has any waypoints , only checking his and tallulah’s and the outside of phil’s house) , and so he’s basically working with fucking scraps . like itd literally be Impossible for him to find the eggs all by himself , he Needs the help from the others in order to make even a little bit of actual progress (so everyone thank q!phil for pulling up even after their little argument)

and logically (bc he isnt Stupid) , he probably Knows that . he knows that the others very likely care abt the eggs as much as he does (bc why would they all be gathering up for this mission thats For the eggs if they didnt .?) and have far more info than he could ever get by himself , bc he’s been gone for months and hasnt been caught up on anything of actual importance . but he was so upset and quick to blame everyone else (the mfs who could actually Help him and Know Shit) that he shut them off , going off by himself . esp after q!phil lashed out at him

anddd maybe there was a little spite or pettiness in there too , him wanting to prove that he can do it better than them , that he can get more than theyve ever gotten since they “didnt try hard enough” n all , and him finding shit out in a single day would be a huge testament to that idea . but ofc that didnt happen lmfao — he was practically playing a big guessing game with the info he had (or the lack thereof)

TLDR — i just find it interesting that q!wilbur was so quick to jump to conclusions and to push blame onto anyone and everyone he could , even tho he barely knows anyone on the island anymore . the way he went to take matters into his own hands , bc if theyre not gonna do anything abt it , then he will (,,, Not . bro was So lost)

just . what an interesting fella . what fun characterization . what a silly guy who is mourning the loss of his daughter (he is in denial)

[nani-nonny]

Another short writing warmup that started as dialogue but I expanded it very slightly hehe :)

I call it “Attached” hehe

Prompt: (set in the rise future during the apocalypse) Leo converses with Donnie and Mikey after returning with a baby Casey Jr in his arms, discussing what to do with the infant that survived due to the Krang in its DNA (842 words)

“No, I just—I can’t leave him. He’s… I found him in Casey’s arms. She’s… this is her’s. I don’t know what to do,” Leo slides down the wall, landing roughly on his behind as he covers his head with his hands. He tries to control his hands, laying them flat against his head but they’re shaking, uncontrollably so.

“But Leo, it’s Krang. There’s Krang in it—,” Donnie argues, an uncertain expression on his face like he doesn’t want to believe his own words. He continues as his expression sours, “And the Krang in it is the only thing keeping it alive. As much as I love our friend Casey, we can’t keep this thing. It will only lead to our downfall.”

Mikey crouches at the baby’s bedside, a crate made with wooden scraps and blankets. He places his hand on the bent railing, staring at the sleeping infant wrapped in dirty cloth. “But he’s just a harmless little baby.”

“Krang baby,” Donnie corrects.

Leo sighs and clenches his shaking hands into tight fists. He rests his head back against the cold concrete, countering Donnie by saying, “He can’t do anything now.”

Donnie frowns, “What about years into the future? When he’s grown up? We don’t know how or when the Krang side of him will show up!”

Leo nods, that’s exactly what he thought. Donnie keeps bringing up his thoughts when he first saw the baby—first saw the flash of green behind the infant’s pupils. He already knows this, but he had hoped Donnie would have something else to say that he hadn’t thought of. He reluctantly admits, “We can’t risk it.”

It seems Donnie is hoping for the same thing as he turns to the mystic warrior crouching on the ground. His tone is near pleading, hoping that the master of mysticism would have an alternative option. “Mikey, can’t you do something about it? Can’t you kill off the Krang infection?”

But Mikey doesn’t give them the alternative answers they seek. He doesn’t even try to hide it in his expression as he frowns, shaking his head as he says, “This isn’t an infection, this is—it’s a part of him. Incinerating the part that makes him Krang will kill him with it. He’s half Krang.”

Leo winces, tired of hearing that part of the infant that he can’t get rid of—can’t save the child from. He pleads this time, desperately clinging onto an inkling of hope that there’s something. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

Donnie turns away from everyone, looking down toward the crease where the concrete wall meets the ground. He shrugs, but only halfway, still uncomfortable with the topic at hand. He tries to hide his disgust as he replies, “Well, you already know my option.”

Mikey snaps in Donnie’s direction, a snarl of disgust stretched on his face as he speaks clearly enough for Donnie to hear, “We’re not killing him.”

Donnie tries to remain logical, refusing to look in the sleeping infant’s direction. “Why not? He may be a baby now, but it’s not like we can raise the krang out of him. He’s part of the Krang.”

Leo perks suddenly, his hope clinging to this new idea, “Then we’ll learn about him. Gather our intel about the Krang from raising this baby.”

Donnie raises his brow at Leo, crossing his arms over his chest as he asks, “Are you suggesting experimentation on an infant?”

The slider early scoffs at the sudden change in Donnie’s argument, a complete 180 from what the softshell was suggesting before. “So now you care that it’s a baby?”

Donnie raises a finger as he shakes his head, “Not where I’m going at.”

Mikey crouches down again, looking only at the infant as he pokes a finger close to touching the infant’s cheek. He coldly asks Donnie, “Then where are you going with this?”

Donnie remains silent for a few seconds, scrunching his eyebrows as he hesitates to say what’s on his mind. He stares at the ground, barely hugging himself before he finally speaks, “…What if you get attached? What if you start actually liking this baby? What will you do when this baby inevitably turns its back on us for the Krang? Will you be able to pull the plug then?”

“…”

Neither one of the brothers responds in turn. Mikey only stares at the infant, finally garnering the courage to poke the chunky little cheek. But Leo, he finally stops shaking. The slider swallows anxiously, breathes deeply to calm his nerves. Donnie doesn’t fail to speak his thoughts aloud again, voicing the inner turmoil he struggled with from the moment he picked up the infant from the rubble—cradled in his mother’s arms.

Donnie releases an exhausted sigh as he finally voices the one question that lingered in the back of each of their minds. He asks the question despite the bitter taste it leaves on his tongue, “Are you willing to sacrifice hundreds for this tiny baby on the small, small chance that there won’t be any consequences?”

[fnatweety]

“Let’s break it down. This is not about @POTUS Trump becoming a “warmonger.”

It’s about how a man who loathes war may be facing a once-in-a-generation decision that could either prevent nuclear disaster—or trigger it.

I watched @MarkHalperin full monologue (13 minutes), and I have to say: it was calm, unemotional, and unusually clear. No hysteria. Just logic.

So I decided to test his points using the Gad Saad method: logic + evidence + psychology = truth. Let's break it all down.👇

🔹 1. Halperin says Iran is days away from getting a nuclear bomb.

📌 FACT: The IAEA has confirmed that Iran is enriching uranium to 60%, and with their stockpile and centrifuges, they could reach weapons-grade (90%) within three weeks—possibly build one bomb in a matter of days.

📌 Israeli intel and U.S. officials both agree: Fordow, the hardened mountain facility, is the final red line.

✅ This is not hype. This is physics and chemistry.

🔹 2. He claims only the U.S. can destroy Fordow.

📌 Israel’s bombs can’t penetrate the depth of that mountain. Only U.S. B-52s armed with Massive Ordnance Penetrators (MOPs) can do that.

📌 As of June 16th, B-52s were deployed to the region. That’s not a drill. That’s positioning.

✅ This claim is also factual. Without America, Fordow survives.

🔹 3. Halperin says Israel already owns Iran’s skies.

📌 He argues that the IDF has dismantled Iran’s ability to control its own airspace.

📌 NPR confirms Iran’s air defenses have been degraded—but not fully destroyed. Some missile batteries remain.

📌 Iran still has functioning SAM systems, and WaPo reports roughly 50% of long-range defenses remain.

⚠️ True in part—but not “eliminated.” We should not assume the skies are fully friendly.

🔹 4. Markets didn’t panic, which means the world sees this as controlled.

📌 Oil prices rose ~4%, and there was a brief stock dip—but no financial collapse.

📌 This is surprising. Historically, just the threat of war with Iran would send markets crashing.

🟡 Halperin is mostly right here. The world hasn’t melted down yet—but it’s holding its breath.

🔹 5. Iran’s regional proxies are weakened.

📌 Hezbollah, the Houthis, and Syrian IRGC forces have all taken hits. Israeli strikes in the past year crippled their SAMs and storage.

📌 But “weakened” ≠ “gone.” These actors still exist and can retaliate.

🟡 This is partially true. Iran is bruised, but not broken.

🔹 6. The political landscape in the U.S. is fractured, but quietly supportive.

📌 Both far-left voices (David Hogg, Bernie Sanders) and MAGA isolationists (Tucker Carlson, Marjorie Taylor Greene) say stay out.

📌 But within the Senate Intelligence Committee, there’s quiet bipartisan support for contingency strikes—if needed.

📌 Many in Trump’s inner circle are not pushing regime change, but see denuclearization as non-negotiable.

✅ Halperin nailed this: the horseshoe effect is real, but pragmatism dominates behind closed doors.

🔹 7. Trump’s admiration for Israeli excellence is a factor.

📌 Trump respects results. Whether it’s elite athletes or elite militaries—he gravitates toward top performers.

📌 Israel has a history of surgical strikes: Iraq’s Osirak (1981), Syria’s reactor (2007), multiple sabotage ops inside Iran.

✅ It’s fair to say Israeli performance builds confidence in joint action.

🔹 8. The window for diplomacy may be closed.

📌 Iran’s recent messages say “we’re open to negotiations,” but their past tactics involve delay, not disarmament.

📌 Trump, famous for “The Art of the Deal,” is also known for walking away from bad faith players.

📌 His body language at the G7, as Halperin observed, said it all: “No more games.”

✅ If Iran doesn’t offer total surrender of their nuclear capacity, there’s no deal to make.

🔹 9. Regime change is the wild card.

📌 U.S. presidents have long hoped for organic revolution in Iran—one led by the people. But despite years of repression, the regime has held tight.

📌 Trump knows regime change brings chaos. He doesn’t want another Iraq. But if it happens as a side effect of a military strike, there’s debate inside his administration on how to handle it.

⚠️ This is a massive unknown. There’s no script once the missiles fly.

🔍 GAD SAAD ANALYSIS: Are we being manipulated?

Honestly, Halperin’s delivery was clean. No emotional bait, no fear porn, no fake “WWIII” hysteria. Just facts + logic.

But let’s be cautious:

✅ No idea pathogens detected

❌ No straw men, no demonization, no utopian promises

Saad’s checklist holds. This isn’t propaganda—it’s strategy talk.

🔥 SO WHERE DO WE STAND?

We face a binary fork in history:

Let Iran finish its nuclear program in a hidden mountain facility, fully aware of what that means for Israel, oil markets, and global security.

Use elite air power now—before they cross the point of no return—and accept the risks that come with it.

And remember: no other country on Earth can destroy Fordow but the United States.

Israel can’t finish the job alone

📜 "To everything there is a season... A time for war, and a time for peace." — Ecclesiastes 3:8

The season we’re in may not be what we hoped for. But it must be faced with courage, clarity, and caution.

If Trump does act, history may remember it not as the start of war, but the prevention of a nuclear catastrophe.”

@f_leclerc20037

I FNATWEETY did not write this. But I agree with the logic and reasoning behind it.

[jungkoode]

Where is the limit on the "relationships are weaknesses" mentality ? You say V wants to show Jeon is still vulnerable and therefore still a threat, but that was a case wayyy before Sunshine came into the picture and exposed Jeon in tiny tiny ways in the way they interact that V probably sees. Jeon would have never admitted to being fuckbuddies with Sunshine or sharing a bed with anyone the way he was willing to with Jhope even in his annoyance and in trying to prove hes got it under to control. Never in a fuckin life he would have admitted it anywhere within AD's ears. Is just admitting to have a crush or have feelings for someone the line ? WIll it lead to actions to separate the people ? What about close friendships that regularly includes cuddles, bed sharing, maybe even cuddly fuckbuddies, is it like high school rule where the kiss is what draws the line ? Is it when the feelings between people start clouding their mind and affecting their decision making negatively, even if it were platonic ?

Soooo this was briefly addressed and very intentionally not explicitly stated or developed in narration, but I did hint at it lowkey. 👀

The ‘no attachments’ rule isn’t about sex. It’s not even really about intimacy or closeness or sleeping in the same bed. It’s specifically about romantic attachment. And that’s a crucial distinction.

The “relationships are weaknesses” rule doesn’t apply to friendships, affection, or even people being physically close or sexually involved—people in KGP hook up, sleep in the same beds, have deep emotional bonds. What it does apply to is emotional romantic attachment that can lead to perceived betrayal of the gang’s interests. And the reason that line is so sharp, so non-negotiable, goes all the way back to RM’s origin story as mentioned in chapter 9.

RM’s brother (Jin) was betrayed by the person he trusted most—his fiancée. She sold intel to MDF. That act didn’t just cost him his position—it cost him his life.

And for RM, watching someone he admired and loved get taken down by romantic entanglement became a foundational trauma. That betrayal, under the guise of love, is what burned the rule into stone. Romantic relationships make you vulnerable. And vulnerability makes you fallible. So when RM took over, he didn’t ban friendships. He didn’t ban sex. He banned love.

So this isn’t some high school “if you kiss it counts” rule. This is psychological warfare. This is about where your loyalty goes when everything is on the line. Romantic love—deep, exclusive emotional attachment—is seen as a threat to structural integrity. Because history showed them what happens when love turns into betrayal.

And RM, just as every other character here, is also deeply traumatized; and thus acts accordingly; even if to outside people his logic is flawed. It comes from somewhere deep.

Now bring that back to Jeon.

The problem isn’t that he’s sleeping around, it’s that in everyone’s eyes (everyone who knows, who’s almost nobody), he’s a traitor.

Nobody else has to be secretive. Nobody else is being watched like he is. That’s the core psychological fuckery happening here. It’s not about sex. It’s not about cuddles. It’s not about affection. It’s about Jeon. Because he already proved he could fall. And when he did, someone died.

So now? He has to keep everything tight. Controlled. Quiet. Not because he’s in love again—not consciously, not even close—but because he’s already on thin ice. He’s a man. A healthy man. He’s attracted to Sunshine—because she’s sharp and independent and nothing like Sylvia, and because wanting her feels instinctual, inevitable. And yes, because he wants to fuck (lmao)—but that’s not the issue.

The issue is that he isn’t just anyone; it’s that he is the guy who broke the rule once and got someone killed for it. And the people watching him—V, AD, even RM—aren’t clocking his desire. They’re watching for patterns. For signs. For déjà vu. They don’t care if it’s just attraction. They care about possibility. They care about the idea that history could repeat itself.

So he lies. Not because he’s hiding a grand romance, but because he knows even the appearance of emotional compromise could cost him everything.

And V? V’s not looking for a kiss or a confession. He’s looking for slippage. Evidence that Jeon might break the rule again. Because that gives V the green light to say: “He’s a liability. You’ve seen this before. And he’s doing it again.” and boom, take him out.

So yes—romantic feelings are the line. Not because they’re inherently wrong, but because of what they represent in this world. A person torn between their loyalty to the gang and their loyalty to one person. And that is something RM doesn’t tolerate. Not after what happened to his brother. Not ever again.

And I promise… all of this is going to make even more sense the deeper into the story we go.

You’re already seeing the threads. Keep pulling.