#rust-resistant control arm | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckysleftbicep · 21 days ago

Text

no sudden moves 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, mutual desperation, mentions of tight spaces (tw: claustrophobia)

summary: a mission had gone to hell, wounded and cornered, you and bucky hide in a shaft barely wide enough for one. it starts with a touch, and it ends with you coming undone in his hands.

word count: 4.6k

author's note: hi my loves! this is an idea i had in my mind lately, and i am so excited to finally have it posted up! love you guys, please stay safe! 💓

The concrete floor was soaked in blood and coolant.

Thick rivulets ran beneath your boots, mingling into a sickly smear that clung to every step. The air was chokingly damp, metallic with rust and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the aftermath of plasma fire.

The walls groaned around you, steel skeletons straining under stress fractures. Overhead, emergency strobes flickered with epileptic urgency, casting red and white pulses that danced like ghosts across scorched tile and broken rebar.

Somewhere behind you, a pipe burst with a metallic scream, jetting steam into the air so violently it echoed like a detonation. The shockwave reverberated through the corridor, rattling the bones of the facility.

The lights overhead guttered, struggling to stay alive in the chaos. They buzzed and flickered, bathing everything in a staccato strobe that blurred movement into nightmare. Friend and enemy were just silhouettes now. Just shadows.

Every breath tasted like smoke and copper and panic.

You sprinted.

Boots hammered against the ground, splashing through slick pools of coolant and something darker. Your lungs burned, your throat scraped raw from the air that was quickly turning to poison.

Each step jarred your body, jostling the fresh wound at your side—a sharp, searing burn that you were trying very hard to ignore. But when your hand shot down to apply pressure, your glove came away red and sticky.

Shit.

Bucky was just ahead of you—a dark silhouette moving like a phantom, purposeful and controlled even in the carnage. He turned sharply at the junction, glock raised, muscles coiled tight.

He didn’t glance back, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel his awareness of you like a wire stretched taut between your bodies—a constant pull.

He moved with you in mind. Always.

The sirens overhead howled, their keening pitch loud enough to blur thought. Somewhere in the distance, distorted voices barked over intercoms in a language you didn’t recognise. The earpiece at your neck spat static, crackled once, then died.

"Comm’s dead," you rasped, ducking low as gunfire split the corner behind you, rounds ricocheting off the far wall with sparks.

"No shit," Bucky muttered, already moving, already firing. Three controlled bursts—center mass. The figure ahead dropped before it could scream. “You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed,” you bit out, stumbling slightly as you followed him through the next turn. The corner of the wall caught your shoulder—pain flared.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Quick in. Quick out. Sweep the lower levels, confirm the cache, plant charges. Black market tech from some HYDRA splinter.

Old ghosts. Easy target.

But somewhere between the briefing room and ground level, everything had gone to hell.

The resistance was heavier than expected. The layout had changed and there were reinforcements waiting—armed. Whoever was here had been tipped off, and now the entire facility was shaking apart around you.

Another shadow lunged from the smoke—Bucky didn’t hesitate. The glock cracked once, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut.

“We need cover. Now.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” you muttered, teeth clenched. Your boot skidded across the slick ground—a slurry of melted tile, blood, and some kind of chemical discharge. You nearly went down.

Bucky grabbed your vest with one quick, powerful jerk, yanking you back upright. His vibranium fingers curled around your gear like steel cables, the motion precise but rough. “You with me?”

You nodded, panting. “Still standing.”

He glanced down, eyes darkening as they took in the spreading stain at your ribs. There was a moment, just a flicker, where something colder passed over his face. Not panic.

Not exactly. Something sharper. Something older. Not at you. At whoever had fired that round. At the idea of losing you.

The ground rumbled again beneath your boots. Another explosion, deeper this time. Structural, maybe. Something was definitely collapsing.

“They’re trying to bury this place,” you breathed.

“No—” he said, grim. “They’re trying to bury us.”

His gaze darted around the corridor, calculating in that quick, precise way he did, always seeing angles, routes, exits. A soldier’s mind. A killer’s instinct.

Then it landed—sharp, immediate.

“There.”

To your left, a collapsed portion of wall, partially obscured by a mound of broken paneling and twisted rebar. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. Bucky was already on it, shoving debris aside like it weighed nothing.

Behind the rubble, a maintenance shaft. Narrow. Deep. Black.

Just wide enough for two bodies, that’s if they didn’t mind pressing close.

Too close.

“In.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and absolute.

You stared at it. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

“I’m not.”

The shaft looked like a coffin. The jagged metal edges were wet with condensation, the air inside swirling with oil and smoke. “There’s no way we both fit in there.”

“Then I’ll go first,” he snapped, already tearing down more of the frame to make room. “But you’re coming with me.”

He turned to you, face shadowed, voice lowering. “We don’t have time for a debate. Reinforcements are inbound. We’re outgunned. Comms are dead. And you’re fucking hit.” His tone dropped lower. Rougher. “Get the fuck in.”

It wasn’t the words that made you move. It was the voice.

Commanding, steady and final.

You ducked into the shaft, your shoulders scraping the sides, the ceiling just inches above your head. The air inside was suffocating, thick and chemical, humming with static energy. You pressed back against the wall, one foot braced awkwardly as you twisted your body to fit.

Then he came in after you.

His bulk filled the space in a rush, the scrape of his tactical gear, the rough press of his thigh slotting between yours, the weight of his body shifting against your own as he maneuvered inside. His rifle braced beside your ear, muzzle angled down.

You could feel every inch of him.

His chest, firm and heaving, pressed to yours. His forearm planted above your head. His other arm curled tight around your waist, steadying you. Holding you. There was no room to move. No room to breathe.

His mouth was at your ear when he spoke, quiet, low.

“Don’t move.”

And just like that, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the impossible thrum of your heartbeat echoing through the dark.

The darkness swallowed you whole.

It wasn’t just the absence of light, it was thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves inhaled and held their breath the moment you stepped inside.

A tomb disguised as shelter. The kind of dark that clung to skin and filled lungs. That made every shallow breath echo back twice as loud. You could feel it, the narrow, concrete throat of the shaft compressing around you, closing in with every heartbeat.

You weren’t alone in it.

You could feel the narrow walls breathing with the heat of your bodies, every exhale ricocheting off metal and stone until it circled back in whispers, growing louder with every pulse of blood in your ears.

The space wasn’t built for hiding. It wasn’t built for people. It was a maintenance shaft, narrow, ancient. But Bucky had forced his way in after you, muscled past jagged steel and choking heat until his body pressed fully to yours, armour against armour, thigh slotted between your legs.

Now, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

His hand was braced above your head, palm flat against the wall, elbow bent to keep from crushing you. The strain in his shoulder was visible even in the dim glow leaking from a crack in the wall, veins flexed under dirt-slick skin.

His other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you there, holding you still, holding you close, like letting go wasn’t an option. Not here. Not now.

You could feel the heat of him in every place he touched you. The flex of his forearm braced against your back. The steady, controlled drag of his breath, each inhale expanding his chest, pushing it flush against your own. You were plastered together.

No space. No choice.

And his thigh, god, his thigh was wedged between yours, firm and unmoving, supported most of your weight now. It was the only reason you weren’t sagging into him completely.

You didn’t dare move.

Not with the blood roaring in your ears. Not with your wound still hot and throbbing under your tac suit. Not with Bucky fucking Barnes flush against every inch of you.

But still, your body noticed.

It always had.

The heat. The tension. The way his breath ghosted over your temple, short and fast, like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted you to think. You could feel his heartbeat through the chest plate of his suit. Fast. Sharp. Right in sync with yours. The brush of his belt buckle dug into your hip. His shoulder pressed into the curve of yours, hard enough to ache.

Then the tremor in his fingers, subtle, but real, as they flexed slightly around your waist.

“Be quiet,” he whispered, the sound so low and deep it felt like it came from inside your chest rather than outside it. A command dressed like a plea.

“I am quiet,” you hissed back, lips barely moving.

“I can hear your heartbeat, princess.”

The nickname landed like a sin—sharp, searing, and soaked in sarcasm. It was barely more than a breath, but it still cut through the hush like a lit match, curling down your spine, making something inside you clench.

Outside, just beyond the cracked wall, the hall rumbled with the stomp of boots.

The enemy was still close.

You could hear them, the soldiers moving in tight formation. Orders barked in clipped, guttural accents. Gear clanking. Flashlights sweeping methodically through the gloom. One beam licked along the edge of the breach just inches from your foot.

You stopped breathing.

Your muscles went rigid, throat tight, every instinct screaming Don’t move.

And then, Bucky shifted closer. Just slightly. But it felt like the world tilted with him. His chest flattened more fully against yours, his thigh pinning you tighter. Your breast grazed the edge of his vest, your nipple dragging across thick Kevlar.

You inhaled, too sharp. He felt it.

You saw his jaw tighten. Felt his arm tense. Like he felt it, too. Like he noticed everything.

The light passed.

The soldiers didn’t.

But neither of you dared relax.

Because the longer you stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, mouth to ear, sweat pooling between your skin—the worse it got.

The heat was unbearable now. Trapped. It had nowhere to go but in. Into your pores. Into your bloodstream. Clinging to your skin like a second suit. Your body was trembling, not from exertion, not from blood loss, but from something deeper. Hotter. More dangerous.

Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore.

Your body had made a decision without your consent, without consulting the mission clock or the bullet wound still leaking crimson under your gear. It didn’t care that this was a suicide hole in the side of a collapsing facility. That HYDRA's leftovers were closing in with guns and floodlights.

That you hated the man pinning you in place.

Because this tension? It wasn’t new.

It had always been there, since the first moment Val had slammed your names together and ordered you into the field. “Try not to kill each other,” she’d said. Like it was a joke. Like it hadn’t already been written in the way you’d looked at each other.

You sparred like enemies. Like animals. You left bruises. Cracked ribs.

You taunted, you snapped. You called him grumpy old man under your breath. He called you reckless, annoying, a fucking pain in his. You rolled your eyes when he brooded. He glared when you flirted—especially when it wasn’t with him.

And yet, in combat, you were perfect.

Seamless. Lethal.

He always had your six, you always took the perfect shot. He moved, you followed. You moved, he shielded. You never missed each other.

Like muscle memory.

And maybe that was why this—now—felt so inevitable.

But still, nothing had prepared you for the feel of him like this.

The sharp scent of cordite still clinging to his sweat. The way his breath hit your cheek, too warm, too fast. The press of something hard against your hip.

You blinked, heart stuttering. You didn’t dare look down. You didn’t need to.

Bucky didn’t move. But you saw it, that flicker of strain in his eyes. The muscle feathering in his jaw.

Like he was trying not to look at your mouth.

Like he was pretending his cock wasn’t pressed thick and full against the curve of your hip.

Your thighs squeezed around his leg. Reflex. Instinct.

Not fear.

His arm flexed around your waist, vibranium fingers shifted slightly, grazing the hem of your shirt, dragging over sweat-slick fabric like an accident. You knew it wasn’t.

You swallowed hard.

“Still think this was a good idea?” you whispered, sarcasm a lifeline now, the only thing between you and the cliff you were hanging off.

He exhaled a laugh against your neck. Warm. Dangerous. “Would you rather be riddled with bullets right now?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Would hurt less.”

His lips ghosted close. Close enough to feel but not touch. “Don’t tempt me.”

The silence that followed was electric, sharp enough to cut. You could feel the tension morphing. Twisting into something raw. Something that clawed under your skin and dug in deep.

Your chest dragged across his with every breath, nipples painfully stiff under your bra, and your hips buzzed, caught between the sting of your injury and the dull throb of growing heat. You were sore. Sweating. You ached everywhere.

And you wanted him to move.

His vibranium hand flexed again, pressing into the curve of your spine.

Every nerve in your body lit up like a fuse.

“You need to stop that,” you whispered. Barely audible.

“I’m not doing anything,” he murmured back, and he sounded so calm.

Too calm. Too close.

You shifted. Just a fraction. Just to prove a point.

He groaned. A quiet, broken thing, deep in his chest.

“You’re not helping,” he gritted out, voice rougher now, voice that frayed at the edges.

“You’re the one pressed against me like some fucking space heater,” you hissed back.

Then—another voice outside. A barked command. Boots pivoting.

You both froze.

The moment stretched. Tightened.

Then, the sounds retreated. One step. Another. Fading.

Silence.

Your eyes found his in the dark.

Neither of you breathed. Neither of you blinked.

“I hate you,” you whispered, and it wasn’t convincing.

“Sure you do,” he whispered back.

His hand stayed curled tight at your waist.

And he didn’t move away.

It started small.

A shift. A breath. The slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along your waist. Just a brush at first, casual, even, but it lingered. Longer than it should have. Slower than it had any right to be. Not some accidental twitch. Not some nervous fidget. No. He meant it.

And you felt it everywhere.

His vibranium fingers stayed locked at your back, unmoving, anchoring you against the solid wall of his body.

But his other hand, flesh and blood, rough and warm, moved with a calculated kind of boldness. He wasn’t hesitating, he wasn’t testing, he was deciding.

His palm swept with aching slowness along your side, fingers grazing over the damp fabric of your shirt, then lower, sliding just above the waistband of your ruined combat pants, brushing against skin so sensitised it made your whole body jolt.

His fingertips ghosted over the sliver of bare flesh beneath the hem of your shirt, skin long ignored, long untouched and your breath stuttered.

Your body stiffened. Instinct. Reflex. Not out of fear but anticipation. Heat.

“Bucky.” You whispered it like a warning, soft and tight. Barely a sound. Just a name, but spoken like a confession.

But he didn’t stop.

His hand passed over your waist again, this time slower. Lower. He wasn’t pretending. Wasn’t hiding behind pretense or excuse. His touch was firm, measured, dragging like silk over sandpaper. His fingers curled slightly, grazing the edge of your hip, slipping just under the edge of your shirt where sweat beaded at your lower belly.

It should’ve been harmless.

But it felt like your whole body tilted toward him.

Like gravity had shifted.

The air between you felt molten. Thick with breath and silence and something else — something sharp and magnetic and inevitable.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and frayed. It was torn at the edges — half challenge, half escape hatch. One final out. One he wasn’t sure he wanted you to take.

“Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely holding together under the weight of everything you felt.

Because your heart was pounding so loud you could feel it in your ears, in your fingertips, in the spot between your thighs that throbbed with each desperate beat.

Because your body was already leaning in.

Because your thighs were clenching, your mouth had gone dry, and his cock—hard and hot and undeniable behind the weight of his tac gear was pressed against your hip in a way that made your thoughts splinter.

And because when you looked up at him, when your eyes found his in the low flicker of emergency light bleeding through the shaft wall, you saw it.

Raw, flickering need. Something deeper, something starved. His expression was a storm barely held at bay, hunger licking behind every breath.

It was already too late.

His mouth dipped toward your jaw, not quite a kiss, not quite contact, just breath. His lips hovered, dragging over your skin without touching, a ghosting warmth that raised goosebumps in its wake.

Then his hand moved lower.

Over the waistband.

Past it.

Your breath hitched. A sharp, soundless inhale. Your body shifted involuntarily, and he was already there, his fingers slipping beneath the ragged band of your pants, rough against soft, familiar with desperation.

He didn’t hesitate.

He found your heat instantly.

Skin on skin.

And groaned, low, guttural, like he’d found salvation.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped, voice shaking with the effort it took to stay controlled. “Fuck.”

The sound of it—his voice in that moment made your knees threaten to buckle. His fingers didn’t even move, not yet. They just rested there. Claiming. Possessing. And your whole body trembled under the weight of that touch.

You whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. The kind of sound you didn’t recognise coming from your own throat.

He hadn’t even moved yet.

Just touched.

“You think I haven’t noticed how you look at me?” he breathed, mouth hot against the shell of your ear. His fingers began to move slow circles, featherlight, teasing and your whole spine arched into him.

“You think I haven’t felt it every time we spar? Every time you mouth off just to see how far I’ll let it go?”

You tried to speak. You really did, something snide, something biting, something to maintain the illusion of control.

But then he slid one thick finger inside you, and your brain turned to static.

“Oh, fuck—” The sound ripped from you like a wound, head thudding softly against the wall.

He moved closer, pressing into you fully now. His thigh locked yours in place. His arm around your waist kept you pinned, held, owned. And his finger, slow and deep, fucked into you with a rhythm that made your whole body twitch.

And then he added another.

“Don’t be loud,” he warned, barely more than a breath. Then his hand was over your mouth, wide and firm. “You want them to hear you?”

You shook your head, frantic, flushed.

Another finger joined the first.

The stretch was exquisite. You were so wet he slid in effortlessly, and yet every push made your walls flutter. Your thighs quaked. His palm was tight against your lips now, muffling the noise that clawed up your throat.

It was too much.

Too hot. Too deep.

He was wrecking you with just his hand.

Your cunt clenched around him like it knew him. Welcomed him. Fucked back, desperate and filthy.

His breath caught. His mouth dipped to your throat, lips dragging along the sweaty, sensitive skin just below your jaw. He didn’t kiss.

He breathed.

Like your scent was undoing him from the inside out.

“You gonna come for me while they’re right outside?” he growled, voice velvet-wrapped sin. His fingers pumped faster, firmer now. “Gonna soak my fucking hand while I keep your mouth shut?”

You moaned against his palm, a pathetic, muffled sound. You were trembling now, caught in the rhythm, sweat running down your spine.

He could feel it.

“You gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he whispered, biting back a groan as your pussy clenched hard around him. “Don’t want them hearing how bad you need it.”

Your eyes fluttered. Your thighs squeezed tight around his wrist. Your body knew what was coming. It was building, sharp and staggering, curling low in your belly, winding like a spring.

The wet, slick sounds of his fingers working your cunt echoed in the shaft, obscene and unstoppable.

You didn’t care.

You were grinding down on his hand now, chasing it, using it.

Shameless. Starved. Your fingers clawed at the wall, nails scraping concrete, sweat dripping from your temple.

He kissed your throat, hard now. Open-mouthed. Possessive. Teeth scraping, almost primal.

You whimpered. He felt you tighten.

“Come for me,” he rasped.

And you did.

The orgasm ripped through you, brutal and sudden, your whole body locking, then shattering. You came on his fingers, walls fluttering, legs shaking, heat blooming behind your ribs.

You cry, or you tried to, but it was swallowed whole by his hand.

You were still trembling when he pulled away, not roughly, but not gently either.

And he wasn’t done.

You barely had time to blink. Your head was spinning. But your hands moved before your brain did, grabbing at his belt, trembling fingers tugging hard at buckles, pulling open his gear like your survival depended on it.

Frantic. Desperate.

Your hand closed around him—thick, hot, leaking and you gasped.

“Jesus christ,” he hissed, teeth clenched.

Then he moved.

He flipped you, fast, hard, until your front slammed gently against the shaft wall. His body covered yours, heat and strength and desperation wrapped around you like a cage.

One hand braced above your head. The other dragged your pants lower. Then between your thighs again, guiding himself.

You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge your entrance, dragging through your slick, and your breath caught.

“This what you want?” he growled. “Here? Now?”

You nodded—wild, frantic, voiceless.

And then he pushed in.

You gasped, sharp and silent.

The stretch was delicious, thick and deep and slow.

He filled you inch by aching inch until your hips trembled and your forehead hit the wall with a soft thud.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned against your shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you feel all of him.

Then his hand slid over your mouth again. Gentle. Thumb brushing your cheek.

“Breathe, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

He fucked you.

Hard.

Your shoulder slammed into the wall, his hips smacked into yours, loud and wet and brutal. You couldn’t catch your breath—every thrust punched the air out of you. There was no rhythm anymore. Just need.

His hand stayed firm at your mouth, catching your sounds. His vibranium one gripped your hip like a lifeline, dragging you back onto his cock again and again.

He reached around, found your clit, and rubbed.

“Gonna come for me again,” he growled. “Gonna squeeze me while I fuck you full.”

You were sobbing now, breathless, wordless.

Every nerve ending was lit, raw and overrun. Your body trembled, slick with sweat and slicker between your thighs, his cock dragging across swollen, overstimulated walls. You couldn’t form a sound, not really, just desperate gasps and stifled cries broken against your own hand, against his chest, against the fucking silence that surrounded you both like a net.

And then you broke.

It hit like a wave, violent, sudden, uncontrollable. Your body seized around him, hips jerking, spine bowing as your muscles locked tight and then unraveled all at once. You came again, harder this time, vision flashing white as your cunt clenched around him like a vice.

You damn near collapsed.

Your knees gave out, your breath punched from your lungs. You reached for the wall, for him, for anything to ground you, but it was all too much, the stretch, the sound of him, the way he held you together while you fell apart.

That’s when he came, too.

A sharp curse spilled from his throat as he drove deep, impossibly deep, hips stuttering against yours. He buried himself to the hilt, shaking, jaw clenched, breath choking out in ragged bursts. His whole body shuddered against your back, muscles locking, every inch of him tensed and trembling.

His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing as he came, each hot spurt flooding your core, filling you until it leaked down your thighs, messy and spent.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. You just breathed, uneven and wrecked, locked together in the dark.

You stayed there, pressed against the wall, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, skin tacky with sweat.

His weight still lingered over you, anchoring you with the kind of silence that made your heart pound in your ears. You could feel every inch of him still inside you, every echo of where he’d been.

Your limbs were a mess. His arm still braced above your head, his other hand curled at your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. Your legs were weak, barely holding you upright, and your fingers had long since slipped from where they gripped the wall. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The scent of sex clung to both of you, raw and thick in the stale air. His cum leaked down your thighs, hot and wet, mixing with your own slick, with the sweat that slid between your shoulder blades. Your clothes stuck to your skin. Your breath stuck in your throat.

Then slowly, he pulled out.

You whimpered, soft and hoarse, from the loss. From the emptiness that followed. A hollow ache bloomed where he’d just been, and you had to brace yourself against the wall again to stay upright.

He smoothed his hand down your spine, not possessive now. Just… gentle.

You turned, breathless, chest still heaving as you tried to gather yourself. His hair was a mess, damp and curling slightly at the edges, sweat trailing down from his temple.

His pupils were still blown wide, gaze glassy and dark with something that hadn’t yet settled. You pulled your pants up slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged over tender skin, the ache between your thighs sharp and lingering.

He laughed softly, the sound more exhale than amusement.

“Next time,” you panted, shooting him a look, “maybe don’t pick the smallest shaft on the planet.”

He glanced at you, something like mischief flickering behind his eyes as a crooked smirk pulled at his mouth.

“You complaining?” he asked, voice rough but playful. You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile.

“Define complaining.” His chuckle was low, almost fond, and then he reached for you—his hand warm, steady, curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” he murmured, tugging gently. “Before the rest start wondering where we went.”

You let him lead you toward the sliver of light ahead, your fingers still linked with his, your legs unsteady with every step still shaking.

a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog, thank you sweethearts 💌

2K notes · View notes

theventsoflux · 3 months ago

Text

Jock

College AU

Jock!gkJason Todd x Reader

MDNI

tags: use of profanity MDOM

You weren’t sure what you expected when Jason said, “We’ll go over Eliot at my place.” Maybe some cluttered bro-cave, empty shaker bottles, weights on the floor, maybe even a dusty bookshelf he never touched. What you stepped into was something else entirely. His flat was spotless. All clean lines and dark textures, the floor-to-ceiling windows let in golden afternoon light. Everything smelled like cedarwood, cigs, and something subtly expensive. The whole place had the kind of precision that made your pulse quicken.

Jason locked the door behind you with a soft click. He moved past you effortlessly, barefoot on polished concrete, his oversized back stretching the fabric of his t-shirt like it was clinging on for dear life. Not a tattoo in sight—just muscle, symmetry, and that controlled, almost military presence. He wore a rust-red overshirt, open over a fitted tank that left no question about the size of the man underneath. 6’5”, thick as hell, and everywhere in the room at once.

You swallowed.

Jason turned his head slightly, that sharp jaw catching the light. “People always think I’m one-dimensional. I read. I lift. I clean. I also remember you flinching when I quoted The Hollow Men last week.” He handed you a glass of water, fingers warm against the crystal. “Let’s not waste time. Couch. Eliot. Unless you’d rather get to the part where you find out just how true those campus rumors are.” Your heart skipped. He smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

…

“Come on, baby, suck that dick,” Jason growled, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine as he caressed your cheek with his massive hand. His hand was huge, as big as your face, and you were struggling with just the head, his extra-long, beer-can-thick cock stretching your lips wide. He grunted as he thrust into your mouth, his hips rolling forward, burying himself in your throat. You choked and sputtered around him, your eyes watering, but he didn’t care. He kept thrusting, his hand tangled in your hair, guiding your head. Then he pulled out, his cock slick with your saliva. He stood up, his tall, muscular physique on full display, his ass and thunder thighs flexing as he moved.

“Ass up on the couch, bitch,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. He grabbed a condom, the big bold letters Custom Oversized emblazoned on the wrapper. He rolled it onto his cock, the snug fit making him groan. His fingers found your entrance, invading your space, and you moaned, your body arching into his touch. “God, baby, you sound so fucking sexy,” he purred, his hand smacking your ass hard enough to leave a mark. You whined, the sting sending sparks through your body. He lined up, positioning himself at your entrance.

“Stop resisting,” he commanded, his voice firm. He smacked your ass again, this time hard enough to leave a handprint. “I’m going to fuck you so good, bitch,” he growled, his cock nudging your entrance. You moaned as he pushed in, inch by inch, his thick cock stretching you wide. It took a while—he was just too big—but he didn’t care. He didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt inside you, his hips pressed tight against your ass.

“Fuck, baby, your pussy is crazy tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You came twice before he could even think about finishing in you, your body shaking and trembling around him. He pulled out, the wet sound of his cock leaving your pussy filling the room. He grabbed another condom, rolling it on quickly.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he growled, his eyes dark with lust. He flipped you over, hands roaming, body pressed to yours, and you were already rubbing your clit again, desperate and soaked, ready for more.

…

You were curled against one end of the massive sectional, Jason’s overshirt draped over your body. Your hair was mussed, your breathing still trying to catch up. He sat beside you with his arms stretched along the back of the couch, one thick thigh bouncing lazily, like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire existence.

His shirt was gone, revealing a torso that looked engineered in a lab—broad, powerful, not a single mark or tattoo to soften the impression. Just clean skin, hard lines, and that impossible presence. You watched the shadows dance over the ridges of his abs as he sipped water. Even now, post-everything, the outline in his sweats made your stomach flip.

“That thing should be registered as a weapon,” you mumbled, voice hoarse.

Jason smiled without looking at you. “Then you should’ve called for backup.” You gave a dazed laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re not real.” He looked at you now, expression softer. “Still think I need to prove I know my poetry?” Jason leaned in slightly, brushing your knee with his massive hand. “Next time, bring Yeats.”

#dc comics #gk jason todd #gotham knights #jason todd smut #jason todd #red hood smut #red hood #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader

147 notes · View notes

spicybunni · 1 year ago

Text

YANDERE KARL HEISENBERG HEADCANONS

I think I’m just gonna do Yandere headcanons for all the Lords because why not?

Karl as a yandere was so hard to write for 😰 he just has such a idgaf vibe! But I hope y’all enjoy it!!

WARNINGS : YANDERE TENDENCIES/ VIOLENCE TOWARDS DARLING / INVASION OF SPACE / SUBMISSIVE DARLING / BLOOD (not darlings)

⚙️Karl strikes me as a cocky yandere. He is obsessed with you but also loves playing with you. Meaning if you want to fuck around and find out he is all for it, but expect to be screaming for your life by the end of it. The best place to be is by his side always.

⚙️For example, he would let you roam the factory on your own. Making you feel a sense of freedom until you happen upon one of his awful experiments walking towards you. He has full control of course, and would only let his metal corpse puppets go so far until having them pull back and leave you alone.

⚙️Usually you would just run back to him out of breath and shaking. Cue his wolfish grin at your state “Why darling, back so soon?”

⚙️This guy is strong, so if you’re being a brat he has no problem just hoisting you up and taking you to your room/cage and settling you there for the remainder of a day.

⚙️I feel like Karl would use a metal collar or ankle cuff so if you get too ahead of yourself. It doesn’t matter if you’re defiant or compliant because he’ll just drag you using his metal powers with the collar/cuff.

⚙️Likes it when you cling to him. It makes him feel good. Will order you to hug him or hang onto his arm when going through the factory together.

⚙️You best believe this man has all eyes on you. If you think you’re alone roaming around, he’ll just interrupt your thoughts through the camera speakers “What are you up to darling? Anything interesting?”

⚙️Hates it when you ask questions about him or his family’s past. You either will get a passive aggressive answer or a long rant about Mother Miranda. Or he would just tell you to shut up.

⚙️A defiant darling would amuse him. He loves your resistance and spirit. Watching you struggle and overcome the horrors of his factory. But it only amuses him so long before he ends up chaining one of your legs to a bedpost and keeping you in a rusting metal room.

⚙️A compliant darling wouldn’t be as entertaining for him. But you would be granted certain freedoms for your good behavior. Such as roaming the factory with minimal jumpscares and no monsters purposely attacking you.

⚙️If compliant darling does get injured by a disobeying monster in the factory or outside, Karl will rescue you and kill his creation on the spot. You would whimper and shake at his brutality, but would still clutch to his trenchcoat for security.

⚙️A compliant darling would make him feel weird sometimes, like his chest hurts when you start to cry because you miss your family/friends or just simply because you’re afraid. His heart sinks but also tries to be as comforting as he can. Giving you a big hug parting you on the back “There, there! You’re going to be fine, enough with the tears!”

⚙️Yandere Karl Heisenberg is part Lycan. I can’t explain it, but he is. So he can definitely have bloodlust over you when you piss him off. He would just leave to hunt animals in the mountains behind the factory so he doesn’t harm you.

⚙️Comes back to you with either human or animal blood dripping from his mouth and on his hands. His golden eyes never leaving yours as he only says “You’re lucky I love you darling…”

⚙️Tries to get a rise out of compliant darling, but is immediately turned off when you start to cry at his teasing. Sometimes you do get pissy and he thinks it’s so adorable.

⚙️Almost too easy for defiant darling to get upset at his obvious teasing.

⚙️I feel that Karl wouldn’t force darling to sleep in his bed but knows that they will eventually come to him on their own? Because let’s be honest that factory is full of awful stuff that could walk into your room any minute. Like I said, the best place to be is by his side.

⚙️As a yandere I don’t think his goal is to have a mind broken darling that’s just a ghost around him. He wants darling to always be themselves, just so long as they can obey him and be by his side.

#yandere imagines #yandere x reader #tw yandere #resident evil village #re8 village #resident evil 8 #resident evil village yandere #karl heisenburg x reader #yandere Karl heisenburg #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #yandere karl Heisenberg #yandere x darling

664 notes · View notes

loviingpedri · 1 year ago

Text

tripling the fun - jude and jobe bellingham

part 2 -> part 1 here

prompt: jude fulfills everyone’s dreams.

jude x fem!reader.

jobe & reader platonic soulmates

warnings: grammar issues, cursing, arguments (happy ending), jealous jude, all characters are fictional (except jude, jobe, and their parents)

click to help palestine

credits to owners for all images

salt air, and the rust on your door.

flower in your hair, feet in the sand, salty air entering through your nose.

joining the annual vacation with the bellingham family and your sweet parents, life felt as ease.

at least, for you.

jude was rapidly tapping his feet on the wood bedroom floor. hands in his hair, anxiety filling up his thoughts. jobe was seriously getting concerned.

“mate, you have two days. everything is gonna be okay.” sitting next to him on the bed, jobe put his hand on jude’s shoulder to get his nerves to calm down.

“i’m overthinking it now. what if she says no? what if she only sees me as a brother? am i being delusional?” he could feel his heart racing, and it wasn’t even the day.

jude was planning to ask you out. he felt like no other person who wasn't blood related to him could understand him, deeper and personally better than you. noticing over the past few years, he noticed his rising feelings for you. getting overexcited by the mention of you two hanging out. his cheeks heat up as the thought of you popping into his head. his resistance of trying not to pull you into a deep hug.

jobe, trying to comfort him to the best of his ability, was getting concerned. “jude, you seriously need to calm down. y/n is one of my favorite people in the entire world. have you ever seen her talk to anyone else? i mean seriously, her whole life involves us.”

“you’re not helping,” jude stands up from the bed, heading his way outside for a bit of fresh air. “i need a breather.”

walking across the sand to gather his thoughts, he saw a familiar figure in the distance.

admiring how your hair flowed in the air, perfectly shaped and painted nails coming into contact with the golden sand. your lashes slowly moving up and down as you blinked. he couldn’t grasp the idea of losing you.

“hey jude, what’s going on?” almost standing up, he quickly sat down beside you. “is anyone asking for me?”

shaking his head, “nah, everything is fine. i just needed to take a walk.”

noticing his body language, and how his eyebrows moved when he talked, something was wrong. “you seem tense. is there anything you wanna talk about? what’s on your mind?” you scooted closer to him, touching shoulders.

jude cleared his throat, a lump forming. “there’s nothing wrong. i just wanted to see the sunset. beautiful waves isn’t it?”

“definitely. i wish i could spend all day here.” resting your head on his shoulder, he began to control his breathing and heart rate. struggling to make a next move, he moved his arm to push you closer by your shoulder.

little did you know, your mother and denise were standing from the balcony, watching you two embrace each other’s comfort.

jobe holding his youngest nephew, who was pointing at the future couple, seeing what the future could bring.

----------the next morning--------------

"hey little one." jude picked up his niece and spun around.

"i found your stash of flowers. they look really pretty. are they for me?" catching a small glimpse of the gap of her teeth, jude couldn't help but laugh at the question.

"i would like to say yes, but they're for a really special girl. are you ready to go swim at the beach?"

a frown formed on her lips, "yeah, i guess so. i can't wait to build a giant sand castle that i can live there forever." she threw her arms up high in excitement.

"i don't know about forever, but i'm sure it's gonna be great."

a knock was heard on the door. the air felt colder as tension fell.

"hey jude, we're about to go." you gave him a warm smile, as he stood there in silence. he put the princess down as he went to go sat down on his bed.

he picked up his phone, texting jobe,

i'll be at the beach later, got to get my things together.

he took a deep breath. and for the next 30 minutes, he was trying to form the perfect plan. going out to the balcony to look for a special spot to set up a dinner. noticing splashes that seem far more intense.

getting a better view, he noticed you and jobe. jobe was hugging you from behind and throwing you into the waves. shared laughter echoing throughout the beach. he couldn't lie, the inside of the palm of his hands were sweating and getting white from the grip of the wood. he didn't wanna admit he was getting jealous of his own brother, but the timing was nowhere near perfect for things like this to happen. he has seen moments like this between you two, but it felt different. his head began pounding. he grabbed his towel and ran out to hopefully score a remarkable moment with you

smiles appeared on everyone's faces as he walked through the burning hot sand.

"jude, you're here!" you yelled as sounds of waves crashing and seagulls talking. he waved at you while he gave his mom his belongings for safe keeping.

joining you and jobe in the water, he felt off. in his imagination, jude felt like a mood-killer. the laughter died down, the sun no longer reflected off your skin. he felt like he caused something wrong.

clearing the air, jobe did little small splashes throughout the trio. jude stared at the smile that was on your face after jobe's actions. he felt anger race through his blood. impulsive thinking, he pushed the water right into jobe's face. jobe dodging the salt water in his eyes, he was confused on jude's sudden gesture. you ignored what just happened, because siblings can be siblings.

actions speaking more than words, jude became more aggressive. walking more towards to shore for safety, jude wasn't just playing around. he gave a jude a small but rough push to jobe, making him slip and fall into the water.

"jude, what the fuck." his eyebrows narrowed watching you trying to help jobe to his balance. you weren't sure what was going on, but awkwardness was following all three of you.

jobe cleared his throat, "do you know what we're having for dinner?"

"i think our dads are grilling tonight." jobe nodded as you played with the salt water. without any explanation, jude walked back to get the towel from his mom, and walked back to the house. jobe and you made eye contact in confusion, but just brushed it off.

walking to the shore, the three little children were playing with the sand. classic sand castle with wet sand circling it. picking up the baby boy, giving him a small kiss on his forehead, you could really see jude’s face written all over him.

“y/n, you should sit. the sand is cool under the umbrella.” jobe patted a spot next to him under the shade. sitting the baby down on your lap and hugging his tiny body, he pointed at the sand in jobe’s bucket.

“are you going to help build our castle?” the little princess with her pink hat was desperately trying to scoop a decent amount of sand in her flimsy shovel. jobe nodded his head, but we all know he loses the sand castle contest every year.

“y/n, guess what.” the girl said with a bright smile.

“what?” you smiled back, but more in confusion.

“jude has flowers in his room. i asked if they were for me, he said no. he said it was for someone special though.”

your lips made a small gap. you were shocked at the fact. jobe held in his breath. he was looking back and forth in panic.

“did you know jude was talking to someone, jobe?” he looked at you with slightly wider eyes.

frantically shaking his head, “no, of course not.” he looked at his mom for some help.

“did you know?” you asked denise.

she shrugged it off with a “no darling.” as she was playing it off. you were playing with the baby’s soft curls as your mind wandered off.

—————————

“hey jude, how are you?” walking into his room and sitting down on the desk chair as he sat on the bed, scrolling through social media.

with an unexpected surprise, jude sat up. “i’m doing fine, how are you? you look like you got a nice tan.”

a slight giggle coming out, “yeah, it’s pretty nice. i just wanted to ask you about something.”

“about?”

“our lovely niece told me you bought flowers for someone,” jude instantly looked at you in your eyes. has his secret been busted? “i was just wondering who they were for. usually when you start talking to someone, jobe and i know.”

“oh, it’s nothing really. i bought them just because.”

“just because? you can’t be serious. have you met someone at the beach?” you got up from the chair and sat next to his legs on the edge of the bed.

“seriously y/n. they’re not for anyone. it wouldn’t be any of your business anyway.”

“excuse me?”

“why are you always in my business? i feel like you and jobe are spying on everything i do. and you try to get me to speak about everything. just leave me alone.”

“what the hell are you on about? we’ve never invaded your privacy. if you felt this way, you could’ve said something a long time ago.”

standing up in anger, you couldn’t believe what you were hearing. everyone told everyone updates on their life, this wasn’t a secret tradition. surprisingly, jude would be the one sharing most of his life updates.

“you know what, you always take jobe’s side too. i feel left out every time. when i come around, you and him stop laughing and it gets all silent. i feel like i’m the bad guy.”

“jude, you’ve been acting fucking mental lately. i don’t know why you’re being like this, but you need to fix it. i asked a simple question, not a whole lecture from you.”

tears formed in your eyes as you went to leave the room.

“yeah, go run to jobe like you always do.” was the last thing you heard before slamming the door with a loud bam following it.

jobe was waiting outside the door, hearing everything. breaking down in his arms, you thought this vacation would be different.

----------the next morning--------------

the smell of syrup, eggs, and other breakfast goodies was lurking around the beach house.

not a word from jude after the argument. it wasn’t any surprise that everyone in the place heard what was happening. mark, jude and jobe’s dad, made sure to cook butterfly pancakes to try and cheer you up. something he loved doing for you since you were a child.

sitting down with a plate of eggs and toast, he placed the pancake in front of you with a little whipped cream in the middle. giving you a gentle pat on the back, you thanked him quietly. jobe sat down next to you, not wasting a chance to dig in.

all of a sudden, the hairs on your arms rose due to the coldness. awkwardness cooling down the food as jude walked into the room. jobe cleared his throat as he glanced at you before looking down. you continued to try and eat, even though he made you lose your appetite.

“morning.” jude said to his mom as he gave her a little peck on her forehead.

quick change of events as jude sat on the other side of you. it was normal of course, jude, you, and jobe. it was just unexpected that he pretended nothing happened.

everyone ate in awkward silence. except jude, humming and dancing as he ate. his mom looked at him in concern.

“what?” he questioned her, as she quickly shook her head no. “being awfully quiet this morning, what did i miss?” everyone looked at him in confusion.

“nothing, just eat.”

he threw his arms up, “hey, i’m not making this awkward. you guys are.” he got up and started washing his plate and fork.

he was right, we were the ones being awkward. it didn’t change the fact that you didn’t get an apology though. finishing up your breakfast, you forced yourself to approach him with your dirty dishes. putting it into the sink, you stood behind him, waiting for him to be done.

he slightly whispered to you, “it’s fine, i got it.” you nodded at him while you went to the balcony for a summer breeze. soon, your mother and denise joined you.

after a few hours of talking, you got a text from jude. reading,

hey, can we talk later? meet me at the beach in 2 hours.

you tried not to question it. yet, the thought lingered. jude always apologizes straight away after an argument. what made it different now? giving the message a thumbs up, you continued talking with the ladies.

“hey y/n, did jude text you?” denise asked you.

“yeah, he did. he told me to meet him in 2 hours at the beach, but that was about an hour ago.”

“oh honey, you should probably change then.” your mom chimed in.

“what’s wrong with what i’m wearing?”

“wearing pajama pants in hot sand is not very fabulous.” the two moms laughed as they rushed to put something together in your room.

after playing dress up through your suitcase, it was finally time to go. the sun was starting to set, the orange hitting the water perfectly. walking down the creaking wooden stairs, you weren’t sure to expect.

looking to your right, you hands flew on your mouth. a table surrounded with roses, forming a heart shape, was lit with a candle. standing there at the table was jude, with a bouquet of flowers. he looked very nervous.

walking up to him, you really admired the detail. you both started laughing at the sudden seriousness in the friendship.

“are you kidding me? this is surreal.” you hugged him and kissed him on his cheek.

“do you forgive me? is this too much? i didn’t know if the flowers were too much. i also didn’t know if you wanted sand in between your toes as you ate. i mean, i could literally get on my knees and beg for forgiveness. please, forgive me.” cutting him off, you placed a finger on his lips.

“of course i do. i could never stay mad at my best friend.”

“uh. ouch. i was actually going to ask you something. y/n, would you be my girlfriend.”

your mouth formed an ‘o’ shaped. he started tapping his feet in stress.

“i don’t see why i shouldn’t be.” dropping the flowers quickly on the seat, he hugged you.

in history of hugs throughout your friendship, this one was the best one. it marked a new beginning.

a new beginning of love.

to one of my lovely supporters - @judesthighveins

#football x reader #football fanfic #football imagine #jude bellingham #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x reader #jobe bellingham x yn #jobe bellingham x you #jobe bellingham one shot #jobe bellingham fanfic #jobe bellingham imagine #jobe bellingham x reader #jobe bellingham #real madrid #sunderland afc

328 notes · View notes

lirotation · 8 months ago

Text

Astarion in Cyberpunk AU

POV: How you met him in Night City =P

You’re just another low-tier merc in Night City's meat grinder, same as any other. Sure, you smoke, you chug whatever synthalcohol gets your synapses sparking, maybe pop a little Black Lace now and then for kicks. But one thing you don’t do? Pick up joytoys from Jig-Jig. Nah, choom. Not your scene.

Until tonight's clusterfuck.

You were on a gig, dressed to fool the corpo crowd—chrome hidden under slick, expensive synth-leather. Playing at being one of Night City's untouchables. Then your optics lock onto him.

A joytoy, but not just any joytoy. Lux-grade. The kind of beauty that made your targeting systems glitch and your tits perk up. Picking him up wasn’t the plan—never the plan—but here you are, trying to blend in, figuring if all these suits are doing it, maybe you should too.

Preem bastard had a silver tongue worth more than his chrome, smooth like pre-War whiskey. He leaned in close, casually dropped the very intel you need - an exclusive corpo mixer, one hosting Kong Tao mid-level procurement officer - your target - fresh from Guangzhou. The two of you hit it off, chatting over overpriced drinks at the bar, and one thing led to another. His place.

Then you wake up.

Your choom on the other end of the link, screaming. Your brain feels like it’s been through a shredder. You’re sprawled out on some piss-stained mattress, butt naked, weapons gone.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You’ve been played. Conned. During a job, no less. Just your fucking luck.

Gotta escape before they rip you open, gotta figure out where the hell you are. But one thing’s for sure—you’re gonna find that pretty bastard, and when you do, he’s got a world of hurt coming his way. _______

Your head’s pounding, but you’ve been in tighter spots before. You force a reboot, running a quick scan. Typical corpo blacksite flophouse—The stink of blood, sweat, and bad decisions clings to the walls.

You find a rusted shard of metal and grip it tight. Better than nothing. You rigged the lock and slipped out of the room, the sound of your bare feet drowned out by the buzz of cheap fluorescents overhead.

The hall’s empty. Nobody watching the cams—amateurs. You find a storage room with your gear dumped in a corner like garbage. Your Militech pistol? Check. punknife? Check. Even your boots. Slipping them on feels like hugging an old friend.

Now clothed and armed, you should be bailing, cutting your losses. But the faint sound of muffled screams crawls under your skin, pulling you back into the fray.

You creep closer, the door half-open. Inside, him.

The joytoy. Astarion.

Strapped down like a Maelstrom test subject, neural wires spiderwebbing from his temples into some black-market brain-dance rig. The machine's whining like a dying cat, each pulse making him scream. Some chrome-headed ganger's working the controls, grinning like he's watching prime-time BD entertainment.

“Picked yourself a zero, didn't ya? No creds, no dirt—just a fucking merc with nothin’ to give. You are lucky boss is not in town.” the ganger sneers, twisting a dial, “What good’s a pretty face if it doesn’t deliver?”

Astarion convulses, tears streaking his otherwise flawless face, “I—tried,” he whispers. "Please, give me another chance.”

Something snaps in your gut. You’ve seen people broken, but this guy? He’s built to endure. Still, this is next-level fucked.

Your blade whispers through the air, clean and silent. The ganger drops, and you catch the falling remote and cut the power to the rig.

Astarion slumps, breathing shallow. You free him, pulling the wires from his skin. He flinches but doesn’t resist.

“Can you walk?” you ask, dragging him to his feet.

He groans but nods. “I’ve had worse.”

The two of you fight your way out, bullets and curses flying. By the time you hit the street, you’re out of breath and out of ammo, but alive. Barely.

You lean against a wall, wiping blood off your hands. “I should fucking gut you for this,” you say, leveling him with a glare.

Astarion chuckles, though it’s more pained than amused. “I’m flattered. But I was under orders, if that softens the blow.”

“Doesn’t,” you snap.

Still, you don’t hurt him. Just turn to leave, figuring he’ll disappear back into whatever pit he crawled out of. But when you glance back, he’s trailing behind you.

“What are you doing?” you snap again, tired and still on edge.

“I have nowhere else to go,” he says softly, eyes downcast, his voice a quiet plea.

“Not my problem,” you grumble, turning to keep walking.

“Wait,” he calls out, stepping closer. When you face him again, the vulnerability in his posture is tinged with a familiar, deliberate charm. His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. “I could… make it up to you. I’m quite skilled at certain things”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That so? You think I’m just gonna take you in because you bat your lashes?”

“Not just because of that,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch the faint light. “I can be useful. I wasn't lying before, you know? the mixer? I can get you in.”

You pause, damn it he is beautiful. He shifts closer, his voice dipping into something silkier. “Let me stay, just for a while. I’ll keep out of your way. Or,” he adds, his smile sharpening ever so slightly, “if you’d rather, I could be very in your way. Whatever you prefer.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Fine. One screw-up, though, and you’re out. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” he purrs, bowing his head slightly. “You won’t regret this. I promise.”

As he falls into step beside you, you mutter under your breath. “Already regretting it.”

His soft chuckle is barely audible, but it lingers all the way home.

#astarion #bg3 fanart #bg3 #cyberpunk au #cyberpunk 2077 #illustration #digital painting

215 notes · View notes

reiding-writing · 9 months ago

Text

SCREAM AT THE ABYSS — SPENCER REID!

after being kidnapped because of your involvement in the case, spencer and the team rushes to shut down the operation as quickly as possible.

s1!spencer x fem!reader | mystery | 4.0k | event masterlist.

main masterlist.

| part one. | part two. | part three. |

a/n — happy? ending? maybe? uh… idk bro

The van’s doors slam shut with a cold finality, the sound echoing in your mind like a death knell.

The air inside is thick, musty, and suffocating, and your heart hammers in your chest as you struggle against the hands pinning you down.

Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, muffled by the rough cloth they’ve tied over your mouth. The floor of the van is cold, hard, and your skin scrapes against the metal as you writhe, trying to free yourself. But the grip on you is unyielding.

The men say nothing, their movements precise and practiced. It’s terrifying in its efficiency, how quickly they’ve taken control. You try to scream, to shout Spencer’s name, but your voice is swallowed by the cloth gag and the darkness.

The van jerks forward, and you’re thrown back against the wall, your head pounding as the vehicle accelerates through the night.

Time blurs, the minutes stretching into an eternity. The sound of the engine and the steady hum of the tires are the only things you can focus on, grounding you as your thoughts race. How did they manage to grab you? The club was literally crawling with police. Where were they taking you? Did anyone notice that you disappeared? The questions pile up in your mind, each one more frantic than the last.

You force yourself to calm down, to breathe through the panic that’s clawing at your throat. You can’t lose control. Not now. You try to remember everything you’ve learned—everything you and Spencer uncovered. The missing girls, the disappearances, the trafficking ring. It’s all connected. You are now part of that connection.

The realisation hits you hard: you’re not just chasing the truth anymore—you’ve become its prey.

The van lurches to a stop after what feels like hours. Your heart leaps into your throat as you hear the doors swing open, the crunch of gravel under heavy boots. The hands tighten around your arms, dragging you roughly toward the exit.

Your body resists, instinctively fighting, but it’s useless. They haul you out of the van and onto your feet, the blindfold over your eyes making it impossible to see where you are.

You can hear distant voices now—faint murmurs of conversation, some in a language you don’t understand. There’s a sickening sense of organisation to it all, like this is something they’ve done a hundred times before. You’re pulled forward, the sound of a heavy door creaking open, and the air shifts as you’re led inside.

The smell hits you first—damp, metallic, and faintly chemical, like rust and bleach mingling in the stale air. You try to make sense of your surroundings, but everything feels disjointed, your senses heightened but useless without your sight. The blindfold is ripped off, and the dim light of the room stings your eyes.

It’s a warehouse. Or at least, something like it. The walls are gray, lined with stacks of crates and industrial equipment. There are a few flickering overhead lights, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Your stomach churns as you notice the small cages along one side of the room. Empty now, but too small for anything other than a person.

There’s a man standing in front of you, older than the others, his presence commanding in a way that sends a cold shiver down your spine. His suit is pristine, his demeanor too calm for the circumstances. He steps forward, appraising you like a piece of merchandise.

“You’ve been poking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he says, his voice low and smooth, as if this is all just a game to him. “We don’t take kindly to curious minds like yours.”

You feel the bile rise in your throat, but you hold his gaze. Despite the fear gnawing at your insides, you refuse to look away. “What do you want from me?” The words come out muffled, but the venom is clear in your tone.

He smirks, a slow, predatory expression. “It’s not what we want from you. It’s what we want with you.” He gestures to the cages, the darkened corners of the warehouse where shadows shift and other captives might be hidden. “You see, girls like you are quite valuable. Especially when they know too much.”

The weight of his words crashes down on you, and suddenly, the stories you and Spencer uncovered—the whispered rumours, the reports of girls vanishing into thin air—become horrifyingly real. This isn’t just a trafficking ring; it’s a machine, a well-oiled operation designed to exploit the most vulnerable. And now, they’ve pulled you into their web.

The man’s eyes narrow. “You’re not the first to think you can expose us. But you might be the last if you’re smart.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You have no idea how deep this goes. We own people—law enforcement, officials, you think your amateur investigation will protect you? You can’t touch us.”

You feel cold all over, the enormity of what he’s saying sinking in. They’re bigger than anything you’ve imagined, and the people you thought you could trust may be compromised.

One of the men standing beside you moves toward a nearby table, grabbing something—a syringe. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding your system as you realise what’s about to happen.

You thrash again, the blind panic finally setting in, but the hands pinning you are too strong. They hold you down as the needle pierces your skin, the sharp sting quickly dulling as something cold spreads through your veins.

Your vision blurs, the room around you beginning to fade, but you hear the man’s voice one last time, as distant and cruel as the darkness closing in.

“Welcome to the market.”

The world tilts, and then everything goes black.

—

When you wake, you’re lying on a cold floor, the taste of blood sharp in your mouth. Your wrists are bound, and you’re in a different part of the warehouse, the dim light casting long, eerie shadows in its corners. The sounds around you are different now—muffled voices, footsteps echoing on metal stairs, the distant hum of a generator.

Your body feels heavy, sluggish, whatever they injected you with still coursing through your system. Panic threatens to overwhelm you, but you force yourself to focus. Stay calm. Think. You scan the room, your heart pounding as you see other girls huddled in the corners, some barely conscious, others staring blankly ahead.

This is what Charli went through. This is what all of them went through. And now, you're trapped in the very nightmare you were trying to stop.

But somewhere out there, Spencer is still looking for you, he has to be. And if you can hold on—just a little longer—maybe you’ll find a way out before you disappear for good.

—

You don’t know how long you’ve been in the warehouse. The minutes blur into hours, the cold seeping into your bones. You drift in and out of consciousness, each time waking to the same gray walls and the quiet murmurs of the other captives.

There’s no sense of time, no way to gauge how long you’ve been held or if anyone is coming for you. Your thoughts grow darker with each passing moment, and for the first time, a terrible possibility creeps into your mind—what if no one ever finds you?

Then, one night, everything changes.

You’re startled awake by a series of loud crashes, followed by shouting and the unmistakable sound of gunfire. The entire warehouse erupts into chaos—men yelling, doors slamming, the heavy thud of boots on concrete.

The other captives stir around you, eyes wide with confusion and fear, but none of them move. Everyone is too frightened, too broken, to hope for rescue.

Your heart races as the door to your cell flies open, and for a terrifying second, you think it’s one of them coming to take you. But it’s not. It’s Spencer.

He looks disheveled, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, but his eyes lock onto yours with a fierce determination. Relief washes over you, overwhelming and disorienting, but you can barely process it as he rushes to untie your hands. "It’s okay," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "You’re safe now. We’re getting you out of here."

Your mind struggles to catch up with what’s happening. You’re safe. The words don’t seem real, not after the nightmare you’ve endured. But then Spencer is pulling you to your feet, his arm around your waist as he helps you stumble toward the exit. “You’re okay, I’ve got you,”

All around you, agents from the BAU and local law enforcement swarm the building, subduing the traffickers, rounding up the men who took you. The sting operation has finally come to fruition, and the trafficking ring is being torn apart.

But the price of that success hits hard as you step out into the night air, your legs trembling beneath you.

In the days that follow, the weight of what happened doesn’t lift. It sits heavy on your chest, even as you’re surrounded by people trying to reassure you, to tell you that you’re safe now, that it’s all behind you.

The arrests make headlines: dozens of men involved in the trafficking ring, including high-profile figures in the D.C area, are taken down. The news calls it a victory for the BAU and law enforcement. They call it justice.

But it doesn’t feel like justice.

Not when the trauma lingers like an open wound, raw and festering beneath the surface. You sit in the hospital room, staring at the IV in your arm, but all you can think about is the warehouse. The cold concrete. The cages. The girls who weren’t so lucky.

Spencer comes to see you every day, though you don’t say much. He sits in the chair beside your bed, his eyes full of worry, as if he’s searching for the right thing to say but knows that nothing will fix it.

He saved you, but you can see the guilt weighing on him, the same questions gnawing at him that haunt you: How many girls did they miss? How long had this been going on? Why didn’t anyone notice sooner?

“You don’t have to talk,” he says one afternoon, breaking the silence. His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, a weariness that mirrors your own. “But when you’re ready… I’ll be here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

You want to respond, but the words don’t come. You’re trapped in the in-between—relieved that you’re out of that hell, but shattered by the memory of it, by what you witnessed, by how close you came to disappearing completely.

—

The days stretch into weeks. The investigation wraps up, the trial dates are set, and the media frenzy dies down. But your world feels smaller now, confined to the four walls of your apartment, where you spend most of your time trying to make sense of everything that’s happened.

The smallest things bring it all rushing back—a sharp sound, the clink of metal, the smell of bleach—and suddenly, you’re back in that van, or in that warehouse, bound and powerless.

You’ve been through the trauma debriefs, sat through sessions with psychologists who try to help you process the experience. They talk about recovery in terms of stages, as if healing is something you can track and measure. But for you, recovery isn’t linear. It’s fractured, messy, one step forward and two steps back.

One evening, Spencer comes over to check on you. He brings takeout and sits with you on the couch, both of you eating in silence. After a while, he sets his food down and looks at you with an intensity you haven’t seen since the night he found you.

“I know it’s hard,” he says quietly. “I know you’re still processing, but you did something incredible. You found the truth. And because of you, so many girls are going to be saved.”

You swallow hard, staring at your untouched food. “But I couldn’t save them all.”

Spencer’s expression softens. “No one could’ve. This operation—it was bigger than any of us imagined. You did everything you could, and more than most people would have. That’s what matters.”

His words settle over you like a blanket, warm but not entirely comforting. You know he’s right, but the guilt still gnaws at you. You think of Charli, of the girls who didn’t make it out. You think of the nights you spent terrified, wondering if you would ever escape. The victory feels hollow.

“I don’t know how to go back to normal,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “I don’t even know what normal is anymore.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment, then he reaches out, placing a deft hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to go back to how things were. There’s no ‘normal’ after something like this. But you will heal. It just takes time. And when you’re ready, we’ll keep fighting. For the ones we didn’t find. For the ones who are still out there.”

You meet his gaze, and for the first time in weeks, you feel a flicker of hope. It’s faint, fragile, but it’s there. The trauma won’t vanish overnight, and you know the nightmares will come for a while yet. But Spencer is right—what you uncovered, what you survived, will save lives.

Maybe you didn’t stop it all. Maybe you couldn’t save everyone. But you made sure the world knows what’s happening. And for now, that has to be enough.

As you sit there, the weight of everything still heavy on your shoulders, you take a breath. It’s shaky, but it’s a start. You survived. You’re still here. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like a victory.

In the months that follow, you begin to rebuild. It’s slow, agonising at times, but each day you feel a little more like yourself—though a new version of yourself, forever changed by what you went through.

The nightmares come less frequently, the panic attacks that once struck you in broad daylight begin to subside. But something is always there, lurking in the quiet moments, reminding you of the darkness you escaped.

It’s during one of those quiet moments, sitting in the early morning light by your window, that the idea first comes to you. You’ve spent so long trying to understand what happened, to come to terms with it, but you realise that your experience doesn’t have to be just your burden. It could be a way to help others. To make sure something like this never happens again.

You begin to think about the girls who went missing, and the eerie silence that had surrounded their disappearances until it was too late. The indifference of the campus administration, the lack of awareness, how easy it had been for these predators to operate in plain sight.

If anything was going to change, people needed to be aware. Students needed to be armed with knowledge and resources—tools to protect themselves and others.

That’s when you decide. You’re going to turn your pain into something meaningful.

—

The first meeting of your support group takes place on a rainy Tuesday evening in one of the small, out-of-the-way rooms on campus. The turnout is small—just a handful of students—but that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that they’re there. You sit in a circle, Spencer at your side, Detective Walker standing off to the side, her presence both protective and reassuring.

You never expected her to become such an ally after the initial doubts she had about your investigation, but after the sting operation, she’d been just as shaken by the scope of the trafficking ring as you were. Since then, she’d committed himself to working with you and Spencer, determined to prevent anything like it from happening again.

As you look around the room at the students—some hesitant, others eager to share their fears and concerns—you realise how important this is.

These are people who are scared, who’ve heard the stories and rumours about the disappearances, but never knew where to turn.

Some of them share personal experiences of feeling unsafe on campus, of reporting suspicious behaviour only to be dismissed or ignored. Others simply want to know how to protect themselves and their friends.

You take a deep breath, then start to speak. “I want to thank you all for being here tonight,” you begin, your voice steady but soft. “I know how hard it can be to talk about things like this. To admit that you feel vulnerable, or that you’re scared. But that’s why we’re here. To change that. To make sure no one has to feel like they’re alone.”

You pause, glancing at Spencer, who gives you an encouraging nod. “Some of you might have heard about what happened a few months ago. About the investigation into the missing girls and how it all led to… something much bigger. I was part of that investigation. And while we were able to stop some of the people responsible, the truth is, this could happen again. It happens more often than we realise.”

There’s a quiet murmur in the room, but no one looks away. They’re listening. You can feel the weight of their attention, and you press on.

“That’s why we’re starting this group. To create a space where we can talk openly about campus safety, about the things that make us feel unsafe, and to figure out how we can protect ourselves and each other. We want to raise awareness, but more than that, we want to take action. We want to make sure the administration hears us, that they take real steps to keep us safe.”

Detective Walker steps forward then, her authoritative voice grounding the room. “I’ll be working closely with you all to help guide these conversations. We’re also going to be pushing for more campus safety initiatives—better lighting, more security, self-defense classes. But what matters most is that you’re aware of the risks and that you don’t hesitate to report anything suspicious. Your vigilance is the best defense.”

The group talks for over an hour that first night. Some students share their experiences—times they felt unsafe walking home alone, or how they avoided certain areas of campus after dark.

Others ask questions about how to recognise warning signs, about what they should do if they feel they’re being watched or followed. You and Spencer answer as best you can, while Walker gives practical advice, but you’re careful not to push too hard. This is a space for support, not fear-mongering.

As the meeting comes to a close, you feel a sense of relief. It’s a small step, but it’s a step forward. And in a way, it’s part of your own healing process, turning your trauma into something that might help others.

Over the next few months, the support group grows. What started with just a few students in a small room blossoms into something larger. More people show up, word spreads, and soon, the administration can no longer ignore the conversation.

Spencer helps you organise events in his spare time—awareness campaigns, partnerships with local law enforcement, and self-defence workshops led by professionals. Detective Walker becomes a trusted figure on campus, and her involvement lends credibility to your efforts.

One night, after another well-attended meeting, you stand with Spencer in the empty room, gathering your things. The exhaustion is still there—the weight of everything you’ve been through never fully leaves—but there’s also a sense of accomplishment. Of hope.

“You did it,” Spencer says, breaking the comfortable silence. “You turned this into something real.”

You glance at him, offering a small smile. “We did it. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

He shakes his head. “You were always the one pushing forward, even when it was hardest. I just followed your lead.”

You pause, thinking back to everything that brought you to this point—the investigation, the sting, the night you thought you’d never make it out of that warehouse alive. The memories still haunt you, but they don’t control you anymore. You’ve taken that power back.

“None of this brings back the girls we couldn’t save,” you say quietly. “But at least now, we’re doing something. We’re making sure people know what’s out there. Maybe it’ll stop someone else from going through what we did.”

Spencer nods. “It will. I know it will.”

And you believe him. It doesn’t erase the trauma, but it gives it purpose. And that’s enough.

As you lock up the room and step out into the night, you take a deep breath of the cool air. The campus is still, the buildings lit up by streetlights that feel brighter than they used to.

There’s a sense of safety now, not just for you, but for everyone who came to those meetings, who learned something that might one day save their life.

You reflect on the journey that led you here—from the isolation and doubt at the start, through the horror of the trafficking ring, to this moment of quiet resolution.

You’ve changed. You’re stronger. And now, you’re not just surviving—you’re making sure others have the chance to, too.

—

The city buzzes with energy on Friday night, vibrant and alive with laughter and music echoing from the clubs lining the streets. Young people gather in groups, their voices blending into a lively symphony as they celebrate the end of the week.

“Hey, you almost here?”

Jules takes a deep breath, a feeling of giddiness washing over her as she glances at the neon lights flickering across the street. The club is packed, and the atmosphere is electric. “Yeah, yeah I’m almost here,”

“Great, I’ll see—” The line cuts out into static, and Jules furrows here eyebrows, pulling the screen away from her ear momentarily.

“Hey? Hello?” she asks, pulling her phone closer to her ear.

“Yeah, I’m—”

Jules sighs as the line continues to cut out, ending with a dead tone as the call ends. “Stupid phone— whatever,” She dumps her cell into her purse as she turns towards the club, crossing over the street.

Before she can even make it to the sidewalk, a hand clamps down over her mouth, yanking her back into the darkness. Panic ignites within her, and she struggles, her heels clattering against the pavement.

The laughter and music from the club fade into oblivion as she’s pulled toward a nearby alley, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Help! Let me go!” she cries out, muffled by the grip on her mouth. But the streets are alive with laughter, the music too loud for anyone to hear her desperate pleas.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst

230 notes · View notes

morgan-va · 5 months ago

Text

CynSide (Cyn x GenderNeutral!Reader Oneshot)

Masterlist

I got home late, just like always. My feet ached, my shoulders were sore, and my hands still felt stiff from breaking down boxes all day. Stocking shelves wasn’t hard, not really, but it was exhausting in a way that settled into my bones, like I was rusting from the inside out. It didn’t help that the fluorescent lights at work buzzed just enough to get on my nerves, or that customers had an incredible talent for asking me the dumbest questions imaginable. No, ma’am, I don’t control the prices. No, sir, I don’t know why the soup was on sale last week but isn’t today.

I kicked my shoes off at the door, not caring where they landed, and shrugged off my jacket. Straight to the kitchen, just like always. I didn’t have the energy to cook, and I definitely wasn’t about to go back out for fast food. So, I grabbed a bag of pizza rolls from the freezer, ripped it open, and dumped way too many onto the tray of my air fryer. Maybe they wouldn’t cook evenly, but that was a problem for future me.

As I shoved the bag into the trash can, I felt the resistance of something already packed too tight. I tried again, this time forcing it in, but all that did was crumple the bag against the overflowing pile. Great. Just great.

With a sigh, I pulled the garbage bag out of the can, twisting the top shut before hoisting it over my shoulder like some kind of trash Santa. The apartment complex dumpsters weren’t that far, just down the stairs and around the side of the building, but it was enough of a hassle to make me regret putting this off for so long. I could’ve taken it out yesterday. Or the day before.

I made my way down the stairs, the garbage bag swinging slightly with each step, its weight shifting uncomfortably against my arm. The dumpster was just ahead, lit faintly by the buzzing and oddly neon yellow glow of a streetlamp. Almost there.

I hefted the bag up, ready to toss it over the side—

—and the bottom split open.

Garbage spilled out in a slow-motion horror show, tumbling onto the pavement in a heap of takeout containers, crumpled receipts, and whatever else I had shoved in there over the past week. I stared at the mess, my brain grinding to a halt as the reality of my situation settled in.

Just my luck.

I groaned and crouched down, grabbing a few of the less disgusting pieces of trash and chucking them into the dumpster. I wasn’t about to sit here and clean all of it up—just enough so that I didn’t feel like a complete degenerate leaving my mess behind. As I reached for another stray container, something caught my eye.

A glint of metal, barely visible beneath a couple of overstuffed garbage bags.

I froze, staring at the glimpse of dull metal peeking out from under the trash. It took a second for my brain to process what I was looking at, but once it clicked, my breath caught in my throat. That was a hand. A metal hand.

I hesitated for only a moment before yanking the garbage aside, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten. There, half-buried under discarded food containers and torn-up junk mail, was a drone.

Not just any drone, either.

A Worker Drone, her silver-blonde hair reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamp. She wore a maid dress, neat despite her unfortunate resting place, complete with a black bow at the collar. Her black thigh-high socks were still in place, though she was missing one of her shoes.

What the hell was she doing here?

Even as scrap, a drone like this was worth a fortune. Fully intact? That was practically unheard of. Someone must’ve thrown her out recently, because there wasn’t a single dent or scratch on her—at least, none that I could see in the dim light.

I glanced around, making sure no one else was lurking nearby, then quickly hopped inside the dumpster. My shoes landed in something I definitely didn’t want to think about, but I ignored it, pushing bags out of the way to free her completely.

“Okay, c’mon,” I muttered under my breath, carefully slipping my arms under her and lifting her out. She was lighter than I expected, more awkward than heavy. I propped her against the side of the dumpster for a moment, climbed out, then pulled her into my arms properly.

Screw my trash—this was way more important.

Keeping a tight grip on the drone, I hurried back toward my apartment, my heart pounding with something I couldn’t quite name. Anticipation? Excitement? Maybe a little bit of both.

One thing was for sure—tonight had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.

Adjusting my grip, I hoisted the drone up higher in my arms, but carrying her like this was awkward. She wasn’t heavy—surprisingly light, actually—but her arms and legs were limp, making her a pain to hold properly. After a second of thought, I crouched down and shifted her onto my back, hooking my arms under her legs in a makeshift piggyback carry. That was much easier.

Once I was sure she wouldn’t slide off, I made my way back upstairs without issue, pushing my apartment door open with my shoulder before stepping inside. I wasted no time setting her down in my desk chair and flipping on the light.

Now that I could properly see her, I took a step back and gave her a once-over.

She was in great condition. No scratches, no dents, no signs of damage anywhere. Her dull blonde hair, though a little messy, still gleamed under the light. Her maid dress was stained in a few spots—probably from the dumpster—but was otherwise intact. The only thing really missing was her shoe.

So why the hell was she thrown away?

Maybe she had some internal faults. A hardware failure, a software issue, something that made fixing her not worth the trouble. Or maybe someone had just tossed her out for the hell of it. Either way, I wasn’t about to let a perfectly good drone go to waste. Either she’d be worth a lot for scrap, or maybe I’d finally have an actual friend.

I turned to my computer, booting it up while rummaging through my desk drawer for a connection cable. My fingers dug into a mess of tangled wires, a congealed mass of chargers, USB cords, and adapters I had neglected to organize for years.

Sighing, I pulled out the entire tangled mess, chucked it at the wall, and watched as the impact miraculously separated them all.

Works every time.

I grabbed the correct cord, plugged one end into my computer, and slotted the other into the drone’s port, watching as my screen detected the connection. Time to put my overpriced college robotics classes to actual use.

A quick search brought me to JCJenson’s official website, where I found the Drone Diagnostic Program. I hit download, drumming my fingers on the desk as I waited.

Hopefully, this would tell me what was wrong with her—if anything.

Once the program finished downloading, I double-clicked the file to launch it. A bright, obnoxious JCJenson™ logo filled the screen before immediately being replaced by a wall of legal text that scrolled at a speed no human could possibly read. Probably intentional. At the bottom was a single button:

[Agree to Terms]

Well, they never actually hid anything important in those TOS agreements anyway. I clicked the button without a second thought and let the program do its thing.

A window popped up with some basic setup instructions:

Remove the rear plate from the drone’s head.

Hold the power button for five seconds.

Easy enough.

I turned back to the drone, gently tilting her head forward as I ran my fingers along the back of her skull. There was a small panel near the base, flush with the rest of the plating. I popped it off and found a tiny recessed power button inside. Pressing down, I held it for the required five seconds.

Almost immediately, a faint hum vibrated through her chassis, and her visor flickered to life. Yellow text scrolled across the screen:

Booting Sequence: 1%

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Looked like it was actually working.

The progress bar ticked up at a slow but steady pace, nothing to do now but let the system handle itself. I stretched my arms over my head, the exhaustion from work creeping back in now that the excitement had settled. A drink sounded good right about now.

Leaving the drone to do her thing, I walked over to the fridge, tugged it open, and grabbed a soda. Twisting the cap off with a satisfying hiss, I took a sip, letting the cold fizz wake me up a little.

Tonight had taken a turn I definitely wasn’t expecting.

As I walked back to the desk, the drone’s boot sequence hit 100%, and the diagnostic program kicked in automatically. A list of systems appeared on my screen, each one flashing bright red as they failed their checks.

Optics: DamagedServos: DamagedHeat Sink: Damaged

The errors kept piling up, row after row of critical failures. Jesus. No wonder she was in the dumpster—practically everything was wrecked. I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. Well, at least the frame was intact. That had to be worth something.

The program was nearly done. I reached for the mouse, ready to exit and shut everything down, but just as my fingers closed around it, another diagnostic began running—

Operating System Check: IN PROGRESS

Huh. This one was different.

Unlike the others, it wasn’t instantly flagged as broken. The bar crept forward, checking each subsystem one by one, no red text in sight. Maybe her software was still functional? That would make salvaging her a lot easier.

I leaned in, watching as the progress bar inched closer and closer to completion.

97%... 98%... 99%...

100%.

The screen flickered violently, and for a brief moment, a strange symbol appeared—something jagged and unnatural. The lights overhead suddenly flared, growing impossibly bright, their hum turning into a sharp, almost alive buzz.

I barely had time to panic, attempting to pull the cord out of the drone, but a massive jolt of electricity shocked me, sending me reeling back against the desk.

Suddenly, darkness falls. The computer screen, the lights, everything—completely dead. The hum of electricity vanished, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake.

I sat there, heart pounding, gripping the desk so tightly my knuckles ached.

What the hell just happened?

The moment my vision adjusted to the darkness, I scrambled toward the fuse box. My apartment wasn’t that big, so it only took a few seconds to reach it. Yanking the panel open, I scanned the breakers and, sure enough, one had flipped.

Of course it had. The drone must’ve overloaded the power.

I let out a breath, trying not to think about the possibility that my PC had just been fried. If that thing was dead, I’d have to work so much overtime just to afford a new one. I shuddered at the thought.

Grabbing the switch, I flipped the breaker back on. Instantly, the lights buzzed to life, flooding the apartment with their usual dull glow.

I hurried back to my desk and pressed the power button on my computer. The fan whirred, the screen flickered, and after a few agonizing seconds—

It turned on.

“Thank God,” I muttered under my breath.

Turning my attention back to the drone, I quickly unplugged the cable from her port. No way was I letting that thing mess with my computer again.

Poor thing. I glanced at her visor, now blank and lifeless. What the hell had happened to her?

Not that I could find out. I wasn’t a technician, and even if I wanted to fix her, I didn’t have the tools or the know-how.

Letting out a sigh, I picked her up again, carrying her into the living room. Her light weight made it easy, but there was still something uncanny about holding a humanoid machine like this—especially one that had just knocked out my power.

I gently set her down on the couch, propping her up so she wouldn’t slump over. I’d look up some drone part buyers in the morning, find someone willing to take her off my hands. Maybe I could make some decent cash out of this. But for now, it was late, and I was exhausted.

I gave the drone one last glance before stretching my arms with a yawn. That’s a problem for tomorrow.

I walked back to my desk, still feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing against my eyelids, but I needed to make sure everything had survived the power outage. There was no way I was going to bed without checking. I clicked the mouse, watching the screen light up, and the comforting sight of my desktop greeted me. Everything seemed to be in its place. My files were intact, and there were no glaring signs of damage.

With a tired sigh, I put my computer to sleep and stood up, stretching my arms above my head. My body was exhausted from the long day, and the events of the night were catching up to me. I flicked the light switch, casting the room in darkness, and stumbled to the other side of the room, my eyes already half-closed as I made my way to the bed.

As soon as I hit the mattress, I didn’t even have time to pull the covers over myself before I passed out, sinking into the soft warmth and letting sleep overtake me. My thoughts, fuzzy and disjointed, seemed to drift away, and I was almost completely gone, the weight of the day finally releasing me from its grip.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the sunlight streaming through the curtains, bright and warm against the coolness of the room. It was a peaceful, dreamless sleep—one of those nights where you’re just too tired to even think. I used to dream a lot when I was younger, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had one. It had been so long, I almost forgot what it felt like to wake up with a lingering sense of a dream.

I stretched and yawned, rolling out of bed and quickly getting to my feet, ready to take on the day. It was the weekend, and that meant a break from the monotony of my job.

“First things first,” I muttered to myself, “I need coffee.”

I shuffled over to the kitchen, the thought of that warm, bitter liquid already making me feel a little more alive. But as I passed the living room, my mind froze.

The drone.

I turned to look at the couch, my mind instantly trying to place what I was seeing. Or rather, what I wasn’t seeing.

The couch was empty. The drone—the drone—was gone.

I blinked, shaking my head, willing the haze of sleep to clear, but there was no denying it. The spot where I’d left her was vacant.

Did I get robbed?

I immediately bolted toward the front door, but the lock was firmly in place. I rushed to the window next, double-checking the latch. It was locked, too. I quickly scanned the apartment, looking for anything else that could be missing. My computer was still on my desk, which seemed odd. A thief would have grabbed that without question. But the drone—where the hell was it?

I had to be imagining things, right?

But no. I knew for a fact that I hadn’t dreamt this. The entire night felt too real—the dumpster, her being powered up, the electricity pop, everything. It was too vivid for it to have been a figment of my imagination.

With a surge of anxiety rising in my chest, I rushed back to my desk and powered on the computer. I needed answers. I needed to see that damn program, the one that had been running before the power went out.

The computer hummed to life, the screen blinking as it booted up. I opened up the file explorer, hoping to find some trace of the JCJenson™ program.

But when the file explorer opened, it was… empty.

I froze, staring at the blank window. There was no way I imagined everything. No way.

I felt my heart race, my palms starting to sweat. Was I losing it? Had the crushing monotony of life finally taken its toll and driven me crazy? Was this some kind of hallucination, or was I missing something far worse?

I rubbed my face, trying to calm down, but nothing made sense. The drone, the program, the power flicker—they all felt too real to be a figment of my tired mind. I had to figure out what happened. I had to know if I was losing my grip on reality, or if something much stranger was going on.

I definitely needed coffee. Badly. The fog in my brain wasn’t clearing, and I had no idea what was happening. My thoughts were too jumbled, like I was trapped in some bizarre, waking dream.

Right on cue, the coffee machine dinged, and I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. The sound was so jarring against the chaos in my mind. I turned slowly to look at it. Wait a second—I didn’t start it.

I was about to, sure, but then everything came to a halt when I realized the drone was gone. Had I… did I forget? Was I sleepwalking? How the hell did that coffee get made?

I walked over to the coffee machine, my legs feeling like lead as I approached. There, the little glowing yellow light was blinking, signaling the coffee was ready.

Wait...

I swore that the light had been red earlier. I’d made coffee a thousand times, and it was always red when it was finished. There was no yellow—there was just no way. My mind was racing. Had I had some kind of stroke while I slept? Maybe I was still dreaming, trapped in some weird, hyper-realistic nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the glowing light, before I finally decided to pour myself a cup. My hands shook slightly as I did, still unsure of whether I was really awake or not.

I took a sip.

And then I froze.

Wow.

This was the best coffee I’d ever tasted.

I nearly choked on it. There was no way in hell I could make coffee this good. It tasted like something out of a high-end café, rich and perfectly brewed. How was this even possible? I felt like I was losing my grip on reality, and this cup of coffee was just the cherry on top.

I stared into the mug, wondering if I was completely losing it, because there was absolutely no explanation for this.

It seemed that the evidence was in: I was done for. I’d lost it.

I took another sip of the coffee, trying to steady my nerves. Damn, that was one hell of a cup. If I had truly lost my grip on reality, at least I could enjoy better coffee. I placed the cup back on the counter, still trying to process everything. I turned back to face the rest of my apartment.

There, standing less than a foot away from me, was the damn drone from last night.

I swear my heart skipped a beat. My body went rigid, and my mind couldn't quite catch up to what was happening. She was just standing there, her head tilted at a strange angle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. How the hell had she snuck up on me? I hadn’t heard a thing, hadn’t seen her move. The apartment was small—there were no places for her to hide. I mean, was she somehow under the bed the entire time? The couch? No. That didn’t make sense. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the shock.

Before I could even think about reacting or saying anything, her robotic voice cut through the tension: “Giggle. I frightened you.”

I looked at her, still wide-eyed, my heart racing. “How long have you been awake?” I asked, the words stumbling out of my mouth.

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering the question. “Inquisitive tone. Define awake.”

I blinked, trying to make sense of her answer. “Uh, I mean, how long have you been online?” I clarified, more frustrated than I wanted to sound.

She didn’t hesitate, her response coming quickly. “I have been online since you powered me on last night.”

I stood there, completely stunned. "Wait—what? You've been awake this entire time?" My mind raced with more questions than I knew how to ask. "What the hell have you been doing all this time? Why didn’t you make yourself known until now?”

She responded in that eerie, mechanical tone, her smile widening slightly. “I was merely getting acquainted with my new… home. Smile.”

I chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. "Right... sure."

But then, as if on cue, she asked, “Did you enjoy the coffee? I prepared it as soon as you made your request.”

I froze.

That… that didn’t make sense. I’d barely spoken, hadn’t even finished waking up when I said I needed coffee. But the real kicker was that I hadn’t seen her anywhere near the machine. She must have heard me mumble about wanting some, but how the hell had she prepared it?

I took a step back, trying not to let the questions overwhelm me. “Yeah… it’s great,” I managed to say, but my mind was reeling. How could she have done that? Was she more capable than I gave her credit for? Was there something else going on here?

I pushed that uneasy thought aside for now and focused on the drone in front of me. If she’d really been active since last night, then she must have had time to assess herself, right? That diagnostic program hadn’t exactly painted a pretty picture of her condition.

"Hey, uh… are you feeling okay? Your diagnostic last night didn’t look too good," I asked, watching her closely.

She blinked, her head tilting just slightly. “Feeling is a mortal plight. I am above such things.”

I stared at her, waiting for some kind of follow-up. Nothing. That was all she had to say on the matter.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Nope. No words. Just moving right past that, I guess.

I cleared my throat. “Right. So, uh… what did you mean earlier when you called this place your home? Does that mean you want to stay here?”

Her eyes lit up—literally, her optics flickered a little brighter—as she clasped her hands together. “Oh yes, this will do quite nicely. Innocent grin.”

Despite her abnormal speech pattern, there was something oddly… endearing about the way she said it. Sure, she was a little strange, but that wasn’t exactly a bad thing. I’d always liked drones, after all. And besides, she didn’t seem dangerous.

Still, I wasn’t sure what to make of all this. She just decided she lived here now? Just like that? Part of me wanted to be cautious, but another part of me was… intrigued. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing.

Maybe, just maybe, this could actually be interesting.

I turned back to grab my coffee, but when I turned around again, she was gone.

Well, not gone, exactly. She was now across the room, perched on my desk chair, spinning in slow, lazy circles.

I blinked. How the hell did she get over there so fast? I hadn’t even heard her move. One second she was standing by the counter, and the next—bam, desk chair. Maybe I was still groggy.

Oh well.

I walked over, watching as she spun one last time before the chair gradually slowed, stopping perfectly so that she was facing me. That same tiny smile lingered on her lips.

I was about to ask if she wanted me to clean her dress—it had been pretty filthy last night—but then I noticed something strange. Her dress was already clean. Not just wiped down, but spotless, like it had never been dirty in the first place. Even stranger, she was no longer missing a shoe.

I furrowed my brow. “Wait… didn’t you—”

“Thank you,” she said cheerfully, tilting her head. “But I already took care of it. Hee hee.”

I had no idea what to say to that.

“Right… well,” I said, still trying to shake off the weirdness of the last few minutes. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she was silent, almost like she was thinking about it.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“Thoughtful pause. My name is Cyn.”

Cyn.

It was a nice name. Simple, but… fitting.

I smiled at her. “That’s a lovely name.”

For a brief second, her optics seemed to glow just a little brighter. Then she nodded, more to herself than to me.

“You are… different from the others,” she murmured. “This arrangement will work well.”

I had no idea what she meant by that, but hey, I’d take it as a good thing. I guessed that meant she liked me.

I shifted awkwardly, glancing around my apartment as the silence stretched between us. What was I even supposed to say here? I’d never had a conversation like this before—never had a reason to.

Scratching the back of my neck, I muttered, “Uh… just so you know, I don’t really have any… friends. Or family. Or anyone who comes over, really, so… you might only ever see me.”

I met her gaze hesitantly, half-expecting some kind of disappointment or even confusion. Instead, she smiled.

“Perfect.”

I blinked. “Oh. Uh… okay then.”

That was… a little intense. But at least she didn’t seem bothered by it.

I cleared my throat, shifting on my feet. “Well… what do you wanna do now?”

I raised an eyebrow as she pointed a finger to the UNO deck on my desk, its plastic wrapping still intact, untouched. Right. That thing. I’d bought it ages ago, back when I still thought I’d have friends to play it with. That hadn’t exactly panned out, so it just sat there, collecting dust.

Still, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. “Alright, sure.”

I picked up the box, peeling off the plastic as I turned around—only to find she’d vanished again. My head snapped to the other side of the room, where she was now sitting at the dining table, hands neatly folded, watching me expectantly.

I hesitated. How the hell did she keep doing that? She moved like a horror movie ghost, yet she stood like her servos were on the verge of imploding at any given moment.

Pushing the thought aside, I walked over and sat across from her, removing the packaging and shuffling the deck as she observed with that same unreadable smile.

“May I attempt?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Yeah, go for it.”

She took the deck in her hands, tilting her head as if analyzing it. Then she made her first attempt—only to send the cards scattering across the table in a clumsy heap.

I reached forward instinctively to help, but before I could, she suddenly muttered, “Frustrated growl.”

A strange, crackling hum filled the air as the scattered cards twitched—then lifted into the air, enveloped in a vibrant yellow glow. I could only watch in stunned silence as they swirled into a tight, controlled vortex, shuffling themselves at impossible speed before settling into a neat, pristine stack right in front of her.

She beamed. “Perfectly random. As all things should be. Giggle.”

I stared at her. Then at the cards. Then back at her. “Okay. What the hell was that?”

Before I even finished speaking, she cut in, “I am better than other drones. I have shuffled off the limitations of this flawed body and become capable of so much more. Example: shuffling cards. Smile.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or impressed. I mean… yeah, that was kinda freaky, but also—

That was totally badass.

She slid the deck over to me, clearly expecting me to deal. Well, alright then. Not gonna question it. I had no idea what kind of experimental prototype she was, but if playing UNO with a telekinetic drone wasn’t the coolest thing I’d ever done, I didn’t know what was.

I dealt the cards, explaining the rules as I went. Cyn watched me with an expression of pure focus, as if absorbing every word like gospel.

Just as I finished, she picked up her cards, glanced at them, then flicked her gaze up to meet mine.

"Oh, I already knew how to play the game. Your voice is just very sweet. Affectionate smile."

She looked back down at her cards before I could even process that.

My brain short-circuited a little. Nobody had ever said they liked my voice before. It wasn’t something I thought much about, but hearing it out loud—especially from her—sent a strange warmth curling in my chest.

I cleared my throat. “Uh. Alright then.”

And so, we played.

Cyn was good. Too good. She played her cards with almost eerie precision, dropping +4s at the worst possible times, blocking every attempt I made at getting ahead. But eventually, through sheer dumb luck, I managed to win. And not just win—I obliterated her.

I set my last card down, grinning in victory. “Ha! Got you.”

Cyn giggled, tilting her head. "I must admit, I knew your cards the entire time, but I enjoy playing with you too much to care."

I froze. “Wait. What?”

I looked at my empty hand, then at her, an uneasy feeling creeping in. How the hell did she.. did she have x-ray vision or something? That would be insane. Right?

I hesitated before asking, “How did you know what I had?”

She giggled again. "You showed your cards when you reached for your coffee cup."

…Oh.

I exhaled, shoulders relaxing. Rookie mistake. I really needed to work on better card etiquette.

Still, she let me win, which was kind of sad. But also… kind of sweet.

I began shuffling the deck again, the cards making a satisfying fwhip as they slid together. Just as I was about to finish, one of them slipped free and fluttered to the ground. I reached down to grab it, but before my fingers could even brush the card, something black and sinuous lashed out and plucked it off the floor.

I jerked back in shock, watching as the tendril curled around the card, lifted it gracefully onto the table, and placed it neatly back on the stack. My gaze followed its slow retreat as it slithered behind Cyn, disappearing into some unseen void.

She smiled at me, her yellow eyes bright with something unreadable, like she was studying me, waiting for my reaction.

"Giggle."

I blinked. That was—well, I wasn’t sure what that was. But it was cool as hell.

“Whoa,” I breathed, sitting up straighter. “That’s awesome!”

Cyn’s smile faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "You are not... frightened?"

I raised a brow. “What? No way, that was sick! You could like, reach the TV remote from across the room and stuff.”

She didn’t say anything at first, head tilting slightly as if processing my response. The motion must have overextended her faulty neck joint, because her head suddenly slumped forward with a faint clunk. Without hesitation, she lifted a hand and propped it back up.

I probably should’ve been unnerved by that. Instead, I just found myself really hoping she wouldn’t actually break herself while sitting at my dining table.

She watched me a moment longer before finally speaking. "You are an odd human. Not like the others. Curious."

I huffed a small laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I tapped the deck against the table, aligning the cards into a neat stack. “Wanna play again, or should I head out and find some spare parts for you? Pretty sure I could raid a scrapyard and at least scrounge up some replacement servos.”

Cyn chuckled, shaking her head. “That will not be necessary anymore.”

I raised a brow. “Anymore?”

“I choose this form for a reason.”

Something about the way she said that made me hesitate. I wasn’t sure if it was the certainty in her voice or the way she phrased it—like she wasn’t just accepting her state but actively preferring it.

“…Alright,” I said slowly, deciding not to press the issue. “So, what do you wanna do now?”

Cyn’s fingers drummed idly against the table, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. Eventually, she looked back at me, her yellow optics gleaming.

"Have you ever considered the intricacies of reality?"

I blinked. “Uh… What?”

She tilted her head—not as much this time, keeping it within the limits of her unstable joint. “If you found out your entire existence was nothing but a simulation, how would you feel? Inquiring gaze.”

I frowned, mulling that over. “I mean… I guess there wouldn’t be much I could do about it. If everything’s fake, then everything’s fake.” I shrugged. “But if the simulation’s just chilling and having fun with you, then, hey—I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Cyn’s smile widened, her optics growing a bit wider too.

"Curious. What a peculiar human indeed."

Cyn stood up from her chair and walked over to my side. I gave her a curious look as she reached out, gently placing a hand on my head and patting me.

"Pat pat pat." She vocalized the action like it was some kind of command.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. She was such an odd drone, but it was strangely endearing how unique she was. She kept patting me, and after a moment, I reached up to do the same to her—only for her hand to snap out and catch my wrist just before I could touch her dull blonde hair. She stared at my arm for a second, her optics flickering with something I couldn’t quite read. Then, carefully, she guided my hand the rest of the way, placing it on top of her head.

I took the hint and started patting her in return. For a moment, we just stood there, both patting each other’s heads, giggling like idiots.

Once we stopped, Cyn tilted her head, smiling. “I have never met a human that makes such a good pet. I will enjoy this relationship.”

I laughed, brushing off her words as more of her odd behavior. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Cyn.”

As I stretched, something clicked in my brain. “Oh, right! The morning paper should be outside.” I glanced toward the door as I explained, standing up and beginning to walk over.

Before I could even take a step, Cyn suddenly materialized in front of me, appearing in an instant like she’d been there the whole time.

"You cannot leave. I have not prepared it yet."

I froze mid-step, staring at her with my mouth slightly open.

Cyn’s expression changed as she studied me. "Oh dear, did I break another one? Sad expression."

I snapped out of it, shaking my head. “Forget that—how the hell did you do that? That was amazing! Can you teleport anywhere? Do you have to have been there before? Can you take people with you?”

Her expression flickered between confusion and intrigue as I rapidly fired off my questions, clearly more excited by what I’d just witnessed than the fact that she had outright denied me from leaving.

"You are by far the most strange human I have encountered," she finally said, watching me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

I grinned. "Well, you are by far the coolest drone I’ve ever met."

Cyn's optics shifted as she leaned forward slightly. "I am no drone." Her voice took on an almost reverent tone. "I am the Solver of the Absolute Fabric. I have chosen you as my squire, the one who will accompany me as I rewrite the universe."

I blinked.

…and she likes roleplay?? Wow! She really is so cool!

Without thinking, I grabbed her by the waist and lifted her into the air, spinning her around in excitement. "That’s amazing! What a fantastic character! You even have the godlike speech patterns down! I love the commitment to the bit!"

She dangled in my grip, completely limp, her head tilting slightly as her unblinking yellow eyes bore into me. I finally set her back down, beaming.

She remained still for a moment before tilting her head again, her expression unreadable. "So peculiar…" she murmured, as if speaking to herself rather than to me.

Cyn seemed to ponder something for a moment, her optics flickering as if deep in thought. Then, without warning, she reached forward and took my hand.

"Come with me," she said. "One final test."

I hesitated, but something in her tone—calm, assured—made it impossible to refuse. She led me to my desk and gestured for me to sit. As soon as I did, the computer powered on, though she hadn’t touched a thing. My confusion only deepened when a program opened on its own.

A camera feed popped up on the screen.

It was my apartment.

I frowned. At first, I thought it was a live feed, but then I noticed… something was wrong. The lights had that dim, early-morning glow, the same way they had looked when I first woke up. And then I saw it—me.

Slumped on the floor.

I swallowed hard as the footage continued. Cyn sat in my desk chair, just where I had left her the night before. For a long, eerie moment, she didn’t move. Then, suddenly, she powered on, her optics flickering to life. She hopped out of the chair and waved at the camera.

I stared, heart pounding, as she walked over to my unmoving body, gently taking me by the shoulders and pulling me up into the chair.

I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. That… that was definitely me.

My mind raced back to last night. The power surge. The static in the air. The shock that had run through me like a jolt of electricity.

No. No, no, that wasn’t possible.

Slowly, I turned to look at the Cyn standing beside me.

She was already watching me.

"Giggle." Her head tilted slightly, that ever-present smile playing on her lips. "I see you've caught on. I couldn't risk another human throwing me out, so I brought you here instead. Welcome to my mind."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My breath felt shallow, my thoughts scrambled, as if my brain had been thrown into a blender.

She continued, her tone almost… disappointed. "I assume this is too much for you and your mind is slowly fraying along with your sanity. That is okay, perhaps all humans are a lost cause after all." She let out a soft, thoughtful hum. "Pensive afterthought. What a shame, I quite like you."

That snapped me out of it.

"Wait," I blurted out, focusing on the only thing that actually made sense. "You like me??"

Cyn’s optics flickered. Her expression shifted into what could only be described as pure, unfiltered confusion.

"What?"

I ran a hand down my face, trying to process everything. "Okay," I started, "don’t get me wrong, this is insane. I mean, I’m trapped here, my body is—dead? Lifeless? Something?—out there in the real world, which is absolutely terrifying, but…" I hesitated, then let out a breathy chuckle. "I’ve always wanted something like this to happen."

Cyn’s optics brightened slightly.

"I’ve played so many games where the protagonist gets yanked into another world," I continued, "and I used to wish that could happen to me. Just, y’know, without the whole ‘possible death in a strange new world’ part. But that aside—" I leaned forward, looking her in the eyes. "You actually like me?"

She blinked.

"Please be honest," I pressed. "You’re not messing with me, right? This isn’t some cruel twist where you pretend to like me just to break my heart later?"

Cyn stared at me with what I could only describe as genuine shock.

Her optics flickered. A few bright sparks crackled from the side of her head.

She tilted her head, scanning me up and down like she was trying to make sense of me. For once, she didn’t immediately respond. It was as if she was actually thinking deeply about what I had just said.

Finally, after a long pause, she giggled. "Hm. You are by far the strangest and most peculiar human I have encountered."

Then, she smiled. "So yes, I believe I like you. Quite a lot. Giggle."

I pulled her into a hug before I could think better of it.

Cyn stiffened in my arms, caught completely off guard. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, her arms wrapped around me, returning the embrace.

"It has been a very long time since I experienced what humans call hugs," she murmured. "I suppose I could get used to it."

I smiled, holding her a little tighter before finally letting go. That warmth lingered for a moment, but then my eyes drifted back to the monitor—back to my body, slumped over in the chair.

Oh. Right. That.

"So…" I swallowed. "What happens to me now? I mean, y’know, now that I’m… in here?"

Cyn chuckled and snapped her fingers.

On the monitor, my body shimmered, warped, and then just… evaporated. It was like it had never existed at all.

I stared. "Holy shit. Sick."

"You don’t need it anymore," she said simply, stepping beside me. "And I could not risk someone coming in and asking questions. So, I removed the issue."

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "Right. Cool. Totally normal day."

Cyn giggled and clasped her hands behind her back. "I will work on building a new world for you here," she continued. "A perfect world, just for us. Where we can spend time together. Forever."

Her optics glowed a little brighter as she smiled at me.

I grinned. "Well, I graciously accept."

Cyn laughed—a real, genuine laugh this time. "You did not actually have a choice," she teased.

"Yeah, but I don’t mind!" I shrugged. "This is literally all I ever wanted. No stress, no responsibilities, just—” I beamed at her. "—just us."

Overcome with excitement, I grabbed her and spun her around again, just like before.

This time, she smiled.

As I set her down, something in her expression softened. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her optics—something warm, something alive.

Yeah. I could definitely get used to this. And something told me that, for the first time in a long, long time…

Cyn would be happy too.

Wait… I never got to eat my pizza rolls!

(The end.)

(...Or is it?)

#murder drones #murder drones x reader #murder drones fanfic #murder drones headcanon #cyn x reader #murder drones cyn x reader

99 notes · View notes

writerwrabbleswords · 10 months ago

Text

The worst | [Worst] Wolverine/Logan X [Male Iron Man variant] Reader

Logan hates the void, but he hates it a little less after he meets a bearable Tony Stark - except you aren't exactly a Tony Stark he recognizes.

Quick Notes : I haven't actually written for Logan before, but I'm obsessed after Deadpool and Wolverine so... Here we go. I might write a part two, but I'm not sure yet.

Story Details : Deadpool & Wolverine spoilers, Reader is male but referred to with 'You/Your' pronouns, about 800 or so words, light angst, Logan drinking (obviously), cliffhanger ending.

Logan disliked the void; he disliked it nearly as much as he disliked Wade, which was a lot. Through the entire thing - the fight in the damn honda odyssey, getting the hell away from Cassandra, even getting brought to the resistance hideout - the only thing he wanted to do was down a few bottles of booze and crash for the night. The conversation he’d had with Laura made him feel… odd. It was hard to explain, and Logan wasn’t exactly known for being ‘in touch’ with his feelings. Hell, he preferred to drown them in alcohol over talking about them or even feeling them.

The mutant was drawn from his thoughts (and the bottle in his hand) when the door to the resistance opened, your form entering the hideout. He felt his nose scrunch - the stranger smelled like rust and metal, an unpleasant combination. You looked up from something in your hand, glancing at Logan before giving a curt nod and moving towards the nearby table. It was then that he caught sight of a slight blue glow just peeking out from overtop your undone top buttons; an arc reactor. Logan grit his teeth, tearing his eyes away as he downed half the bottle - of course he’d have to deal with a damn Tony Stark variant, it couldn’t have been that Wade was awake, it had to be him.

A grunt from you pulled his attention back towards you, his gaze soon affixing to what was in your hand - or more accurately, on your arm. It was a repulsor gauntlet, probably part of a full suit if he had to guess, with the paint faded and scratched. With only a glance, he had a feeling you’d been here a long while.

“You’re the first Wolverine I’ve seen here,”

Your voice cut through Logans’ thoughts, and he couldn’t help the bitter scoff that left him - of course you’d know who he was. Shaking his head, he approached your spot at the table, taking a seat across from you as he watched. You were fiddling with your repulsor gauntlet, the screwdriver in your hand digging between the metal plates as you scowled. For a brief moment, he locked eyes with you. Huh. It was then that he fully took in your form - really looked - and noticed that you weren’t quite the Tony Stark he was used to; you didn’t even look like a Tony Stark.

“You gonna’ tell me how you got here, or are you gonna’ keep staring at me while I work?”

Logan huffed at your question, bringing the bottle of booze to his lips as he regarded you. He didn’t particularly want to talk - especially to a damn Iron Man - but he relented, the alcohol flowing through his system loosening his tongue.

“The jackass known as Wade got us both stuck here,” you paused at his words, arching a brow as Logan took a swig, “He pulled me from my universe to try and save his.”

He could tell something about his words had struck a nerve because the moment he mentioned his own universe, you all but glared down at your gauntlet, your movements with the screwdriver less controlled and precise.

“Least you’ll get a chance to leave,” came your bitter words.

It was now the mutants’ turn to raise a brow, his eyes watching you - analyzing you - for any sign of what set you off. He looked away, tipping the bottle of alcohol back as the liquor slid down his throat.

“You been stuck here a while?” Logan found himself asking, surprising both you and himself.

Even more surprising, you looked up from your gauntlet and nodded, your expression softening as you tossed the screwdriver onto the table and sighed,

“Been here longer than most. Had the TVA approach me to join the fuckin’ ‘sacred timeline’ or whatever, and when I turned it down - tried to warn the Avengers - they sent me here. I got every one of my mates killed.” Logan frowned, but didn’t interrupt. Even to him, it was clear you didn’t often talk about your past, “Cassandra’s been tryin’ to get me on her side for ages now, but I refuse. I’m a genius, not a fuckin’ lap dog for some deranged bitch.”

That got a bark of laughter from the mutant, who shook his head in amusement; you had the signature ‘Tony Stark’ cockiness, arrogance might have been a better word, but you seemed more down to earth than the one he’d known of back in his universe. You seemed to have a shadow following you, something hidden to everyone that kept you locket away; it was something he could relate to.

“You got a name they call you?” Logan asked, taking another swig from his pilfered bottle of alcohol.

You hummed, returning your focus to your repulsor gauntlet as you picked up the screwdriver once more, “I’m the worst Iron Man.”

#logan howlett x male reader #Logan howlett #Logan x reader #Logan howlett x you #male reader #wolverine x reader #Logan howlett x reader #Deadpool and wolverine #Deadpool 3 #mcu

205 notes · View notes

velvetinkbym · 4 months ago

Text

Smoke & Starlight

Caitlyn Kiramman x fem!reader

Masterlist || Previous chapter || Next chapter ~

Chapter two: Into The depths

The air in Zaun is thick—damp with humidity, laced with the sharp bite of oil and burning metal. It clings to your skin, heavy and suffocating, as you and Caitlyn navigate the maze of dimly lit streets. The neon signs flicker above you, buzzing like insects, casting eerie hues of green and purple against the slick cobblestone roads.

It’s nothing like Piltover.

And you stick out like a sore thumb.

You feel it in the way the people look at you—lingering, appraising. Some eyes are filled with curiosity, others with something darker. A group of men near a rusted-out bar murmur to each other as you pass, their voices low and slurred, their grins slow and knowing. A woman leans against the entrance of an alley, exhaling smoke through painted lips as she watches you with an amused smirk.

You don’t belong here.

Your grip tightens around the edges of your coat as you lean closer to Caitlyn. “Do you know where we’re going?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“We’re meeting a friend of mine,” Caitlyn answers without hesitation.

A friend.

You resist the urge to scoff. You hadn’t even known Caitlyn had friends in Zaun. Or any friends at all, really. The Caitlyn Kiramman you knew was the daughter of a high-ranking noble—a perfect, polished Piltover girl who carried herself like she was always in control. Here, though, the weight of the city presses down on both of you, turning your confidence to unease.

Another burst of laughter from the bar makes your stomach twist. You don’t look back.

Caitlyn moves with purpose, scanning the streets like she’s been here before, or at least knows what she’s looking for. When the road narrows, she shifts slightly, walking closer to you, and for a second, her hand brushes against yours.

It’s brief. Barely a touch. But it grounds you.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until a voice cuts through the air—gruff, amused, unmistakably directed at Caitlyn.

“Well, well. Look what the Hexgate dragged in.”

A woman leans against a crumbling brick wall up ahead, arms crossed, smirking. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, with pink hair tousled wildly from the wind. A scar runs over the bridge of her nose, and her sharp eyes flick between you and Caitlyn with lazy amusement.

She lets out a low whistle. “Didn’t think I’d see you back here, cupcake. And with company.”

Caitlyn exhales sharply, something between relief and exasperation. “Vi.”

Vi.

The infamous Zaunite criminal—at least, that’s what Piltover’s reports called her. A brawler, a troublemaker, a wildcard. And apparently, Caitlyn’s friend.

Vi pushes off the wall, sauntering toward you both with an easy confidence, her gaze trailing over you with mild curiosity. “And you are?”

You hesitate. Caitlyn, however, answers for you.

“My wife.”

Vi’s eyebrows shoot up. Then, suddenly, she barks out a laugh. “No shit?” She claps Caitlyn hard on the back, nearly knocking her forward. “Guess congratulations are in order.”

You bristle, crossing your arms. “You’re the friend?”

Vi smirks. “That depends. If you were hoping for some fancy Piltover type, you’re outta luck.”

Caitlyn sighs. “She’s the one who’s going to help us.”

Your stomach twists again—not with unease, but with something more complicated. Caitlyn trusts her, but you don’t. Not yet.

“And you trust her?” you ask.

Caitlyn hesitates for only a second. “Yes.”

Vi chuckles. “Damn right she does.” She tilts her head toward a side street. “Come on, lovebirds. You’re not safe out here.”

You cast one last glance at the strangers still watching you before following Vi deeper into Zaun.

———————————————————————

Vi’s place is… different from what you expected.

It’s small, built into the side of a crumbling industrial building, but it’s clean—at least cleaner than most places you’ve passed. There’s a couch against the wall, a punching bag hanging from the ceiling, and a battered table cluttered with old blueprints and empty bottles. A single dim light flickers overhead.

Vi kicks the door shut behind her, stretching her arms behind her head. “Make yourselves at home, I guess. Not exactly a Piltover estate, but it’s better than the streets.”

You linger near the entrance, tense, while Caitlyn moves further in. Vi watches the two of you for a beat before shaking her head.

“Alright,” she says, plopping down onto the couch, propping her feet up on the table. “So are we gonna talk about the fact that you got married since I last saw you, or…?”

You shift uncomfortably. Caitlyn exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s complicated.”

Vi snorts. “No shit.”

Caitlyn shoots you a glance, then, reluctantly, she begins, “It’s an arranged marriage.”

Vi’s easy smirk falters for the first time. “An arranged marriage?” She turns to you, her expression unreadable. “You agreed to this?”

Your jaw tightens. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Vi’s gaze flickers between you and Caitlyn. Her smirk is gone now, replaced by something more serious.

“So what, you two just ran off together?”

Caitlyn nods. “If we stayed in Piltover, we wouldn’t be able to make our own choices. We’d be pawns in our families’ plans. This was the only way to take control of our own lives.”

Vi hums, thoughtful. “Well, can’t say I blame you. But escaping to Zaun isn’t exactly an easy fix. You’re gonna stick out like a couple of sore thumbs.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” you mutter.

Vi chuckles. “Don’t worry, I know a few places you can lay low. But you better be ready for a fight—Zaun’s not exactly a fairytale escape.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Question is… you sure you wanna do this?”

You and Caitlyn exchange a glance. You think of Piltover—the suffocating expectations, the golden cage of your old life.

You inhale deeply.

“Yes.”

Vi grins. “Good answer.”

55 notes · View notes

12bucksundpommes · 1 year ago

Text

There's a problem

Bucky x yn

Summary: y/n and bucky get captured by hydra and bucky is forced to watch them use the trigger words on y/n.

A/n: part 2 is now available, but idk how to put the link for it on this one, so you guys can access it easier.

-------------------------------------------------------

Bucky sat on the cold, hard floor of his cell, staring helplessly through the transparent barrier that separated him from y/n. The sterile, clinical environment of the Hydra facility made everything feel more oppressive. He tugged futilely at his restraints, frustration and fear gnawing at him. y/n was in the cell opposite his, her eyes wide with terror as she tried to process their dire situation.

"Stay strong, y/n" he whispered, knowing she couldn't hear him but hoping his presence might offer some comfort.

The door to y/n's cell slid open, and two Hydra agents walked in, dragging her to the center. Bucky's heart pounded in his chest as he watched them prepare to use the trigger words.

"No," he muttered, his voice shaking. "Not again. Please, not her."

One of the agents stepped forward and began to recite the words with cruel precision: "Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. Nine. Homecoming. One. Freight car."

With each word, y/n's face twisted in agony, her body convulsing as she fought against the control. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she clenched her fists, trying to resist the programming. Bucky felt his own tears welling up, his soul shattering as he watched the love of his life endure the same torment he had known all too well.

"y/n, fight it!" he screamed, his voice raw with desperation. "Don't let them do this to you!"

But when the final word was spoken, y/n's expression went blank, her eyes devoid of emotion. The agents stepped back, satisfied with their work, and released her from the cell. She stood there, motionless, waiting for orders.

At that moment, the facility's alarms blared, signaling the arrival of the Avengers. Steve, Natasha, and Tony burst into the room, ready to rescue their friends. They paused, shocked to see y/n standing free, her face an empty mask.

"y/n?" Steve called out, lowering his shield slightly. "What are you doing?"

y/n didn't respond. Instead, she launched into an attack, her movements swift and precise. The Avengers were taken aback, trying to defend themselves without hurting her.

Tony turned to see Bucky in his cell, a look of anguish on his face. "What's going on?" he shouted over the chaos.

"They've got her under control," Bucky choked out, his voice breaking. "She's been triggered, just like they did to me."

Realizing the gravity of the situation, the Avengers shifted their approach. "We need to get Bucky out of there," Steve commanded. "Tony, get the door open."

Tony quickly hacked the cell controls, and the door to Bucky's cell slid open. Bucky rushed out, his focus solely on y/n. "We can't break the control," he said, his voice filled with sorrow. "We have to knock her out."

Steve nodded grimly. "Natasha, you handle it."

Natasha moved with precision, using her skills to subdue y/n without causing serious harm. With a swift, calculated move, she knocked y/n unconscious. Bucky caught her before she hit the ground, cradling her gently in his arms.

"It's okay, y/n" he whispered. "I've got you. We're getting you out of here."

They secured y/n in chains, ensuring she wouldn't hurt anyone if she woke up before they could help her. The team moved swiftly, making their escape from the facility. Bucky never let go of y/n, his resolve stronger than ever.

Back at the compound, they placed y/n in a secure room, surrounded by the best medical and psychological support the Avengers could offer. Bucky sat by her side, holding her hand, refusing to leave her alone.

"We'll find a way to break this," he vowed, looking at his teammates with determination. "We saved me. We can save her too."

Steve put a reassuring hand on Bucky's shoulder. "We'll do whatever it takes, Buck. We're in this together."

As the team set to work, Bucky stayed by y/n's side, whispering words of love and encouragement, determined to help her reclaim her freedom from Hydra's grasp.

#bucky barnes #marvel #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #the avengers #bucky x reader angst #angst #marvel angst

192 notes · View notes

jetii · 6 months ago

Text

Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-Five: Reformation

Chapter WC: 6,691

A/N: half this chapter and part of the next somehow got deleted and i crashed out but umm here's the rest. shorter chapter this week and next, then i promise we'll see our man and more 🙏

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Join the Taglist | Masterlist

Kamino, 21 BBY

Rex was right, of course.

Today is a big day.

Your shuttle touches down on the planet's surface, and the door opens to a blast of cold, wet air, the sound of the waves crashing against the platforms reaching your ears. You pull up the hood of your cloak and step onto the landing platform, your boots sliding on the wet duracreet, and a shiver runs through you. It's cold. And damp. And miserable. Exactly as you remember it.

You walk toward the entrance, your feet making a slapping sound against the duracreet, and you can't help but think about the last time you were here. Not too far from where you're walking, you had fought side-by-side with many of the clones that are about to become your men. And somewhere in the waters just beyond the edge of the platform, the bodies of hundreds of droids lay scattered across the ocean floor, their metal corpses slowly deteriorating into rust.

It's not a pleasant thought.

But it does bring a smile to your face.

You enter the facility, and the temperature-controlled warmth of the building immediately washes over you. The inside is much like the outside, utilitarian and austere. White walls, white floors, troopers in white armor marching past. It's a stark contrast to the chaos that's been the past few weeks of your life, and you would be grateful for the calm if it all wasn't so damn unsettling.

Water splatters onto the floor as you pull down your hood and wring out your hair, the sound of the droplets echoing through the cavernous space. The troopers that are passing by pause and turn, their heads tilting in your direction. You nod in acknowledgement, and they offer a polite salute, a brief, sharp movement of their arms, before continuing on their way.

In their wake, you see two figures approaching, and you let out a quiet sigh. One you recognize instantly, and the other, a Kaminoan, gives you a blank look that you can only interpret as distaste. Her eyes flicker to the puddle forming at your feet, and you resist the urge to scowl.

You had a feeling this meeting was going to be awkward.

"General Anathorn," Taun We says, her voice as stiff and cold as the air around her. "Welcome back."

You offer a small, polite smile and extend your hand, but the Kaminoan doesn't take it. Instead, she folds her long, slender fingers together and rests her hands in front of her, a detached, aloof expression on her face. It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes, and you instead turn your attention to Shaak-Ti, who's watching the exchange with a look of barely-veiled amusement.

"It's nice to see you again," she says, and the warmth in her tone is a welcome relief. She inclines her head in greeting, and you do the same, your smile turning genuine. "Congratulations again on your promotion."

You bite the inside of your cheek, unsure of how exactly to feel about that particular topic, and you're saved from having to answer as the Kaminoan lets out a small cough.

"If you will follow me," Taun We says, her voice laced with annoyance. "We have much to discuss."

You fall into step beside Shaak-Ti, Taun We walking on her other side, the two of them speaking in low voices. You tune them out, taking the opportunity to study your surroundings. You wouldn't know that the clone army had nearly been decimated here a mere month ago. The place is immaculate, not a single sign of battle anywhere.

Even the scars that had covered the exterior of the building were gone, repaired and painted over. An effort to retain the illusion of safety. A facade to hide the truth.

It's hard not to feel a bit envious.

The three of you step into a hall with glass panels on either side, giving you an unfettered view of the large room below. The walls are lined with glass tanks, each one containing a clone in the earliest stage of development. They float in the liquid, their limbs barely formed, their bodies curled up in a fetal position.

You can't help but wonder how many of these infants are destined for the front lines and how many will never even see the inside of a starfighter. It's a sobering thought, and you tear your gaze away, forcing yourself to focus on Taun We's voice as her head turns, her white on black eyes meeting yours.

"The facilities have been updated since your last visit," she tells you, as if the last time you were on planet, you were sightseeing. "There have been several upgrades to the training rooms and the medical bays, and we've increased the number of security measures, as per the Chancellor's orders."

You give a slight nod, unsure of how to respond, and she continues, her tone shifting slightly.

"There's also a new simulation," she says. "One based on a recent campaign."

The words make you freeze, and you turn toward her, your eyes narrowing.

"Which campaign?" you ask. The corners of her mouth lift.

"Felucia," she answers, her gaze moving back to the hall. You bite the inside of your cheek harder this time, your fingers curling into fists, and Taun We lets out a soft, satisfied sigh, a hint of pleasure in her voice. "I understand it was quite...memorable."

Your eyes drift to the side as a group of cadets walks by, and you take a deep breath, pushing down the anger and frustration threatening to rise. It shouldn't surprise you that the Kaminoans and their trainers would pick a failed mission as a learning experience. That they would use it as a means to teach the clones about their limitations, about the cost of failure.

The truth is, the loss on Felucia wasn't your fault. Not entirely. The situation had been a clusterfuck from the start. Between the weather, the terrain, and the sheer number of Separatist forces, it had been impossible to maintain control. You had done the best you could, given the circumstances, and the fact that most of the 212th and the 501st had survived was a miracle. The fact that Rex survived was a miracle.

But the Kaminoans and the trainers would see it differently. To them, the mission was a failure, and you were a Jedi who shouldn't have nearly given her life for a singular clone. You have no doubt they're using it as a way to drive home the need for a clone to follow orders, regardless of the situation.

You grit your teeth and swallow the retort on the tip of your tongue, knowing that any argument would be futile. This is their world. Their creation. Their playground. You are just a guest here, making a mess and leaving stains that are difficult to clean up.

Taun We's voice continues, a drone in the background, and the anger fades, replaced by a sudden rush of weariness. This was a mistake. You shouldn't have come here. You should've tried harder to find another option. Another way. Anything.

The group of cadets stumbles as the one leading the pack meets your gaze and stops dead in his tracks. His eyes are wide, his jaw hanging open, and he's staring at you as if you're a mythical creature come to life. You tilt your head and smile, giving him a small, friendly wave.

The gesture snaps him out of his daze, and he nudges the boy beside him, pointing in your direction. His friend's head turns, and he too stares, his eyes bulging out of his head. Slowly, the cadets behind them look up, and one by one, the group turns, the whole squad watching you, their gazes locked on your face.

You give another smile, and the lead cadet raises his hand, returning the gesture. There's a moment of hesitation, a pause, and a flurry of hands follow, each cadet saluting you, the gesture stiff and awkward, but earnest.

The sight is enough to pull you from your thoughts, and a smile spreads across your face, a small, amused laugh escaping your lips.

They're young, barely ten standard years old, their features still round and soft, their bodies not yet grown. But there's a spark in their eyes, a gleam of intelligence, a sense of humor and curiosity. They're cute. Like oversized tooka kittens.

Taun We turns, her eyes landing on the group. The sudden movement is enough to break the spell, and the cadets snap back to attention, their shoulders straightening, their hands falling to their sides. They're down the hall and around the corner before she has a chance to speak. You try to hide your grin, but it's difficult.

The Kaminoan lets out an annoyed huff, her eyes focused on the next set of cadets coming down the hall.

"I would ask that you refrain from interrupting the cadets' training," she says, her voice cool and detached. "It is imperative that they remain focused, and the distraction will only lead to mistakes and delays."

"My apologies," you say, struggling to keep the sarcasm from your tone. "I didn't mean to get in the way."

She doesn't reply. You let the silence hang between the two of you until Shaak-Ti's eyes find yours, and she gives a slight shake of her head, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

"This way," she says, and you fall back into step with her.

You make your way deeper into the facility, the conversation turning to more mundane matters, like the weather, the state of the war, and the progress of the new armor that will soon be standard issue for the clones. By the time you arrive at the conference room, you're practically bouncing off the walls, torn between turning tail and running back to your shuttle or begging for the tour to end so you can get your men and get out.

"Your new brigade is waiting for you in hangar bay six," Taun We informs you as the three of you step into the room. "Your commander will be along shortly."

You let out a sigh of relief, grateful to be away from her. She gives a curt nod and sweeps out of the room, her long white gown billowing behind her. You turn to Shaak-Ti, and the two of you share a look.

"I think she likes me," you say, and then, unable to stop yourself from adding the extra bit of sarcasm, add, "What a warm welcome."

Shaak-Ti merely gives you a polite smile, giving nothing away. You've known her for a while, and you've learned to read her better than most, but the Jedi Master can be as impenetrable as stone. Still, you have the feeling she agrees with you.

She looks you over, her gaze lingering on your face, and after a moment, her smile softens. The look in her eyes is familiar. It's the same look that Yaddle used to give you. A look of kindness and warmth. Of pride and approval.

"What is it?" you ask warily.

She hesitates, and for a moment, you're convinced she's going to say something that will send your already fragile mood spiraling. Instead, she reaches out and places a hand on your shoulder, her grip gentle but firm.

"I sense a change in you," she says, her voice low, her gaze locked onto yours. "You seem...different."

The words catch you off guard, and your eyes widen, a nervous feeling twisting in the pit of your stomach.

Different.

A month ago, a day ago, even, that word would have set off a wave of panic. It would have been a reminder of what happened, the memory of what you'd seen, the realization of how close you'd come to disaster. It would have sent you spiraling down the same path you'd been on before, the same path that led you here.

Now, however, the word holds a different meaning. It's not an accusation or a condemnation. It's not an indication of weakness or a mark of shame. It's a sign of growth, of maturity, of healing.

And for the first time since you've known her, Shaak-Ti's gaze doesn't fill you with dread. Her words don't bring back the memories of the Council's betrayal, the pain of their dismissal, the guilt of Yaddle's death. Instead, it's as if a cloud has lifted, allowing you to see her for who she is, and not the person you have come to resent.

"It has been a long month," you reply, the words coming out softer than you had intended. Shaak-Ti hums in agreement.

"I am sorry for what happened," she says. Her grip tightens, and her eyes flicker away, the shame and guilt visible on her face. "I had hoped the Council would have listened to you. That we would have shown more compassion, this time and the last. But it is no excuse. You deserved better. You deserved a chance to grieve."

You're silent, unsure of how to respond. You've heard the apology before, from Obi-Wan and the other masters, but none of them had meant it. They had said the words out of obligation, not understanding the weight and depth of what they were saying. They hadn't understood what it had meant, what it had done.

But Shaak-Ti does. And she knows it.

The truth is, there's a part of you that still hates her. She took your master's seat on the Council, she was one of the voices that condemned you, and she's been a member of the Order long enough to know that their treatment of you was wrong. That they had failed you.

But the more rational part of you understands that it wasn't personal. It wasn't her decision, and the Council's actions were in the best interest of the Order. As much as it hurts, as much as it infuriates you, as much as it makes you want to scream, you can't fault her. Not anymore. Not after everything that's happened.

So instead, you reach up and place your hand over hers, a small, grateful smile on your face.

"Thank you," you tell her. Her eyes return to yours, a surprised look on her face. "For the apology, and for the support. It means a lot."

"Of course," she says, and the corners of her mouth lift. "And I am glad to see you are finally taking our advice."

Her words cause your shoulders to stiffen, a surge of defensiveness bubbling up. But the look on her face stops you short, and a wry smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

"That was a joke," she clarifies, and you snort, a surprised laugh escaping your lips.

"Right."

"I see the past few weeks have been good for you," she says. Her eyes twinkle, the expression on her face one of amusement and pride. "Your encounter with Count Dooku must have been...illuminating."

Your face heats up, and you duck your head, an embarrassed flush creeping up your neck. You had told Obi-Wan the bare bones of what happened, and he, in turn, had passed the information onto the Council. After a great deal of questioning, of course. And no small amount of suspicion. But they had decided to take you at your word, and that was all that mattered.

Or at least, that was what you told yourself.

You knew that the Council, or a few of the members at the very least, were suspicious. You also knew it would come back to haunt you eventually, but for now, you were content to ignore it. At least until after you had your first mission with your new men under your belt.

"Uh, yeah," you mutter, clearing your throat. "It was definitely an eye-opening experience."

"You've always had a knack for finding trouble," Shaak-Ti chuckles.

"Trouble finds me," you correct, and her chuckle turns into a laugh.

"Regardless," she says. "I am glad to see you are finally moving forward. And not just in regards to the Council."

Her words cause your heart to skip a beat, and a knot forms in the pit of your stomach, the butterflies fluttering inside. You try to play it off, but the blush on your cheeks gives you away, and the knowing look on her face tells you that she's well aware of the effect her words are having.

She seems to stop short of mentioning Obi-Wan directly, and for that, you're grateful. The idea of talking to her about how the two of you had decided to distance yourself from each other is almost as uncomfortable as the thought of discussing the nature of your relationship with Rex.

You'd spoken to Obi-Wan at length during the aftermath of Dooku's offer, the two of you going through the whole conversation, the Council meeting, the decision to put your friendship on hold. He had been sympathetic and supportive, and while there was a hint of disappointment in his eyes, he seemed content to accept the new status quo. Or at least, appear that way.

As for the matter of Rex, neither of you had brought it up. Not once. You had declared the topic strictly off-limits, and while the air between the two of you had cleared, there was still a lingering sense of awkwardness and discomfort. You had decided that the best thing to do was to avoid the issue entirely. At least for now.

"Yes, well," you say, shifting from one foot to the other, trying desperately to steer the conversation away from anything resembling feelings. "There's still a lot I have to learn."

"And there's a lot you can teach," Shaak-Ti replies, her tone encouraging. "Your experiences have given you a unique perspective, one that is often overlooked. A valuable asset. And the men will benefit from your newfound optimism. I have no doubt you will lead them well."

The words are unexpected, and you're not sure how to respond. You hadn't exactly expected a pep talk, especially from someone like Shaak-Ti. But as much as it confuses and surprises you, there's also a sense of gratitude and relief.

"Thank you," you say. "That means a lot, coming from you."

"It is the truth. I have always believed in your potential. As did Yaddle."

Her eyes flick down to your belt, and they settle on the second lightsaber hanging there. It had taken a great deal of courage and self-reflection to decide to place it the clip where your shoto had once hung this morning, and it had taken even more courage and self-reflection not to immediately remove it again.

It still felt odd and unnatural, but somehow, it also felt right. As if the weight of the weapon was exactly what you needed to bring you into balance.

"She would be proud of the Jedi you have become," Shaak-Ti continues, and you let out a humorless laugh.

"I'm not sure about that," you mumble. "But I'm trying."

She opens her mouth to reply, but the sound of the door sliding open cuts her off, and the two of you turn to see a tall, broad-shouldered clone stride through. He's wearing armor you've never seen before, a new design that's sleeker and more streamlined than the usual. His helmet is the most noticeable difference, the lack of fin and rounder, smoother silhouette a stark contrast to the familiar T-shaped visor.

There's a flurry of activity in the hallway behind him, and the door closes, cutting off the commotion. The trooper takes a deep breath, the movement causing his chestplate to expand, and his feet snap together, his hand raising to his head in a crisp, formal salute.

"General," he says stiffly.

You blink, taken aback by the formality, the lack of a nickname or any sort of personal acknowledgement. You're not used to such a cold greeting, and you wonder if maybe there's been a mistake. Maybe you've mistaken him for someone else, or perhaps he's got the wrong room.

You feel a thread of amusement tug at the back of your mind, and the realization dawns on you. Of course. He's putting on a show, drawing out the reveal, making the entrance more dramatic than necessary.

You let out a huff, struggling to suppress a smile, and you give him a curt nod, playing along.

"You remember Commander Booker," Shaak-Ti says, turning toward the commander, a hint of a smile on her face.

He's still standing in the same spot, stiff as a board, and you can't help but feel a little guilty. The man had been waiting outside, listening for his cue, and you'd given him nothing. He deserves a reaction at the very least, and you offer him a smile, hoping it's enough.

"How could I forget?" you ask. "It's been a while."

"It has, sir," he agrees, his hand lowering to his side. "But the memories are still fresh. Especially the ones where you nearly got me killed."

You let out a bark of laughter, the comment catching you off guard, and Shaak-Ti shakes her head, a disapproving frown on her face. Booker's shoulders, however, are shaking with silent laughter.

He takes a step forward and pulls his helmet off, revealing a familiar set of dark brown eyes, a crooked nose, and messy hair. It's only been a few weeks since you've seen him, but he looks older, somehow, stronger and more confident

The helmet goes onto the table with a thud, and he runs a hand over his hair, pushing it back into a more controlled style. The smile on his face fades, and he takes a deep breath, his expression shifting into something more serious.

"Good to see you again, sir," he says, and the warmth and sincerity in his voice is a welcome relief. "I've been looking forward to this for a while now."

You let out a quiet snort and move forward, holding out your hand. "Likewise."

"You look good," he says as he accepts your handshake, his hand clasping your forearm. "For someone who's been through hell."

"Heard about that, did you?" you ask with a grimace.

"Just the highlights," he replies, shrugging. "I hear it was pretty bad."

"It wasn't pretty," you confirm. You release his arm, and he nods, his expression solemn.

"I'm sorry."

The words take you aback, and the shock must be visible on your face, because he continues, a serious, determined look in his eye.

"I'll make sure we inspect the ship thoroughly before we leave," he says. "I don't want anything like that happening again. Ever."

You manage a small, grateful smile, touched by the sincerity. The memory of the explosion, the fight, the aftermath, is still raw, and it's a wound that's barely healed. To have someone acknowledge it and offer to do something about it is more comforting than you'd expected.

"Appreciate it," you tell him. "And thank you."

Booker nods, his gaze moving over your shoulder. His eyes meet Shaak-Ti's, and he straightens, his expression hardening.

"I trust everything is in order, Commander?" she asks, and he gives a sharp nod.

"Yes, General," he replies, his tone formal and clipped. "The men are ready and waiting."

"Very good," she says. With a slight incline of her head, she turns to you. "It was a pleasure speaking with you. I wish you the best of luck in your new command."

"Thank you," you tell her. "For everything."

"May the Force be with you," she says, a warm, knowing look on her face. With that, she strides past you and heads towards the door. She pauses at the threshold, and turns back to Booker. "Please escort your general to the hangar bay. She has much to prepare for."

He gives a curt nod, and the two of you watch as the door slides shut, leaving the two of you alone. For a moment, you stand in silence, taking each other in. Then, Booker smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"So," he drawls. "What do you think of the new look?"

You let out a soft laugh, studying him. He seems taller than before, though you're not sure if it's the armor or just his natural build. The armor is lighter, the plates smaller, and the helmet is sleek and smooth.

It's a subtle shift, but you can see the difference in the way he's standing. There's a lightness, a speediness, a fluidity to the new armor that the previous one lacked. And while it still looks a bit bulky and cumbersome, it's a far cry from the clunky, clumsy appearance it had before.

"I like it," you say. You give him an appraising look and cross your arms, tilting your head to the side. "It's a bit more...elegant."

Booker lets out a loud laugh, the sound echoing off the walls. He shakes his head and leans over, plucking his helmet off the table and turning it around in his hands.

"Elegant, huh? I don't know about that." He looks up, his eyes finding yours, a mischievous gleam in his gaze. "But I'll tell you one thing. It's a hell of a lot easier to see out of. Not to mention move."

"Is that so?" you ask. He grins.

"We've already seen a decrease in troopers tripping over their own feet. And that's just the first day."

He holds the helmet out to you, and you take it, your hands wrapping around the edges. It's lighter than you had expected, the material smooth and cool to the touch. You study it, admiring the details, the sleek lines and sharp edges.

"It's a prototype," he tells you. "Not officially released yet, but the boys and I have been testing it out."

You give a noncommittal hum and flip the helmet over, studying the inner workings. It's not the most high-tech piece of equipment, but it's still a vast improvement from the original. You feel a small amount of relief that the GAR was finally listening to the clones and making some upgrades. It's about damn time.

"I, uh, didn't want to paint it yet," Booker says, and the slight hesitation in his tone causes you to look back up. "Wasn't sure what color you wanted to go with."

You find yourself staring at him, unsure of how to respond. The idea of choosing the colors for the brigade hadn't remotely crossed your mind. To be honest, you had forgotten that was something you were supposed to do. It seemed so trivial, so superficial. So insignificant compared to everything else that needed to be done.

But the look on his face, the anticipation, the excitement, is enough to remind you that this is important. To him, at least. And to the other men.

You may not care about the color of your armor, but they do. They want to stand out, to be noticed, to be distinguished. And if choosing the colors is the first step in showing them that you care, that you respect their individuality, it's the least you can do.

You give him a warm smile and hand the helmet back. "Well, I'm sure we can come up with something."

"We can workshop it, if you want," he offers. "Once we're underway. Give the men a chance to put their opinions forward. See what they like."

The offer is unexpected, and you're touched by the thoughtfulness. You had been planning on making the choice yourself, but now that he's brought it up, the idea of including the other clones in the process seems far more fitting. And more than a little relieving. You've lived most of your life in white and beige robes, and the last thing you want is to subject the men to a similar fate.

"I like that," you tell him, and his smile widens.

"I'll let the boys know," he says. He tucks the helmet under his arm and moves towards the door. "I'm sure they're already thinking of ideas."

You follow him out the doors and into the hallway, and the two of you walk side-by-side, the conversation turning to the men, their training, their readiness for the fight ahead. Booker has already gotten a head start, having spent the past couple weeks drilling the new recruits. According to him, the boys are "ready for anything."

The pride and enthusiasm in his voice makes it difficult to question him, so you don't. You just let him talk, taking advantage of the distraction his presence provides. Tomorrow, you'll no doubt have a long list of things to worry about. But for now, you can just focus on getting through today.

"And they're ready to meet you," he continues. He flashes you a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "They've been waiting for weeks."

"Really?" you ask, surprised. "Why?"

Booker stops, and he turns to you, an incredulous look on his face.

"Uh, because you're a hero, sir," he replies, as if the answer should be apparent.

You let out a snort, amused by the comment. "That's a bit of an exaggeration."

Booker gives you a look, his eyes narrowing slightly, and the air between the two of you shifts. His posture becomes stiffer, his gaze more serious. You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling a slight sense of trepidation.

"No, sir, it's not," he says, his tone clipped and formal. "Not to me, and certainly not to my brothers."

You let out a quiet breath, the knot in your stomach tightening. You had been hoping to avoid this topic, at least for a few days. But it seems as if Booker isn't willing to wait.

"They remember what happened," he continues, his voice low, his eyes locking onto yours. "They saw what you did. They watched you throw yourself into the line of fire. They saw you save our lives."

He steps closer, and you take a step back, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. You had done what any decent person would do during the battle here. You had been trying to keep everyone alive, not play the part of the hero. And while you can appreciate the sentiment, you also know that the men have a tendency to make a bigger deal out of things than necessary. Especially Booker.

"They've been waiting for you since they heard the news," he says. His tone is soft, but his words are firm, unyielding. "They're excited. They want to meet you."

You give a small nod, unsure of how to respond. This is a new side of him, one you've never seen before. The man in front of you is different than the one you knew, and the sudden change is unnerving. It makes you feel like you're on unfamiliar ground. Like you're being judged.

Booker stares at you, his eyes searching your face, his gaze intense and penetrating. For a moment, neither of you speak, and you're unsure of what to do. If you should speak. If you should try to explain. If you should simply accept the praise.

After what feels like an eternity, his expression changes, the seriousness fading. A slow, easy grin spreads across his face, and he reaches up and squeezes your shoulder.

"I get it," he says. "But trust me, they're not looking at you like some kind of legend. They're just happy to have a general who cares."

You open your mouth, the denial on the tip of your tongue, but Booker cuts you off, giving your shoulder another squeeze.

"Just trust me on this," he says, his gaze softening. His grin widens, and he releases his hold. "The men are going to love you."

"Okay," you relent, the word coming out as a sigh. "I'll take your word for it."

The truth is, you're not convinced the men will even want anything to do with you. But if you're going to be their general, you need to set a good example. That means showing confidence, and that means believing in yourself, even if you don't. And if the men are ready, willing, and eager to fight for you, it's the least you can do to give them the same.

After another long look, Booker gives you a nod, and the two of you start down the hall once more. You're relieved the conversation is over, but you can't help the nagging feeling in the back of your mind. Something is bothering him. And judging by the look on his face, it has something to do with you.

You keep the conversation centered around the troops and what's expected of you in the coming days. As soon as everyone is loaded into your new Venator, the Oracle, you'll be following the 501st to Bothawui, where you'll rendezvous with the 212th and the rest of the fleet. From there, the plan is to hit Separatist outposts, supply lines, and bases, anywhere that needs your attention. And according to the Senate, that's just about everywhere.

The war is in full swing, and it's going to be a while before things begin to settle.

By the time you reach the doors to the platform overlooking the hangar bay, the sun has begun to dip below the horizon, pockets of warm, golden light seeping through the clouds. The sky is a brilliant mix of red and orange and gold, the colors shimmering off the clouds and the ocean, the whole world outside the window bathed in the dying rays of the setting sun.

As beautiful as it is, however, it also brings with it the realization that the time has come. There's no running from it now.

Booker steps aside, his hand resting on the keypad. He gives you a slight nod, and you take a deep breath, letting the calm of the Force settle over you. It's now or never.

"Ready, sir?" he asks, and you let out a small laugh.

"As I'll ever be."

"You're gonna be fine," he tells you, his tone confident. "They're going to love you. Just wait and see."

You give him a slight smile, hoping that's the case.

He pushes a button on the panel, and the doors slide open. The sound of hundreds of voices fills the air as you step through, your eyes sweeping over the mass of soldiers gathered below. It's a sea of white armor, rows and rows stretching and curving in all directions. They're packed in tightly, forming neat, orderly lines, the perfect picture of discipline and obedience.

They're ready for their commander, and you know it's only a matter of moments before they find out exactly who that is.

The thought is enough to send your stomach into knots. You're not used to being the center of attention, and the prospect of speaking in front of so many is unsettling. Especially since they'll be judging every word, every gesture, every movement.

You try to keep your nerves under control, focusing on the Force, on your training, on anything and everything except the fear. You have nothing to worry about. It's just a few words, and it's not as if the entire future of the Republic depends on them. No pressure.

As you step closer to the edge of the platform, you notice a few soldiers turn, their heads snapping up. You can see their gazes following you as you make your way to the railing, and as soon as you stop, the whole group comes to attention, the sound of boots hitting the floor filling the air.

There's a hush that falls over the room, and a shiver runs down your spine, a flutter in your stomach. You can't see their eyes, but the feeling in the Force is unmistakable. Excitement. Anticipation. Pride.

It's almost enough to knock the breath out of you.

For a moment, all you can do is stand there, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the emotions washing over you. It's as if a wave has crashed over the crowd, the energy rising, cresting, and breaking against the wall of the platform. You've never felt anything like it before, and it takes a great deal of effort to stay upright. To remain in control. To not collapse under the weight of it.

Booker comes to your rescue, stepping forward and raising his hand.

"Alright, men," he says, his voice ringing through the hangar. "Listen up! Our new general has arrived!"

His words are enough to snap you out of your daze, and you straighten, forcing the feelings aside. You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. This is it. No more delaying. No more stalling. It's now or never.

With one final glance at Booker, you take a step forward and raise your voice, hoping it's loud enough to carry.

"Thank you," you begin. Your voice carries through the room, and the men below go still, their attention completely focused on you. "Welcome to the 419th. I won't waste time. I know that, for some of you, this is the first time you've stepped foot off Kamino. For others, it's your first time seeing a real battle. But whatever your experience, whatever your history, we are all here for the same purpose. To serve the Republic. To bring justice and peace to the people of the galaxy. And I am honored to lead you."

The words come out stronger than you expected, and the feeling is surreal. You had been terrified that the moment would be filled with stutters and mistakes, but it's not. In fact, you barely feel nervous at all. The men below are listening to you, their focus completely on your words.

"We have a difficult task ahead of us, but no one of us is fighting alone. Every member of this brigade is important. Every life is precious. And every man is irreplaceable," you continue, a rush of confidence filling you. "Whatever challenges we face, whatever trials we must endure, we will face them together. We will overcome them together. And we will defeat the Separatists, together."

A murmur spreads through the men, and you glance at Booker, who's giving you a slight nod. His eyes are shining with pride, and the sight is enough to fill your chest with warmth. You turn back to the troops, a smile spreading across your face. And as the words leave your mouth, you find yourself actually meaning them. Actually believing them.

Because this time, things are different.

This time, you're going to win.

You're going to prove everyone wrong.

"Today marks the beginning of a new chapter in our lives," you say. "Today, we embark on a journey that will shape the future of the Republic. Today, we show the galaxy that the clone troopers are the heroes the Republic needs.

"And from this day forward, I will be standing beside you. In victory, and defeat, and whatever else may come."

The words are barely out of your mouth before the room erupts, a cheer echoing through the air. The noise is deafening, the sound rattling the floor beneath your feet. And the feeling is indescribable.

“Told you, sir!”

Booker claps a hand on your shoulder, shaking you slightly, and he's practically vibrating with excitement. You turn, and the smile on his face is enough to bring tears to your eyes. You're not sure how long it takes before the noise finally dies down, but by the time it does, you're grinning like an idiot.

You stand there, letting the moment wash over you, taking in the feeling. For the first time since Geonosis, you finally feel ready. You finally feel prepared. You finally feel like the leader these men need.

Most importantly, you finally feel like yourself again. And no matter what happens, you won't let these men down.

"Alright," you say, your voice barely audible above the noise. "Let's get started."

taglist: @baddest-batchers @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear

@thegreatpipster @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @aynavaano @floofyroro

@ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @schrodingersraven @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon

@heavenseed76 @dreamie411 @sukithebean @bimboshaggy @bunny7567

@lostqueenofegypt @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @heidnspeak

@ghostymarni @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @burningnerdchild @yoitsjay

@callsign-denmark @julli-bee @moonychicky @captn-trex @feral-ferrule

@webslinger-holland @marchingviolist @cw80831 @chaicilatte @somewhere-on-kamino

@sensitive-shark @kashasenpai @kkdrawsdecently @isaidonyourknees @awkwardwookie

@sugarrush-blush @lunaastars @capricornrabies @champagnejaig @silly-starfish

@veralii @chubbyhedgehog @lordofthenerds97 @meshlajetii

@heaven1207 @808tsuika @aanncummings @lugiastark @maniacalbooper

#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #any guesses what color the brigade is going to be 🤡#also sorry if your mention isn't working i need to figure out a better way to manage the taglist #50+ tags and tumblr nopes out

53 notes · View notes

forthebrokenheartedthings · 1 month ago

Text

You Better Knock - Part 8 - Your name on his file

TW: Torture, Mind Control, Emotional Manipulation, PTSD, Grief.

Word Count: 1700 +

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Winter Soldier x Reader MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH - THIS ONE HURTS. DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YA.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t supposed to dream.

But lately… you'd been slipping through the cracks.

A face. A name. A flash of warmth before the frost reclaimed him.

Then they handed him a file—with your picture clipped to the front.

You weren’t a memory now.

You were a target. Or an asset.

Or worse—just like him.

They hadn’t shocked him in three days.

Which meant one of two things: He was stable. Or they were about to test something new.

He sat in the restraint chair. The metal cuff on his left wrist was loose—just enough to let the arm twitch when the spasms came.

He didn’t ask for food anymore. Didn’t ask for names. Didn’t ask why the nightmares had started to come with a soundtrack:

A laugh. A piano. A voice saying, You better knock, Buck.

Sometimes the name slipped out. (Y/N). Sometimes he whispered it. Sometimes it played in the static where the commands didn’t quite drown you out.

The technicians noticed.

So they handed him a file.

The photo was black and white.

You were seated on a bench, long coat draped over your knees, head turned like you didn’t know you were being watched.

(Y/L/N), (Y/N). Designation: SUBJECT TWO. Status: In Evaluation. Psych Profile: Unstable. Compliant. Risk.

His thumb dragged across the page.

His chest hurt.

His breathing picked up.

“Barnes,” one of the handlers said. “You know her?”

His fingers tightened.

“I… I…”

He looked at your face again.

He remembered— A ring. A hand on his cheek. Your voice: You’re alive, Buck. I’m right here.

Right here.

Then the surge hit. Sharp. Electric.

“Override,” barked another voice.

The file was ripped from his hands. His wrists re-cuffed. A tech injected something into his spine that turned the world white.

Somewhere down the corridor—

You blinked under a harsh light.

Twitching. Sweating. Your bones ached.

Your memories were there—but so were others. Sharper. Colder. Drilled into your skull with a rhythm that wasn’t your own.

You held the ring again. Clenched it in your palm.

They told you if you passed the next phase, they might let you see him.

Not as a visitor.

As an operative.

______________________________________________________________

The room was built for control.

Steel. Glass. The kind of cold that made your marrow ache.

He was strapped upright to a vertical slab. Wrists locked. Ankles pinned. He wasn’t resisting. But his breath quickened when the side door hissed open.

He knew your footsteps.

Even before he saw you.

You entered like someone already broken—head low, arms trembling behind your back. Barefoot in a gray shift uniform.

But your eyes still found him.

And in them— Something sparked.

“Winter Soldier,” came a voice through the intercom, nasal and gleeful. “You remember Subject Two?”

His jaw didn’t move.

They stepped you closer.

He flinched as they positioned you in front of him.

Close enough that he could see the faint scar at your right temple. One that hadn’t been there before.

“Commence evaluation,” said the voice. “Trigger recall sequence. Subject Two.”

You blinked.

Then opened your mouth.

Your voice didn’t sound like yours.

“Seventeen.”

His hands jerked against the restraints.

“Rusted.”

He shook his head slowly. “No…”

“Furnace.”

“Stop.”

Your voice hitched—like a knife slipping on bone.

“Daybreak.”

He groaned, head dropped, eyes squeezed shut. His arm twitched violently in its bracket.

You stepped closer. Lip trembling.

“Nine.”

“(Y/N),” he rasped. “Don’t do this—don’t let them—”

“Benign.”

A sob broke free.

“Homecoming.”

His head snapped up.

You lifted your hand.

Pressed it gently to his cheek.

Their eyes locked—one last time.

He whispered, “Don’t say it.”

“One.”

He didn’t scream.

But what followed— It tore through him like fire through flesh.

You collapsed to your knees, clutching your chest like you could claw the words back into your throat.

The intercom clicked off.

Satisfied.

They left you there.

You crawled to his feet. Rested your forehead against the cold steel of his leg.

And whispered, again and again:

“Come back to me.”

______________________________________________________________

He didn’t wake up screaming anymore.

That’s how they knew something was wrong.

The Winter Soldier was supposed to be empty.

But now he was waiting. Watching. Breathing like a man with something to lose.

They noticed first when a tech grazed his shoulder too softly—and he flinched.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Later, when they ran his drills, the name slipped again.

(Y/N).

Not with pain.

With a hush. Like a secret.

He wasn’t supposed to have secrets.

Then came the photo.

The one he hid.

Not consciously.

Not yet.

They’d slipped it in with the rest—targets, handlers, traitors. He moved through them like a machine.

Until your eyes met his.

The picture said: Subject Two — FAILURE

He paused.

Just for a second.

But they noticed.

In his cell, he didn’t sleep.

He stared at the ring. Just a glint of it—stolen, hidden in his boot seam.

He didn’t know how it got there.

Didn’t know why he still had it.

But it calmed him. Like an ember refusing to die.

You were somewhere below.

Sedated now. Quiet. Small.

But in his head, you still laughed. Still yelled when he tracked mud in. Still said, You better knock.

And for the first time in years—

He smiled.

It didn’t last long.

But it was enough.

______________________________________________________________

They put you in side-by-side cells.

No blankets. No light.

Just the stench of steel, ammonia, and the sound of nothing.

You didn’t speak for twelve hours.

Neither did he.

Hydra watched. Logged it.

Two perfect subjects.

Quiet. Obedient. Empty.

Exactly what they wanted.

Exactly what you weren’t.

When the guards changed and the silence hummed in that familiar way—

He scratched three slow fingers along the wall.

You caught your breath.

One scratch in reply.

Still there.

Still you.

“You awake?” His voice was sandpaper.

“Always,” you whispered.

The vents buzzed. Surveillance dipped.

“I’ve got twenty seconds before the mic loop resets,” you murmured. “You good?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

He smiled. Just a little.

You did this every night.

Not enough to be noticed.

But enough.

Enough to remember.

“You still got it?” you asked once.

“The ring?” he murmured. “Always.”

“I picture the house sometimes,” you said. “Brooklyn brownstone. Stairs that creak.”

“A mutt who sheds too much.”

“You coaching a team you hate.”

“You in the kitchen in that awful robe—”

“It’s warm and you loved it.”

“I lied.”

You laughed into your sleeve.

Then—

“I was gonna name her June.”

He blinked.

“The baby?”

“Yeah.”

______________________________________________________________

The next day, they fed you in silence.

Bucky didn’t flinch when the tray slid in.

You didn’t look up.

Hydra logged success.

But that night—

He scratched the wall again.

“Still there?”

“One knock.”

It meant yes. It meant I love you. It meant they hadn’t won.

Not yet.

______________________________________________________________

The vents kicked on.

You lay on your side, chains cold against your ankle. You reached out, fingers brushing the wall. Two slow knocks.

His breath was already there on the other side.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He let out the softest laugh. The kind you used to hear when his head was tucked under your chin.

“Hurts?”

“Always,” you whispered.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

He shifted closer. You imagined his back pressed to the same wall, both of you held together by the inches of air between.

A pause.

Then you said it.

“Do you think this was the plan?”

“What?”

“Us. Like this. Here.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling.

“No. But we were always gonna be messy.”

You smiled. You knew he could hear it.

“I still remember the night before you shipped out,” you said. “You didn’t sleep. Just kept cleaning that damn uniform like it was gonna win the war itself.”

“You cried into my chest like I wasn’t already drowning.”

“You kissed me like you were gonna live forever.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t die either.”

“…Not yet.”

Silence.

The kind that said everything without saying a word.

Then:

“I still see you sometimes,” you whispered. “Before all this.”

“Where?”

“By the stove. Cussing out the eggs.”

He chuckled. “They deserved it.”

“You’d look at me like I was the only thing that didn’t scare you.”

“You were the only thing that didn’t scare me.”

A beat.

“If this goes bad, Buck—”

“Don’t.”

“If it does—”

“It won’t.”

“Just promise me you’ll—”

“I will knock,” he said. “I will come back.”

You exhaled. Like that was enough.

Like it had to be.

Later, through the static, you said:

“I would’ve loved that house.”

And he whispered back:

“I would’ve hated those stairs.” ______________________________________________________________

They came at dawn.

Hydra never gave warnings.

Two guards. Rifles lazy in their hands. One barked your number.

Not your name.

They never used your name anymore.

You looked back at the wall between you.

Three knocks.

You didn’t get to hear his answer.

Bucky fought.

It was stupid. He knew that.

They were stronger. They were faster. They had the serum and the cuffs and the gas.

But he fought anyway.

They beat him down, restrained him, injected something sharp and cold.

When he woke, he was in the chair.

The same one.

Cold leather. Steel. A bite at his wrists.

He couldn’t move.

But he could see you.

They brought you through the far door.

You stumbled. Your lip was split. Bruises on your arms in the shape of hands that didn’t belong to him.

You saw him.

And smiled anyway.

“Hey, Buck.”

His breath hitched.

You sounded wrecked. But you said his name like it still meant something.

He yanked at the cuffs. “Let her go—LET HER GO—!”

The voice came over the speaker. Calm. Clinical.

“Subject One is resisting reprogramming. Emotional trigger confirmed.”

They forced you to your knees in front of him.

“Barnes,” the voice continued, “this is your final failure point. Observe. Internalize. Let go.”

One of the guards raised the gun.

You looked up at him.

Eyes bright.

Not scared.

Not ashamed.

You leaned forward.

Pressed your lips to his knuckles—cold, metal, trembling.

And whispered:

“You better knock.”

He screamed.

The shot cracked.

Your body hit the floor.

And the scream didn’t stop.

He was still screaming when they dosed him.

When they scrubbed the name.

When they erased your voice from his memory.

When they buried you under ice, silence, and what they hoped was nothing left.

That was the day they finally made him theirs.

But it wouldn’t last.

It never did.

Not with a heart like his.

And a ghost like you. Part 9

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #winter soldier #character death #marvel

24 notes · View notes

onesiesdaydream · 2 months ago

Note

I come back to your inbox humbly asking for an angsty hurt/comfort(?) scenario with Chuuya amd Dazai, basically during a mission or like some agency case an ability user with a mind control ability hijacks Readers body and is basically holding them hostage until Chuuya/Dazai figure out a way to free them(i dont think Dazai can just nullify it by touching reader if we take into account his way of nullifying Q’s ability)

Parasite I Dazai Osamu x Platonic! Reader x Chuuya Nakahara

Summary: Chuuya and Dazai charge in to pull you back from the brink, turning a near-disaster into a reminder that you’re stuck with each other.

A/N: Sorry for taking so long on this one, love! Sometimes life (and stories) don’t move as fast as I want them to. Thanks a ton for hanging in there with me — you’re the best. Hope you enjoy it!❤️

TW: This story includes themes of mind control and possession, physical injury, and psychological distress. There are scenes involving a parasitic invasion, blood, and medical treatment. If any of these topics are difficult for you, please take care while reading.

MASTERLIST

They hadn’t expected things to go this wrong.

It was supposed to be a routine retrieval—intel said the ability user was low-threat, known for petty blackmail and mind games, nothing more. The three of you had split off from the rest of the team to corner him in a derelict warehouse on the outskirts of Yokohama. No signs of resistance. No signs of a trap.

Then the screaming started.

By the time Chuuya and Dazai fought their way into the building, you were already gone. Not physically—you were still on the comms, briefly. Just long enough to tell them to turn back, that something was wrong, before your voice warped into something else entirely.

Then silence.

Now, they were running.

The warehouse was cold—too cold. The concrete walls echoed with nothing but the frantic drag of footsteps and the low, panicked breath of Chuuya Nakahara as he sprinted through the dark corridor.

“She’s in here!” he barked into his comm, boot colliding with the steel door.

Dazai appeared a moment later, his usually unreadable face pulled tight with tension. “We don’t have time. The longer that parasite stays latched, the more damage it’s doing.”

“Then let’s move,” Chuuya snapped, throwing his shoulder against the rusted door.

Inside, they found you.

You stood in the center of the room, still as stone, head tilted at a wrong, unnatural angle. Your eyes—usually warm, so full of fight—were dull. Off. Watching them with the eerie calm of something that wasn’t you.

“Ah,” your voice cooed, laced with something foreign. “The mafia's little dogs have come to fetch their pet.”

Chuuya’s knuckles went white. “Get the hell out of her.”

Dazai held out an arm, cautioning him. “That’s not her talking.”

You smiled, slow and venomous, and stepped forward. There was a twitch in your jaw, a brief flash of resistance that flickered and died just as quickly. It was like watching a puppet trying to chew through its own strings.

“She’s fighting it,” Dazai said quietly. “But not for long.”

The parasite wasn’t like Q’s ability—it wasn’t just about madness or manipulation. This was physical. A parasitic ability, burrowed somewhere inside your body, anchoring itself in your nervous system. Dazai’s nullification could work—but only if they exposed the core of the parasite.

Which meant hurting you.

Dazai pulled something small and black from his coat: a stun-needle Chuuya had stolen off the black market last year. “We don’t have another option.”

“I’m not hurting her,” Chuuya said immediately. “You know I won’t.”

“Then I will,” Dazai said softly. “But you need to hold her down.”

You lunged—too fast, too sharp—and Chuuya caught you mid-sprint, wrapping his arms around your thrashing form, trying not to hear the animal sounds you made as the parasite fought back.

“I’ve got you—I’ve got you, okay?” he whispered, holding on even as your body jerked violently in his arms. “You’re gonna be fine, just hold on—hold on for me, please.”

Dazai moved fast. Ripped open the back of your shirt, fingers pressing around your spine until he felt the heat—an unnatural pulse just beneath your skin. The parasite coiled there, near your shoulder blade, squirming at his touch.

“Here we go,” he murmured.

The blade cut deep. Chuuya flinched as you screamed—your own voice, this time, not the puppetmaster’s. Your head thrashed, your hands clawing at Chuuya’s sleeves, but he didn’t let go.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Dazai reached into the wound, fingers blood-slick and surgical. Then-

Got it.

The thing squirmed between his fingers, leech-like and black and twitching.

With a flick of his ability, it crumbled into dust.

You collapsed.

Silence.

You woke to soft light and sterile sheets. Your whole body ached—like fire under your skin—but you were warm, clean, and… safe.

The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and fresh linen. The steady hum of the ventilation above you was oddly comforting.

You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to steady your breath. Every muscle in your body ached, your back especially—an echo of pain radiating from the stitched wound. But compared to what you’d felt before, this was nothing. Just pain. Manageable. Real.

Your fingers twitched under the blanket.

A chair creaked beside you.

“Hey,” Chuuya’s voice was quiet, hoarse from disuse. “You with me?”

You turned your head and saw him slouched next to your bed, one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other clenching his phone like he’d been waiting for hours—for days.

Chuuya stood slowly and leaned over you, brushing a knuckle just barely over your temple, like he wasn’t sure if touching you would hurt.

“You had us scared shitless, y’know that?” he muttered, eyes narrowed but wet at the edges.

You tried to speak, but your throat was raw. All that came out was a rasp. Chuuya immediately reached for the water on your bedside table and helped you drink, steadying the glass with a hand that trembled just slightly.

“I… made it?” you croaked.

“Yeah. You did,” Chuuya said, and the tension in his shoulders dropped just a little.

On the far wall, Dazai looked up from a medical report, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable—but softer than usual.

“You look terrible,” he said lightly, coming over. “Which means you’re going to be fine.”

You tried to sit up and winced. Pain exploded down your spine. Chuuya was at your side in an instant.

“Easy,” he said, gently easing you back down. “You took a blade to the back, remember?”

“I remember,” you whispered. “I remember everything. I couldn’t move. I was trapped inside my own body. I could hear you both, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t answer.”

Dazai leaned forward, expression more serious now. “That’s how the parasite works. Full override. You were lucky to stay conscious at all.”

You swallowed hard, voice cracking. “I tried to fight it. I did. But it felt like it was digging into me. Like it was part of me.”

“You fought harder than anyone else could have,” Chuuya said quietly. “We saw it. You slowed it down. You gave us the opening.”

You turned away slightly, tears slipping past your lashes before you could stop them. “I’m sorry. I—I could’ve hurt you. I wanted to. I wasn’t in control but it was like… part of me was still trying.”

“Don’t do that,” Chuuya said firmly. “Don’t blame yourself for something someone else did to you. You didn’t fail. You made it home.”

You wiped at your eyes, but Dazai’s coat was already tossed over you like a blanket, warm and worn. “We’ve all been there. Mind control, possession, psychological torment—it’s practically a rite of passage in our line of work.”

Chuuya gave him a sharp look. “Maybe don’t say it like that while she’s literally full of stitches, dumbass.”

But you smiled faintly. “Thanks. Both of you.”

Dazai shrugged one shoulder, but he didn’t hide the flicker of relief that crossed his face. “Just don’t make a habit of getting brain-hijacked. It’s bad for morale.”

Chuuya pulled up the blanket around you a bit more. “You’re gonna be out for a while. We’ll be here.”

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmured, though your voice betrayed how much you didn’t want them to leave.

Chuuya scoffed. “Not a damn chance.”

Dazai moved to the empty cot beside yours and flopped down onto it like it was his personal couch. “Wake me up if she tries to dramatically code out again.”

“Real comforting, jackass,” Chuuya muttered, but he didn’t move from your bedside.

There was a long, quiet moment.

Then Chuuya leaned forward, resting his arms on the bed rail, close but not touching you unless you reached first.

“You scared me,” he said, voice almost inaudible. “And I don’t scare easy.”

You blinked at him, startled. He wasn’t looking at you—just watching the blanket rise and fall with your breath.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit,” he continued, “but watching you hurt, knowing you were still in there, trying to get out…” He clenched his jaw. “If we’d been a minute later—”

“But you weren’t,” you said softly.

Chuuya finally looked at you, then down at your hand resting on the blanket.

He covered it gently with his.

“No,” he said. “We weren’t.”

A few days had passed.

Your body was healing, slowly. The pain in your back dulled from white-hot to a deep, manageable ache, and the worst of the muscle spasms had stopped. You could sit up now without help—though Chuuya still hovered like a bodyguard with a nursing license.

He was surprisingly gentle with the bandage changes.

“Try not to flinch,” he muttered as he peeled the gauze away, careful not to tug too fast. “You’ll just reopen the scab if you jerk around.”

“I’m not flinching,” you said, biting your cheek. “I’m wincing. Very different.”

“Tch. Don’t sass your medic.”

“You’re not a medic.”

“I am now.”

Chuuya dabbed antiseptic over the edge of the stitched wound, brows pinched in focus. He looked exhausted, circles under his eyes and a faint scab healing along his neck—your doing, probably. He hadn’t once brought it up.

You glanced past him, across the room.

Dazai was sitting in the windowsill, flipping through a thin paperback he hadn’t turned a page of in ten minutes. His long coat was draped over the back of your chair, his scarf still hanging from one sleeve.

“Why are you still here?” you asked suddenly.

Dazai looked up, surprised. “You trying to get rid of us already?”

“I just…” You hesitated. “You don’t usually stay for cleanup.”

Chuuya snorted, not looking up. “Believe me, I was shocked too.”

Dazai stretched out one leg and tilted his head lazily. “Normally I’d say something flippant—‘I was bored’, or ‘the vending machine here has better snacks’—but…” His gaze met yours. Calm. Honest.

“You’re part of the team,” he said simply. “Even I don’t walk out on that.”

The words settled in your chest like warmth spreading through your ribs. No dramatics, no false cheer. Just truth, the rare kind Dazai only gave when it mattered.

He turned back to his book like it hadn’t meant anything. “Besides, if I left you alone with Chuuya, you’d be bored to death by his micromanaging.”

“You say ‘micromanaging,’ I say ‘doing it right,’” Chuuya grumbled, taping a fresh bandage in place. “There. All done.”

You sat up slowly and let out a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

Chuuya looked at you, really looked—his eyes scanning your face like he still didn’t quite believe you were okay. Then, softly:

“You scared the hell outta me, y’know.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head.

“Don’t say sorry again,” he added. “You already did. Just…” He reached out and adjusted your blanket without meeting your eyes. “Don’t do it again.”

You nodded. Quietly. “I’ll try.”

There was a silence. Comfortable, now.

Then Dazai stood, brushing nonexistent lint from his shirt. “Since you’re no longer writhing in agony, I assume it’s safe to bring you real food again.”

Chuuya arched a brow. “You mean instead of smuggling in all those horrible convenience store snacks?”

“I’ll have you know she requested those,” Dazai said airily. “Apparently the hospital miso soup was offensive.”

“It was,” you agreed, grimacing. “I’m still traumatized.”

Dazai smiled faintly and turned toward the door. “I’ll be back in ten. Don’t let her escape.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Chuuya said, nudging your shoulder. “She’s got stitches the size of a freight line.”

“Still faster than you,” you mumbled, and Chuuya let out an incredulous laugh.

When Dazai returned, he brought soup, rice, and some weird sugary drink he claimed would “restore your will to live.”

You sat between them, shoulder brushing Chuuya’s, knees tucked up under the blanket Dazai had thrown over you earlier. No one spoke much, but you didn’t need to.

The worst had passed.

And even though you still ached, even though the memory of that thing inside you made your skin crawl, you felt grounded. Steady. Because they’d pulled you back, piece by piece. And they were still here—not because they had to be, but because they chose to be.

That was something stronger than any parasite. Stronger than fear.

That was family.

The apartment wasn’t big, but it was warm. Lived-in.

Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft gold across the low coffee table and the rumpled blanket someone had tossed over the back of the couch. You sat cross-legged on the floor, nursing a mug of tea that had gone lukewarm while you zoned out watching the steam fade.

Your body still ached if you moved too fast. The wound along your back pulled when you bent a certain way, and your sleep was fractured—shadows of the parasite’s control sometimes chasing you into half-lucid dreams. But it was better. Every day a little more of yourself came back.

The TV played something low and mindless. A nature documentary. Chuuya was sprawled sideways on the couch behind you, one arm hanging off the edge, absentmindedly twirling a pen between his fingers.

“You’re staring again,” you said, not turning around.

“I’m not,” he lied smoothly.

“You are. I can feel it.”

“I’m just making sure you’re not about to keel over and smash your head on the table.”

You smirked faintly into your mug. “That would be impressive considering I’ve been sitting perfectly still for the last hour.”

“That’s exactly when people do dumb shit.”

You looked back at him over your shoulder. “You can stop hovering, y’know. I’m not gonna drop dead on your carpet.”

Chuuya gave you a look. “That’s exactly what someone who’s about to drop dead would say.”

You laughed, dry but real. The sound seemed to settle something in him—he shifted down onto the floor beside you, close but not crowding, and took a sip from his own mug. Coffee, probably. Chuuya didn’t do herbal.

“Where’s Dazai?” you asked.

“Out,” Chuuya said, rolling his eyes. “He left a note that said ‘Don’t wait up’ and drew a little octopus with sunglasses.”

You snorted. “Was he… okay? Lately?”

“He’s Dazai,” Chuuya said with a sigh. “Which means yes, and also no, and also probably setting something on fire just to see how long it burns.”

But his tone wasn’t bitter—more resigned. Familiar. Like he knew Dazai’s rhythms better than anyone and didn’t expect them to change, only to cycle.

“I think it shook him,” you said quietly. “What happened. With me.”

Chuuya was quiet for a beat.

“Yeah,” he said. “It did.”

You looked down into your tea. “He hides it better than you.”

“I don’t hide anything,” Chuuya said. “I just swear a lot instead.”

The front door clicked open a moment later.

Speak of the devil.

Dazai stepped in, coat slung over one arm, scarf missing. He looked slightly windblown, one hand holding a plastic bag that he dramatically wiggled in the air.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said. “And by gifts, I mean sugar.”

He set the bag on the table, revealing a lopsided assortment of mochi, cream puffs, and some neon-pink drink that probably shouldn’t be legally ingestible.

Chuuya made a face. “That’s not food. That’s a health hazard.”

“That’s joy, Chuuya. You should try it sometime.”

You smiled tiredly and reached for one of the mochi. “Thanks.”

Dazai sat on the arm of the couch, eyes flicking over you. “How’s your pain today?”

“Manageable. Still sore. Still tired.”

He nodded. “That’s human, at least.”

The three of you sat in the soft quiet that came after shared catastrophe—no urgent mission, no blood in the air, no need to speak just to fill silence. You leaned sideways until your shoulder pressed against Chuuya’s, and he shifted just enough to steady you.

Dazai, surprisingly, didn’t make a joke. Just rested his chin in his hand and watched the light play across the hardwood floor.

“I know I said it already,” you murmured, “but… thanks. For not giving up on me.”

“Please,” Dazai said, voice mild. “Do you know how hard it is to find people who don’t scream when I walk into a room?”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “He means ‘you’re welcome.’”

You grinned.

Outside, a breeze rustled the balcony plants you hadn’t managed to kill yet.

Inside, you sat between two dangerous, complicated men—one a walking contradiction, the other a knife in a velvet glove—and for the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest didn’t feel unbearable.

You were healing.

And you weren’t doing it alone.

23 notes · View notes

thescarletnargacuga · 9 months ago

Text

BLOODED SKIES

A HARLEQUIN AU ONESHOT

AU credit @iamespecter @tadc-harlequin-au

A/N: created in tandem with Ziku's incredible poster!

WARNING: nightmare imagery

~~~

youtube

Tiktiktiktiktiktiktiktiktiktik

The music box was wound back. The key twisted until it could go no more. The music box sat open and played its beautiful melancholy tune. The music carried softly through silent halls.

Pomni opened her eyes. She stood in the center ring of an empty circus tent. Like the one we met Caine in but...it looked new. The tent was vibrant and the lights glowed bright. The only thing that seemed out of place was a single small golden sprig growing out of the ground. A single glowing leaf broke free and drifted away on unfelt wind.

Pomni watched the leaf fly towards the tent entrance, beyond which was darkness. She felt compelled to follow. Before she stepped beyond, she heard a whisper. Someone distant, yet familiar. "Don't go...please..."

She turned, but the circus was still empty. If a bit more dilapidated than the last time she looked. The colors were faded. The lights were dim.

After one more look around, she went beyond the threshold. Deep in the shadows she heard more whispers she did not know. A music box mixed with a long single tone sounded before silence.

Darkness gave way to pinks and violets. She stood on the surface of glass calm water. Pomni felt at peace here. At rest. The golden leaf flew around her, joined by a few others. They danced around like fireflies, illuminating her curious face.

The leaves moved faster, more erratically. The gold being juxtaposed with red veins. Suddenly, they shot up into the air out of sight. Pomni stared straight up, watching the leaves vanish into the ether above. After a moment of silence, the sky fractured.

The deep purple hues broke away to reveal a deep blood orange that burned into her. The water beneath her feet dried to cracked earth. Buildings and machines of war erupted from the ground around her. They emerged, rusted and fell apart rabidly. Some of these machines looked like people. Mannequins that could walk and talk. Their bodies disintegrated before her, reaching out in vain.

Pomni tried to back away, but something held her. A thin, near invisible string was around her wrist. She tried to pull away but her other wrist was restrained. Then her neck. Her legs. The bell around her neck felt heavy. Looking up, a ghostly hand marionettes her movements.

Her body moved without her say, no matter how hard she fought it. As she struggled, she heard more incoherent voices. Commands and questions and guesses. One word stood out to her. "Directive." Then thunder rolled through the sky. The sounds of machinery breaking. The strings loosened

She felt in control again, but barely. She tried to keep moving, nearly stumbling over a large broken crown. A soft squeak of a child's teddy bear toy came from underfoot, as she tried to avoid the hammer half buried in the ground. A broken blue charm laid to the side with the fragments of a porcelain mask and the ruined remnants of multiple arms.

Pomni couldn't speak, she could hardly breathe. She was being controlled and condemned and confused.

The broken and scorched earth floated apart like pieces of debris and space. She was isolated with the multitude of items at her feet. From the items, oozed a gelatinous black substance. It coagulated and crawled across the ground like vines.

Pomni had nowhere to go, and she was afraid. The black veins stuck to her and climbed her body. Simultaneously, she began to sink into the ground. The items around her closing in. The black veins restrained her more than the strings ever did. Her legs were immobile as she sunk to her knees. She could not lift her arms as the black veins connected her wrists to the heavy items.

The ghostly hand above her tried to pull her back. She felt its resistance but the veins were stronger as she continued to sink. The veins climbed her neck, making their way to her bright hazel eye. She gasped, seeing flashes of faces and places of a time gone by. A city not ravaged by time or war. A warm hand to hold. A man's whispered love.

She sank up to her chest. Her eyes stared wide at the sky, invaded by it. Consumed by it. Body and soul. Only her head remained above the swallowing earth. The ghostly hand never gave up, choking her. She was pressed in on all sides by the littered items mixed with the black veins.

As the world around her went black, she jolted awake. Her legs kicked out at open air as she oriented herself. She was in her room, sitting in a sofa chair. It was near sundown, the sky a rich mix of violets, reds and oranges. She took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She had no words for what just happened, not even an expletive.

A gentle knock at her door broke the silence. "Pomni..? You in there?" Caine's voice gently asked. "Haven't seen you in a few hours, been awfully quiet. May I come in?"

When he didn't receive an immediate "Fuck off," he entered. Seeing her so still, worried him. "Hey...something wrong?" He moved over to her, sitting on the ottoman in front of her.

"I...don't know..." Pomni slowly answered, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Caine wanted nothing more than to pull her into him. Tell her everything was alright. He leaned forward, matching her pose. His hands lightly clasped together. "Is there anything I can do?" His fingers twitched towards hers as she moved.

Pomni sat upright and ran her hand through her hair, taking out her ponytail. Her longer back hair draped over her shoulders. "I don't know." She gazed into his concerned eyes. She really didn't know if he could help her or even understand what she was feeling. Not that she was ready to share. She had to think on things more.

Caine couldn't resist anymore. Pomni was in some sort of distress, even if she wasn't outwardly showing it. He carefully reached out and took her hand. "Whatever you need, I'm right here."

She felt it. The warmth. Still so new to her. She closed her hand around his to feel more of it. It was rather nice. She was looking so closely into his eyes she completely missed the fact that the key crank on the back of his head was missing.

#Youtube #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc fanfiction #tadc caine #tadc pomni #tadc showtime #tadc harlequin au #the marvelous mechanical harlequin au #harlequin au #harlequin #subtle lore #soft canon

54 notes · View notes

elrielffs · 10 months ago

Text

Shaking off the rust to write something for the first time in years so please forgive any mistakes. I tried to edit but there's only so much you can stare at something. (Unless you're Azriel looking at Elain.)

This was originally supposed to only be a few paragraphs of Elain and Azriel on a secret picnic but quickly spiraled.

Mostly Azriel pov oriented so a lot of simping and being down bad in a pathetically hot way. I hope I captured the vibes I was going for (romantic and horny). If you take the time to read, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it!

Part 2 - my god has answered me (Elain pov)

Link to ao3 if you prefer

A Universe so Divine

Part 1 - god is my help

They had situated themselves on top of a blanket on a grassy, tree covered hill overlooking Velaris. The tall, ancient trunks encircled the area, providing a sense of concealment, as the setting sun covered them and the city peaking through the bushes with a quiet golden glow.

Or maybe that's just how everything seemed when he was with her. Golden.

Azriel had taken her here for peace and quiet and for them to finally be completely alone. No one to linger around the Townhouse, halting them from acting on their desires, to come into the room suddenly and startle them apart when the need to be close to each other became to powerful to resist. It wasn't often they could get away like this, but both of them valued the time and made sure to enjoy every second they had no matter how scarce or brief.

Elain had packed a basket like normal and they ate sugary jams and home baked goods of her own creation as they talked easily and free between each other about their day.

Elain sent him teasing glances while she nibbled on a strawberry jam laced cracker--and he had responded with devouring, hungry stares, taking in her uncovered neck and shoulders, how the gauzy, dusty pink dress she had worn today dipped low and the sun’s rays highlighted the dark outline of her body through the thin material. He had to remember to chew his food to at a normal pace.

She was going to be the death of him.

Under other circumstances, eating anything Elain cooked would have been savored and enjoyed slowly but given how often they were truly and utterly alone, Azriel did not even want to spare the time to eat. At least not jam.

But he did, if only to make her happy. Anything to make her happy.

It didn't take long after they had finished for him to be rewarded for his patience as Elain sat up on her knees and stretched her arms out to him. Elain's body quivered with laughter as he greedily pulled her into his lap, her thighs naturally situating themselves on either side of his hips. Their arms grasping at each other like a lifeline as they thrilled in the physical closeness that was often denied them.

For long a moment, they sat there like statues forgotten by time. Eyes closed, foreheads placed together as they took in each others breath, proximity, essence.

Azriel relished the pressure of her body against his, at the sight and scent of her overwhelming his senses. His hands roamed her figure, mapping the dips and curves of her form to commit to memory till he can hold her again.

Elain's hands also explored, taking in the power of his arms, the set of his shoulders, before coming to cup each side of his face in her palms. One hand glided softly along his cheek, warm and velvet against his skin as her fingers found and stroked the roundness of his ears with a gentleness that bordered on obscene.

When Azriel was younger, he resented his blunted ears that marked him as less than, wishing his were pointed like Rhysand's--the mark of the high fae.

Now, Azriel wouldn't care what his ears looked like-pointed, blunt, webbed, furry--as long she kept gingerly trailing her fingertips against the sensitive parts of skin.

Azriel bit back a groan and swallowed heavily, trying to keep himself under control as the desire he always had simmering in him around Elain broke free and rose to engulf him. Even with his eyes closed and his focus on mastering himself, he could feel the triumphant smile on her face at the response she knew she'd elicit, the little minx. This was their game, how long they could withstand the chaste gestures before someone shattered, before the innocent brush of fingers became feral, carnal, became a need.

So far, they had a pretty even score.

He had to touch her, had to mitigate the craving welling within him, had to have her bare skin against his own no matter how minute. He brought one of his arms up from around her body to rest his hand against her exposed neck, noting with a certain sense of male gratification how she angled her head to give him better access. His scarred fingers tangled in the loose strands of her silky hair, as his hand slid back to settle against her nape, thumb coming to massage against the pulsing point under her jaw.

He felt her tremble from the texture of his scarred hands skimming across her skin, heard the shaky intake of her breath as Elain also fought to restrain herself. His hands were another insecurity about himself he didn't care for till he learned all the exquisite sounds he could call forth out of her just by touch alone.

Grinning, he opened his eyes to take in her warm, sultry, doe eyed stare, a rich brown that sparkled when caught in stray sunbeams filtering in through the leaves. He could get--did-- get lost in those eyes. He would happily drown in her gaze and never come up for air if left to his own desires.

He didn't blink as he watched her intense introspection lower to his lips, flashing quickly back up when his widening smirk alerted her to the fact that he had noticed. A light dust of pink began to cover her cheeks to match her dress and she quickly averted her gaze to her hands, to focus on the human like ears he possessed.

A diminutive curve of her brow, a tightening of the eyes. A moment and then the already barely perceptible expression was over like it had never been but Azriel noticed. He noticed everything about her.

He didn't need to be a daemati to know what had haunted her thoughts however briefly.

"Do you still miss it?" he asked softly.

Elain's attention shifted back to his golden glower, a small, knowing smile dimpling the sides of her mouth as she appreciated that he saw her--that from the very first he's always seen her—that neither of them had to verbally state what it was. Being human and all that had come with it.

"No," she shook her head gently, that great mane of captured sunlight hovering around her shoulders and sending a wave of her scent for him to breath in.

"For a long time I...," she trailed off, withdrawing her hand and placing it against his chest. He could of cursed himself for bringing it up, for marring their precious time alone together, for the touch of darkness that clouded her features. His arm around her waist strengthened, hauling her close to him as if by sheer proximity he could protect her from anything--even her own mind.

He clutched her hand against his chest between them in his own and pressed hard against his Illyrian leathers so she could feel the steady beat within him. A heart that beat only for her.

"I did," she continued, shyly peering up at him from under her long lashes," but now...I don't think I could go back even if I still wanted to."

A relief always to hear the words from her own lips. There was a period where her feelings were quite the opposite--when he and everyone close to her worried if the Cauldron, the metamorphosis, the murky abyss of her unknown powers and the rapid decay of the life she had known would kill her.

But Elain had endured, recovered, in the face of such misfortune and now flourished like a butterfly emerging from it's chrysalis. Azriel could only thank the Mother that she included him in her new found life she was making for herself.

"Though..." she began again, the hand not currently confined in his own rising absentmindedly to hover next to her head. "It took some getting used to...these." These being newly pointed ears--the most telling and damning of her alteration. "It was hard to see my reflection somedays so I..." she hesitated a second before resuming, "I covered them with my hair so I wouldn't have to be constantly reminded every time I passed a mirror, glimpsed a shiny surface, saw myself in someone's eyes."

Azriel understood. There was a memory from a lifetime ago where he had also been locked away in a sunless chasm, his life not his own and his body corrupted outside of his control. Looking at the rough scarred hand that caressed his piece of sunlight given flesh, he understood.

"Well," he said, voice pitched low as he leaned in closer to her, releasing her hand and gathering up a thick lock of her soft tresses to tuck behind her delicately pointed ear to reveal the appendage to his eye.

Elain instinctively copied his movement, leaning in to meet him midway so their lips could connect in a much overdue kiss but he pulled away. He chuckled at her bewildered expression and gave her an admonishing look to keep her in place as he leaned in again to her bare shoulder.

This close, he inhaled deeply the smell of roses and bread, of jasmine and soil. Of home. His home. Her.

He kissed the length of her shoulder then up her neck to her ear, repressing the growl that threatened to erupt from him with the low roll of her hips into his own, of the way her breath quickened in his ear, how hear head fell back to balance in the palm of his hand at her neck, silently asking for more. The arm around her waist lowered for him to slip his hand under her already rucked up dress, to grab at the ample offering of her bottom and squeeze till her flesh overflowed through his fingers.

"I think they are lovely," he whispered to her, allowing his tongue to dart out and trace along the fine ridge of her ear, to taste her. A tremor traveled down her body that Azriel could feel in every pore of his being. He blew slow and tender onto the edge of her ear and discerned with pleasure the tip of her ear quiver in response.

"Everything about you is lovely Elain from the tips of your ears," here he stopped to press his lips gently against her temple as his hand on her buttocks guided her to grind on his confined, straining cock, "to the bottom of your feet." He would kiss those too if he could. He would smother her with kisses everywhere he could reach, mark her body with touches of adoration from his lips, praise her like a sermon with his mouth until any thought of her not being completely and entirely perfect left her mind. Human or fae.

He observed with pleasure the tinged pink color now marring the fragile tips of her ears and he knew the color would match with the blush that now undoubtedly heated her cheeks. He would have to ask for her to display her ears more often when they were not alone, to see if he could evoke the same response in her in a secret language that only they two knew when surrounded by others.

He felt her hand still pressed between their bodies claw viscously at his shirt, her nails piercing the leather as she began to move her hips in earnest against him, her covered core against the large bulge that he desperately wanted to free from his pants.

"Azriel," Elain panted hot and heavy to his hearing, her voice laced with want and demand as her other hand came up to entwine her fingers into his hair and tug backwards. He chucked darkly and obeyed for what else could he do. He was hers to do with as she willed.

When their gazes clashed again his shy flower was gone, though the blush remained ever present. Instead she now stared at him with a look that burned, that scorched his soul with a craving, a longing, a thirst no water could quench.

With a dominating thrust of her hips and hands, she shoved him to fall back onto the ground with her still on top, thighs clenched to his sides trembling uncontrollably. A hiss escaped him at her insistence, at her need, his hands automatically grabbing her hips to bring her down onto his hard length while simultaneously bucking up into her.

"Kiss me," she commanded, inclining over him to curtain the face of their tryst with her magnificent hair. Her chest heaved and her breath came out in gasping cries of untapped desire.

He could deny her nothing and with dusk falling all around them and the stars winking into existence, their lips lay claim to each other in a collision of ferocity and passion.

Finally.

god is my help

#elriel #elain x azriel #part 2? maybe #probably #elain is azriel's religion #elriel fanfic

64 notes · View notes