#machine is alive is machine is alive is machine

[kxsagi]

Bllk (school au) where reader is always late or missing school😍

“𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩”

a/n: i wasn’t sure what to write at first, so i made this about late! reader who goes to blue lock high and her best friends are all the boys 

there were a lot of rumors about you. 

some said you were a secret agent for the japanese government. others swore you were actually a ghost haunting the third-year corridor because you tragically fell into a vending machine last year. one time, a teacher asked the class if anyone remembered your name, and isagi just blinked like he was trying to summon your existence through sheer memory power. no one was really sure if you were still enrolled or just a legend left behind like a cryptid with a school ID. 

the truth? you were enrolled. technically. officially. legally. but mentally? emotionally? spiritually? you were not present. 

until today. 

today, for reasons even you didn’t understand, you decided to show up to school. 

you burst through the front gate of blue lock high with your tie in one hand, your shoe half-off, and a meat bun hanging out of your mouth like you were cosplaying a main character who still didn’t have her life together. 

students turned. birds scattered. even the old gym coach accidentally dropped his cigarette. 

“who the hell is that?” a first year whispered. 

“i think that’s the girl who went missing during golden week,” someone murmured. 

“nah, she’s the one who took a nap on the roof in june and woke up in september.” 

“bro, it’s only may.” 

“exactly.” 

you finally reached the shoe lockers, panting, your bag trailing behind you like it was just as exhausted by your existence. 

the door to the main hall slid open. and of course, standing right there with the fury of a thousand unpaid overtime hours, was mr. ego, your homeroom teacher. he looked like he aged five years just from making eye contact with you. 

“miss [name],” he said, voice sharp enough to slice through your last brain cell, “congratulations on gracing us with your presence.” 

you smiled sheepishly. “good morning, ego sensei.” 

he raised an eyebrow. “it’s third period.” 

you shrugged. “good afternoon, ego sensei.” 

you thought the chaos would settle once you entered the classroom. but no. not when you were the chaos. 

as you slid the door open and dramatically limped inside like a war veteran, every single head turned toward you. it was like being the final contestant walking onto a reality show where everyone already hated you for breathing. 

“holy crap,” reo muttered, mouth half-open. “you actually exist.” 

“yo, i thought you transferred,” chigiri blinked. 

“nah,” nagi yawned from his desk. “she probably just got lost again. remember when she tried to go to the library and ended up at a train station in osaka?” 

“that was one time,” you muttered, throwing yourself into your seat like you were claiming a throne. 

“you missed, like, three exams,” isagi said, turning around in his chair to look at you. “you’re aware of that, right?” 

you gave him a thumbs up. “make it four. i’m not emotionally prepared for midterms.” 

from the corner of the room, rin stared at you like you were a glitch in the matrix. “you should be suspended by now.” 

you smiled brightly. “but i’m cute.” 

he turned back around with the most judgmental sigh you’d ever heard in your life. 

lunchtime was no better. 

you flopped dramatically onto the rooftop bench, sighing like you’d just fought off a demon invasion. the sky was nice. the sun was warm. the school curry had betrayed you, but you were still alive. 

bachira poked your leg with his chopstick. “you okay?” 

“emotionally? spiritually? no.” 

“physically?” 

“also no.” 

he grinned. “glad to hear you’re doing well! it’s good to have you back.” 

nagi plopped down beside you and immediately used your lap as a pillow. “if you disappear again, leave a note or something. i thought you died.” 

you squinted at him. “you didn’t even text me.” 

“i was emotionally distancing myself.” 

karasu popped out from behind the water tank like a raccoon. “yo, i heard [name] came back from the dead.” 

“i didn’t die, i just… missed a few classes.” 

“a few? girl, you missed the school festival. the sports day. the class trip. midterms. they changed the uniform policy and you missed that, too.” 

you looked down at your shoes. “… wait, we’re supposed to wear white socks now?” 

later, during afternoon homeroom, mr. ego made you stand up and introduce yourself to the class again. you were technically still registered as “absent” in the system, so he claimed this counted as a re-enrollment. 

“hi,” you waved lazily. “i’m [name]. i’ve been here since the start. i just prefer a more mysterious and elusive academic aesthetic.” 

someone in the back muttered, “you missed the school’s plumbing flooding and the time sae punched a vending machine.” 

“what?!” 

“you also missed the fire alarm being pulled by shidou because he thought it was a candy dispenser.” 

“… okay, that i regret missing.” 

by the end of the day, you were exhausted from being perceived. everyone kept poking you like you were going to vanish again. oliver tried to drag you to practice. yukimiya asked if you needed help catching up on literally every subject. kaiser accused you of faking your existence for clout. 

but then, as you trudged toward the gates, backpack heavier with worksheets and pity snacks from your classmates, you felt something weirdly nice. 

you looked up. bachira had tied a neon post-it note to your locker that read: “don’t vanish again or we’ll file a missing person’s report. love u <3” 

and underneath it, scribbled in black sharpie: “class won’t be the same without our favorite cryptid.” – isagi 

“you still owe me five math assignments.” – rin 

“next time, take me to osaka, too.” – nagi 

“glad you’re back, even if you’re a walking disaster.” – everyone 

you grinned. 

maybe school wasn’t so bad. maybe disappearing mysteriously once in a while had its perks. and maybe, just maybe, you’d show up again tomorrow. 

… 

unless you slept in. again. oops. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 2

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

Again, this is part two for the earlier post SO READ THE FIRST PART FIRST, UP YOU GO🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The low murmur of keyboards and coffee machines faded into static the moment the newsroom screen flared to life.

Dick, now just another name on an HR payroll in Blüdhaven’s safer corners at day—was elbow-deep in quarterly reports when his coworker’s voice slithered through the haze of workday monotony.

“God, Gotham’s a cesspool. Did you see the news? Gala turned massacre. Whole damn city’s cursed—wait, isn’t that your sibling?”

The air collapsed.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Like rebooting a jammed system. His pen dropped, clattering loudly against the laminate desk, but it sounded like it came from underwater. A dull echo. The noise of a world beginning to warp.

He turned to the TV.

The news chyron bled across the bottom of the screen:

“BREAKING: Unidentified Body Found After Gotham Gala Massacre. Brain Removed.”

His eyes snagged on the footage.

A stretcher.

A body under a black tarp.

Boots. Flashbulbs. Officers shouting.

Plastic gloves smeared with something dark and glistening.

“That can’t be—no. No. No, no, no—”

Not you.

Not you.

His chair screeched as he stumbled to his feet. He was shaking and didn’t even know it. The room swayed. His vision tunneled. Somewhere behind his ribs, a war began—a fight between every breath he couldn’t take and every scream he wouldn’t let loose.

The screen cut to a slow replay: the tarp lifting. A gasp from the bystanders. The gloved hand reached into the body bag—just for a second. A sliver of exposed jaw. Pale skin. Bloodless. Too bloodless.

The top of the skull—

Gone.

A void where a mind should be.

And Dick’s mind broke open with it.

He gasped—violently—as if the TV had just punched air out of his lungs. His hands gripped the sides of the desk. The wood under his fingers warped, melted into the phantom feeling of a gala wineglass. The memory struck like lightning: your laugh under chandeliers, the rustle of your formal wear, the way you’d said, “Bruce is impossible, but he backed out. I’m handling the gala instead—wish me luck, Dickie.”

The memory shattered into blood.

He staggered backward. A chair toppled. Someone called his name but it didn’t reach him.

“They got it wrong. The press—always fast, always messy. It’s a mistake. It’s a mistake. That’s not you. That’s not you, that’s not–”

But it was the coat.

The color.

The cufflink—his cufflink, one he’d gifted you last winter, gold and black and one of a kind.

And that’s when the spiral began.

It wasn’t just horror. It was a fracture.

Denial wasn’t a wall—it was a flood, tearing through every cell in his body.

He couldn’t breathe. His chest caved in on itself. His vision pixelated. He clawed at his tie like it was a noose, a foreign object choking him.

“They’re wrong. You’re alive. You’re probably pissed Bruce bailed on the gala and now you’re hiding somewhere, sipping scotch, sulking over bad press. You always hated the spotlight—this is a prank. A test. Maybe Jason’s idea of a sick joke. Or Scarecrow—maybe this is a fear toxin flashback. Yes. Yes. That’s all it is.”

You weren’t-

…missing a brain.

His heartbeat thundered so loud he didn’t notice he was crying until a drop fell onto the back of his hand.

He was halfway out the office before anyone could stop him, breath ragged, lips moving to a name he didn’t dare say aloud.

Not yet.

Not until he could prove the universe wrong.

Because if that body was you–

If your eyes would never open again–

If someone had reached into your skull and stolen the part that made you you–

He wasn’t just going to mourn.

He was going to burn Gotham to the ground to find the monster that did it.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason had been close.

The sensor tripped—a flicker of red on his gauntlet HUD. Hidden panic clenched his gut, but he was already on the bike. Already tearing through Gotham’s streets like a bullet ripped from the barrel. He’d always told you to keep it low profile, but you insisted on finishing Bruce’s gala.

Always trying to hold the damn family together, even when it splintered.

He was close.

But never fast enough.

When he got there, Crime Alley was already swarming. Flashing red and blue strobed across the soot-stained brick, casting monstrous shadows down the corridor of Gotham’s most cursed street. It looked like a wound split open in the city’s ribs. Blood-slick asphalt. Sirens howling like eulogies.

He ditched the bike two blocks away.

Walked the rest of the distance like a man descending into his own grave.

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t ask permission.

He walked past two rookie cops. Shaking. Crying. One vomiting against the side of the ambulance, hands braced on his knees, the other whispering frantically into his wrist mic, “It’s like a butcher shop… Jesus Christ…”

He stepped inside.

And the smell hit first.

Iron. Burnt ozone. Copper. And something rotted.

The crime scene was centered under the crooked old lamppost—half-lit, the bulb flickering like it couldn’t decide if it should expose or mercy-dim what lay beneath.

He saw drag marks. Two trails. Long. Panicked.

Someone had fought here. Desperately.

The sidewalk bore impact cracks, as if something—or someone—had been slammed into it, again and again.

The blood trail was wide.

Wide and dark and too much.

The stench nearly took him to his knees.

He didn’t throw up.

Didn’t breathe.

He just moved, slow, controlled, rage tightening in every joint, his gun already drawn because this wasn’t a rescue anymore. This was a fucking hunt.

Then he saw it. The ping zone. Right at the mouth of the alley.

Your last stand.

Your watch was there–the screen cracked, but the signal light was still blinking—pathetically, like it didn’t understand it had failed.

“No.”

His voice rasped, caught between fury and a breaking sob he would never admit to.

“You were supposed to ping me. You did. I came. I was here—I WAS FUCKING HERE.”

He crouched beside the watch, blood squelching under his boots. One gloved hand hovered over it—shaking.

There was no body.

Only pieces.

Pieces.

Not enough to say for certain. Not enough to kill hope.

But the blood told him the truth anyway. The kind of blood loss no one walks away from.

And the skull–God, your skull.

Or what was left of one.

The top of the cranium was gone—scooped out like a jack-o’-lantern.

Blood seeped around it, pooling under where the brain should have been.

But there was nothing.

Nothing inside.

They didn’t just kill you.

They desecrated you.

This wasn’t a crime.

It was a statement.

Jason’s throat closed around a scream he didn’t let out. Not here. Not in front of these bastards who’d arrived too late. Not in front of the blinking camera feeds. Not where someone might see the Jason Todd on his knees, shaking like a child and staring at a broken watch like it was a headstone.

“I should’ve been faster.”

The guilt gnawed instantly.

He thought of Dick—what this would do to him.

Of Bruce—how he’d fold it into another stoic silence.

Of himself—and how he wouldn’t survive this. Not again. Not you.

You were his tether. The one person who still called him “Jay” like it didn’t taste like ash. The one who gave him shit about overkill, but still patched his wounds when he came back bloodied.

Now there was nothing.

No you.

No face to hold onto. No soft body to bury.

Just the red blinking light.

And blood.

So much blood.

Jason stood slowly. Every movement hurt.

He holstered the gun. But not the rage.

“I’m gonna find them,” he whispered.

“I’m gonna find whoever did this. I’m gonna look them in the eye. And I’m gonna carve their fucking names into the devil’s guest list.”

Behind him, the lamplight flickered once, then went out completely.

Because someone had taken his tether to humanity—

And now?

He had nothing left to lose.

──── ୨୧ ────

Wayne Manor had gone silent for the night.

No operatic soundtrack echoing from the study. No clink of decanter glass. Just the whisper of firelight crackling in the hearth, and the rustle of papers as Bruce Wayne read through an intelligence report that had been sitting unopened for three days.

He hadn’t attended the gala.

You did.

And instead…

His phone rang.

The line that never rang unless it was bad.

Worse than bad.

Bruce froze.

His hand hovered over the encrypted comm.

Then it rang again.

He picked up.

“Wayne.”

The voice on the other end was tight. Measured.

GCPD.

“We… Mr. Wayne, we need you to come to Crime Alley.”

He didn’t respond at first. Didn’t move.

“There’s been… an incident. We believe your legal signature may be required to identify… remains. It’s your ward. We found credentials. We—please, sir.”

Bruce said nothing.

He hung up.

He didn’t throw the phone. Didn’t scream.

Just stood.

Rigid. Straight-backed. Like a soldier receiving orders from a war he thought was long over.

Crime Alley had never changed.

Still dark. Still narrow. Still reeking of old tragedy and new ones waiting to happen.

The Batmobile didn’t come. Bruce Wayne arrived alone, in a nondescript black town car. His coat sharp. Face pale. Movements exact.

He walked through the barricade tape, not even looking at the officers who parted for him like water.

Some recognized him. Some averted their eyes.

Most said nothing.

One detective—a younger man, freckles, eyes red from crying—met him halfway.

“Mr. Wayne. Sir. This way.”

He was led past the alley’s mouth, to where the cleanup hadn’t even started yet.

Jason’s silhouette stood off to the side. Still. Bleeding at the knuckles. Blood that wasn’t his. Or maybe it was.

His mask was off. Eyes vacant. Rage burned out into the kind of grief that could kill gods.

Bruce looked down.

There was a metal cart draped in a white sheet.

There was the watch—your watch—bagged beside it, cracked but blinking.

And there was a clipboard.

The words “LEGAL GUARDIAN / IDENTIFYING RELATIVE” printed at the top.

Bruce reached for the clipboard. His hand trembled once. Just once.

He forced it still.

The sheet was lifted.

And for a moment, time stopped.

Not because of gore. Bruce had seen worse.

Not because of the horror—though it was there, oh God, it was there.

But because there was nothing behind your eyes.

Because there were no eyes.

No skullcap. No brain. Just a hollow cavity.

A mind stolen.

A child erased.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t cry.

He just stared.

Long enough for the fire behind his eyes to ignite.

Then—

He signed.

B. WAYNE

Block letters. Neat. Final. The same way he signed every mission log, every will, every authorization for body disposal from the League.

But this was different.

This was you.

And paper wasn’t enough.

Jason approached slowly. Quiet. Like even breathing wrong might crack the world further.

“I was late,” he rasped.

Bruce didn’t answer.

“I came as fast as I could, but—”

“I know,” Bruce said. A voice carved from stone.

He looked at the remnants of your watch.

“I should’ve gone myself. It should’ve been me. Not you.”

Jason turned his face away, fists curling again.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

Bruce’s eyes sharpened. Cold. Focused.

“We bury what’s left.”

He looked toward the blood stains drying under the lamppost where his life had once changed.

Then back to yours.

“Then we hunt.”

He didn’t speak the entire ride back to the manor.

Didn’t change.

Didn’t sit.

He stood in the center of the library, coat still soaked from alley rain, the silence heavy like a shroud.

The clock ticked.

4:29 a.m.

He reached for the secure comm device on the desk. His fingers trembled, just slightly.

He called her.

Selina answered after the first ring, her voice still velvet with sleep.

“Bruce? That you?”

Silence.

Then—

“You’re calling late, or early—I guess depending on what disaster you’re cleaning up. What’s wrong?”

More silence.

She sat up. He could hear it—the creak of silk sheets, the shift in her breath.

“Bruce. Say it.”

He stared at the floor.

Where you once sat with a cup of tea and tired jokes about how the manor was too quiet without Damian’s brooding and Dick’s bad coffee.

I should have gone.

It should’ve been me.

He exhaled through his nose. A single sound. Broken.

Then finally, he spoke.

Low. Guttural. Final.

“It’s Y/N.”

Selina didn’t respond right away. But he knew her silence. It wasn’t confusion—it was comprehension. The kind of silence that comes only when the floor drops out from under you.

“How bad?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes.

“No body.”

“…”

“Just blood. Pieces. Skull damage. Brain’s gone. They took it. Left the rest.”

Another silence. This one hurt more.

“Bruce. I’m coming over.”

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t say “No” or “Don’t.” Didn’t do anything but drop the comm back onto the desk like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He stood there alone.

The man who taught Gotham to fear the dark now stood powerless against the shadow it had stolen.

He could handle blood.

He could handle death.

But this?

This was void.

And Bruce Wayne had no contingency plan for grief shaped like a missing mind.

──── ୨୧ ────

The sun rose without permission.

Across Gotham, the city exhaled into its usual chaos—sirens, taxis, coffee cups, the sleepy grind of another morning that didn’t yet know someone was gone.

But at 9:06 a.m., Tim Drake did.

He was half-dressed in his dorm room, one hand mid-reach for his tablet, when he noticed the missed calls stacked on his phone screen like a silent scream:

4:52 a.m. – Bruce (4 calls)

4:56 a.m. – Alfred (1 voicemail)

5:03 a.m. – Jason (text: “Answer your damn phone.”)

5:08 a.m. – Unknown GCPD number

He hit play.

“Master Timothy… it’s Alfred. I… I’m sorry. There’s been an incident. It’s Y/N. They were found in Crime Alley last night. We need you at the manor. You were one of the last to see them—please come home.”

He stopped breathing.

Memory rushed in like a flood he wasn’t ready for.

Last night.

You stood just outside the gala entrance, eyes tired but warm. You tugged Damian’s tie loose and made some dry comment about him learning fashion from Bruce. Tim had laughed, and you’d grinned at both of them. Just for a second. That grin.

“Go,” you said. “I’ve got this. I need to head back to my dorm anyway—last gala dance of the season, right?”

So casual. So safe.

He and Damian had taken that as their cue to leave.

And now?

Now Alfred was telling him you never made it home.

•

9:29 a.m. | Gotham Academy Grounds

Damian had only just arrived.

His ride had dropped him off near the Academy gate, and he was heading toward the east wing when he noticed something… wrong.

His communicator buzzed in his coat pocket.

Then buzzed again.

Then again.

He scowled, annoyed at the interruption. Until he saw the message.

“Come home. It’s Y/N.” — Alfred

He froze.

Right there in the middle of the walkway. Students brushed past him, laughing, shouting, alive.

His mind played back your parting words—“I need to head to my dorm anyway.”

He had nodded at the time, smug and satisfied that you’d handled the gala despite Bruce flaking.

But now…

Something in him fractured.

He turned on his heel and began walking back toward the school’s gates without a word.

10:04 a.m. | The Batcave

The manor was too quiet.

Tim entered through the upper floor and instinctively followed the hum of tech down the hidden elevator shaft, down into the heartbeat of the house.

The Batcave lights glowed cold and clinical.

Bruce stood in front of the main console, cowl discarded but armor still on—shoulders heavy, jaw locked.

Jason leaned against a table to the side, helmet in hand, eyes bloodshot.

Alfred sat stiffly on a chair nearby, hands folded, a glass of untouched tea beside him.

When Tim stepped off the platform, no one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

“It’s real,” Tim whispered.

Bruce only nodded once.

Tim’s knees buckled.

He gripped the nearest workbench to stay upright, blinking fast, vision swimming. His backpack slipped off his shoulder with a thud. He didn’t bother picking it up.

Then—

Footsteps.

Rapid. Sharp.

Damian.

He stormed off the elevator like it had offended him.

“What the hell happened.”

His voice cracked halfway through, though he tried to bury it under rage.

Jason moved to intercept, but Bruce raised a hand. Let the kid come.

Damian stopped in front of the console. Saw the footage playing in silent loop.

Crime Alley. Blood. The blinking watch. The dragged smear of a body that wasn’t whole.

His jaw clenched. Fists balled.

“We left. They told us they had to go back to their dorm. We didn’t argue. We left.”

No one responded.

The silence was a verdict.

Damian shook his head—hard, as if trying to rattle the truth loose from his brain.

“No body?” he asked quietly.

Alfred answered, voice gravel-rough.

“Only fragments. Part of the skull. The brain… was removed.”

Tim turned away, a hand over his mouth. He was shaking.

Damian just stood there.

Still.

Staring at the watch on the display.

Your watch.

Still blinking red.

“They were fine. They were laughing. They were—whole.”

He looked at Bruce.

“Why weren’t you there?”

It came out like a blade.

Jason inhaled sharply, but again, Bruce said nothing.

Damian turned away, but not fast enough to hide the wet sheen in his eyes.

“We were the last to see them,” Tim whispered, hoarse. “Do you know what that means?”

No one had to say it.

They all knew.

It meant the memory of your smile would be the last one they’d ever have.

It meant your voice would live in their heads like a ghost.

It meant they had let you walk alone into the dark.

And now all they had left was blood, silence, and a blinking watch that wouldn’t stop calling for help.

──── ୨୧ ────

It was the day after.

The news hadn’t broken publicly yet—not fully. Gotham’s media machine was still running on speculation and half-formed headlines.

“Violent Crime in Crime Alley — Sources Say ‘High-Profile’ Victim.”

“Massive Blood Loss, No Body, GCPD Investigating Ritual Angle.”

But at 10:46 a.m., the truth hit the rest of them.

And it hit hard.

Steph was in the middle of a coffee run when she saw the Bat-signal flare faintly across the WayneComm emergency line.

“Wayne Manor. Cave. Now.”

She rolled her eyes. No context. Typical Bat-style.

Still, something gnawed at her gut.

She balanced her tray of coffees all the way to the manor, boots crunching on gravel with every confident step, humming some dumb pop song under her breath. Just another meeting, she thought. Maybe a mission brief. Maybe B had finally figured out who was sneaking cookies from Alfred’s tin.

Then she walked into the cave.

The air was ice.

Bruce stood still by the monitor. Jason wouldn’t look up. Tim was seated, face buried in his hands. Damian was statue-still beside the watch console, fists clenched so tight his gloves creaked. Alfred stood near the elevator, red-eyed.

And in the corner, a large display screen—

Crime Alley. Blood. Markers.

The Watch. Still blinking. Still searching.

Steph blinked.

Then blinked again.

A step back. Then forward.

“Wait. Where’s—where’s Y/N?”

The silence answered.

And just beside the elevator—

Selina Kyle.

Black coat. Red lips. Arms crossed, but jaw clenched like she was chewing glass.

She hadn’t said much since arriving. Just showed up after Bruce’s call like a shadow at the door.

She didn’t need directions. She knew where the pain lived.

Everyone noticed her.

No one said anything.

But the thought hung in the room.

Why were you there and not Y/N?

You were supposed to host the gala because Bruce pulled out. You were supposed to make the appearance, smile, keep up the illusion of a still-standing family name.

Selina should’ve been with you.

Should’ve escorted. Should’ve backed you up. Should’ve noticed something.

But no one asked.

Not out loud.

Because grief in this family wore too many masks.

The tray of coffee hit the floor.

And then she was on her knees beside it, sobbing into her gloved hands like it would bring you back.

•

Duke had a sense for things—light, shadows, the moods that lived between words.

When he arrived at the manor, the stillness gave him his answer before anyone said it aloud.

He walked into the cave, scanned the faces, and his chest seized.

“What happened.”

No one lied.

Not even Bruce.

They told him the truth.

Crime Alley. No witnesses. No camera footage. Too much blood to survive. No body.

“The brain was removed.”

That last detail—

That’s when his hands trembled.

Not because of gore. He’d seen worse.

But because you weren’t just another sibling. You were present. You listened. You made time for his questions about identity, legacy, shadows, and light.

You had a mind that made space for others.

And now someone had stolen it.

He didn’t cry.

He sat down, quietly, and started flipping through surveillance feeds, timestamps, power outages.

“If they left nothing,” he whispered, “that means they wanted it that way. That’s a pattern. We’ll find it.”

Grief would come later.

For now, he’d find the gap in the light.

•

Cass knew.

She’d felt it hours ago.

The ping. That cold, sharp, too-late red light.

She’d checked the location instantly, heart already racing before the data finished loading.

Crime Alley.

She knew you’d been at the gala. Knew you weren’t supposed to be there.

Knew something was wrong the second it flared.

She called the comm line.

Then another.

Then tried again.

But she was already too far—in Hub City, two hours out even with the fastest route.

She had screamed once—short and sharp—and launched into motion, already suiting up, already on the bike.

But by the time she got the second update, it wasn’t a rescue anymore.

It was a cleanup.

The guilt wrapped itself around her ribs like wire. Still hadn’t let go.

She crouched now by the dimmed display, one gloved hand still resting where the last signal pulsed.

Steph sat beside her, quiet now, eyes raw.

“If I had just—if I didn’t leave…”

Cass didn’t answer.

Didn’t say you told them to go.

Didn’t say you were proud of them.

Didn’t say you joked about dorms and deadlines.

Instead, she stood up. Movements stiff. Precise.

Walked straight past the console to Selina, and stood in front of her like a statue built from everything unspoken.

Selina met her gaze.

No flinch.

No apology.

Just mirrored pain, just as sharp.

Cass didn’t say why weren’t you there.

She didn’t have to.

Her body said it.

Selina didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Just clenched her jaw harder and nodded, like yes—she knew she should’ve been there.

She always knew.

Bruce stepped forward, voice low.

“We’ll find them.”

No one questioned who. Everyone knew.

This wasn’t a mugging. It wasn’t random. This was surgical.

A brain stolen. A body desecrated. A message sent.

“This wasn’t about opportunity. This was targeted. Someone knew Y/N would be alone. Someone waited for the right moment.”

“And someone,” Jason said, voice shaking, “knew how to get past us all.”

Steph looked up. “You think they’ve done it before?”

Bruce nodded once. “Or… this is only the first.”

Cass moved back to the center of the cave.

Her voice—quiet, but firm—cut through the room:

“No more delays.”

“We hunt now.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You wake with a gasp.

Air floods your lungs like water after drowning—sharp, cold, wrong.

Your body arches against the grass beneath you—soft, too soft. The light above is too bright, and it doesn’t feel like sunlight.

You slam a hand against your forehead as pain lances through your skull. Blinding. Like something hot was carved into the inside of your brain and then scraped out.

You can’t breathe for a second.

You squeeze your eyes shut and see red behind your lids.

Panic flares in your chest. You remember—nothing.

A color. A sound. A shape, maybe. A scream—

Then it’s gone.

Your fingers brush something cold and metallic around your neck.

A collar.

You blink. A red dot flickers at the center—glowing. Watching.

You barely have time to register it when you hear the voice.

Soft. Familiar. Somewhere to your left.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?”

You turn.

Your vision blurs at the edges.

Someone’s sitting beside you—legs crossed, concern etched on their face. Familiar. Maybe. But your head is too full of fog and static to name them.

They tilt their head at you.

Your heartbeat’s still trying to climb out of your ribs.

You don’t answer at first. The words feel far away.

But something else answers for you. Something instinctual. Buried.

You shake yours. Lightheaded.

You force a breath.

“Nothing, Mizi.”

The red light on the collar pulses once.

And you smile.

But the pain behind your eyes doesn’t fade.

<<< You are here!! >>> •Note: GUESS WHO’S HERE

And again grief time, more reactions lol, I combined Steph, Cass and Duke parts together (and cut out Babs–) but it seems too rushed but well, it’s too long and make my literally phone lagging. And this is my inspiration if you feel familiar, word count is 7k for both parts what the helly!!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn, @whaaaaaaaaat111, @hai-there-how-are-you, @1abi, @dreamzaremyrealityy, @bugsfruits, @alishii, @ememgl, @cssammyyarts, @kaeyasrose, @cebrospudipudi, @cupid73

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[thatonebirdwrites]

Excellent article addition to this thread.

It is also bizarre to have science fiction condemned as a tool for imperialism, when a vast majority of it -- if one reads any book that is NOT by a cishet white man -- critiques colonialism, imperialism, patriarchy, and cishet white supremacy. It seems that professor who read a bigoted essay on science fiction failed to examine marginalized people's science fiction. If he'd bothered to do any research whatsoever, he'd have seen just how anti-imperialist science fiction can be.

For example, N.K. Jemisen's The Broken Earth Trilogy tackles themes of colonialism, family, and genocide. It does this through the medium of SF/F, where the world in which the characters live contributes to the layering of the themes. It's not just the characters sharing their story, but the world itself shares its story of sacrifice, oppression, and healing from the trauma of oppression. Jemisen hails from New York, USA.

Another example is Nnedi Okorafor, who is a Nigerian author, who tackles imperialism/colonialism, capitalism, patriarchy, and white supremacy. Her books ask the question of who are we? Imperialism/colonialism both strip away culture and attempts to shove people into narrow and painful stereotypes, to steal away their identity and force us into cogs for the capitalist war machines. Resistance means holding onto who we are and who are people are, and fighting to keep that alive. Through that act, we can find the strength to topple harmful systems.

That's just two authors, but they are both Black authors, and if there's one thing I learned in my short stint in the Iowa Writer's Workshop back in 2005, is that Black authors are rarely highlighted. Thus the program could not truly tackle its own bigotry until it reckoned with its silence and erasure of marginalized authors. (This happened after I left, when Black and Indigenous graduate students toppled the mostly white professors controlling the program. Suddenly in the 2010s, the Iowa Writing Workshops pumped out online classes anyone could take that dug into marginalized stories to examine these themes. Sadly, these online classes are no longer funded and have since ended in the early 2020s.)

I remember how hurt I was when my professor rejected my science fiction story about grief and erasure by those in power. How they used it as an example of 'low brow works.' How they told me to stop writing nonsense and write what I know. How they pushed back on the fact I had people of color in the story.

I dropped out of the program and for awhile stuck to nonfiction and poetry. Then I discovered authors like N.K. Jemisen and Octavia Butler and so many other LGBTQIA, Disabled, and/or BIPOC authors. Which lead me to more and more marginalized authors, and it was them that helped me return to writing. I learned so much from their writings and how they crafted their stories and themes.

When I escaped my abusive ex and couldn't write for a long while, it was the stories of queer characters of color that helped me find my voice again. Characters and stories my professors in the writing workshop would have derided as 'low brow' and 'no good.'

So I guess the questions I always have for these so-called writing programs is:

Do they view the writings of marginalized authors as legitimate and worthy of respect? Are they willing to challenge themselves and examine the themes in our works? In the works of Black, Indigenous, people of color? In the works of Disabled people? In the works of LGBTQIA people? In the works of people who are not cishet white American or European men?

If they writing classes do not draw from marginalized authors, then it's highly likely they have nothing to teach me other than bigotry and stereotypes, like the one I had quit. I've been forced to read those so-called literary classics. And sure there is some points to learn from them, but I learned the most about writing from marginalized authors -- the very authors these professors seem to write off as less than.

And where is that 'they are less than' mentality coming from?

Internalized, unchecked bigotry socialized into us by American (and some European) societies, which have yet to reckon with their racist and imperialist pasts. When academic circles deem stories by marginalized people as 'less than' they are drawing on that legacy of writing off whole populations as disposable in order to justify the exploitation, slavery, and horrifically brutal oppression rained down upon them. Much of which still happens today to many marginalized populations such as Black, Indigenous, LGBTQIA, Disabled, and immigrant populations (not just in America but in Europe and other countries too).

Writing workshops don't live in a vacuum, and the context of where they stand in our history and how they were weaponized by governments needs to be examined.

The writing workshop world has yet to reckon with that harmful legacy that seethes through it, and there's a reason why marginalized writers often form their own workshops. Because the ones in the academic halls are still steeped in imperialist, colonialist, patriarchal, cishet white supremacy. Until the academic writing workshops in many universities reckon with that legacy, they will continue to cause harm to budding writers, especially our most marginalized.

Which is why it is a joy when marginalized writers band together to form their own workshops.

my creative writing prof also HATES fantasy. as in if she asks for an example of symbolism in a book, and you give something from a fantasy novel, she’ll ask for an example from a “non-commercial book” instead.

I dunno man, people can have preferences, but the second you discount the artistic merit of sci fi and fantasy I stop taking your opinion seriously. and there’s such a big culture in Canada of only valuing literary fiction, to the point where one of our biggest authors, Margaret Atwood, refused for a while to classify her books as sci fi or fantasy. she said they were “speculative fiction”, which is entirely separate and very highbrow (sarcasm).

and I could go on about how Octavia Butler and Ursula Le Guin wrote books every bit as intellectual (and honestly, even more so) than their literary counterparts, but I am also an enjoyer of schlock!! I think there’s artistic merit in animorphs, and in isekais where a japanese schoolgirl reincarnates into a magical spider who has to level up like it’s a video game! it’s like with everything, you can’t draw a clean line that separates ‘art’ from ‘non-art’ or even ‘lesser art’, and pretending you can do so just makes you look ignorant and goofy. in my opinion.

[donaweasley]

On a Rainy Morning

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Plot:

A rainy morning, Bucky, and … everything poetic and sinful that can happen with that combination.

Genre: Fluff, sm.u.t

Warnings: 20 mins of worshipping the art called “Bucky” and filthy sm.u.tt!!

Read time: ~20 mins

MINORS, STAY AWAY!!

The rain tapped rhythmically on your windows. It wasn’t too loud nor was it too soft. It was just…the right kind. The kind that makes you feel cosy, that reminds you that Nature had heard your heartbeat before you even knew it.

With the cool tiles of the floor placing cold kisses on the sole of your bare feet, you slowly trode to the nearest window. Your oversized t-shirt could cover you till just mid-thighs, and was not enough to stop goosebumps from erupting on your skin as the cold air hit your warm body. Slumping your shoulder against the cool wall, you tried to get a view of the city through the rain-washed glass. It was a blur. A beautiful blur that gently made the presence of the world known without imposing its heaviness on the mind. The morning light, filtered through the dark grey clouds, had painted the city in a soft bluish-grey. The green of the trees swaying in the wind accentuated the evenness of the background while hints of lights from distant buildings added little sparks to the canvas, like lights on a far away Christmas tree.

Almost unbeknownst to yourself, the low hum of an old song found its way to your vocal chords, and mingled with the music that the incessant rain kept composing on your window. You tried to draw a smiley on the hazed glass. Nothing. The fog was on the outside. So you warmed it up with your breath and then drew on it.

Chuckling to yourself, you turned to look at the bed where you were tucked in warm right before you decided to surrender yourself to the thrum of the rain outside. Your eyes lingered on the figure sprawled on the sheets like art on a white canvas, with hair ruffled, muscles rising and falling softly like the tide, his mouth slightly apart and eyes still dreaming, still unaware of the new day. Some time during the night, he had pushed the comforter down slightly, thus allowing you now a glimpse of his beautiful, smooth skin, and an uninterrupted view of his metal arm - his black and gold metal arm that most people feared but you revered. The morning light, though filtered by the clouds, lent a soft shine to it.

The arm fascinated you. Not simply because it made him look ethereal but because of the weight it carried from the past. It was a testimony of all the things that its owner had to bear, had to break through and then become the man that he was now. It was a timeline in itself. Scars were littered on the skin where this metal arm melded with his flesh. But in those scars you had found constellations.

Sometimes it surprised you how much you loved and admired this man. A few times it scared you. You had not loved him since the moment you had met him, no. Love crept up on you slowly, stealthily. And before you could fully understand what was happening, you had found yourself drowning in his words…in his gentle gestures, his kindness and oh, in his eyes! His mesmerising, blue, ocean eyes!

You had accepted the longing, the pining, the ache of your unrequited love. You had made peace with watching him from a distance, of being by his side under the shadow of friendship. It was better than being torn away from him by the harsh claws of rejection, wasn’t it?

But Fate had her own plans.

A capsized mission and an almost fatal injury. Almost three weeks of breathing in the air of the medical bay, of being kept alive by machines and pipes and another two weeks of remaining bedridden in your room - that’s what you had to go through to hear the sweet words of confession pouring out of Bucky’s sweet mouth. It was only when he realised what losing you forever could feel like that he decided to act upon his long-suppressed feelings, regardless of whether you would accept him or ask him to leave. He just had to put his heart on the table. You simply had to know!

You had wanted to jump out of bed and kiss him right then and there. But one small attempt at getting off the bed only resulted in a painful whimper. And so, putting aside any shame or embarrassment that might have haunted you on any normal day, you had quietly asked him to kiss you. A train of emotions had flashed through his features. The supersoldier looked surprised at first, then relieved and finally elated as he bent down, and gently cupped your face with both hands. You still remember the crinkles that adorned his blue eyes when he had smiled at you. The memory of the soft touch of his lips still tingled your own. Though gentle, it was a kiss that spoke volumes of all the love that you both had been hiding - keeping safe and unscathed in your heavy hearts. He had pulled away too quickly for your liking.

“Get well soon, doll,” he had whispered while kissing your knuckles. “And then we’ll have a lot to compensate for.”

You remember blushing at his forwardness.

And now, two years later, you still feel everything that you used to feel for him when you used to hide your love behind polite smiles and small talk. They say that time gradually erases love and replaces it with practicality. Maybe they were right. You’d never know. You never wanted to know.

Bucky was your anchor as well as the wind in your hair. He was your secure hold in a crowd and your mischief at 3 AM. He was your nostalgia of old, yellow-paged books and your thrill of dark alleys and neon lights. Life with a soldier who was over a century old, had a dark past and wielded a metal arm was supposed to be difficult, right? Maybe. Again, you’d never know. For you, it was a poem; it had its lack of rhyme sometimes but as you flowed through it, it became more and more assuring and irresistible!

Tiptoeing your way back to the bed, you tried to control your movements so as not to wake Bucky up as you climbed back beneath the comforter. Your side of the bed had been left empty long enough for the cold to seep in. With a low hiss, you tried to gently scoot towards Bucky to get some warmth but his bionic arm was in the way. You were torn between the desire to pick it up and wrap it around your waist, or to endure the cold sheets just so that you could watch Bucky sleep peacefully a little longer.

But before you could come to a decision, Bucky let out a soft sigh, and shifted. You froze in place, worried that your indecisiveness had awoken him. But the moment his black-and-gold arm wrapped securely around your waist and pulled you close to him, all your worries evaporated. It was suddenly alright if you had interrupted his slumber; these little displays of affection were what you lived for.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” Your words came out in little wisps of breath, their existence so soft that nothing could disturb the tranquillity of the room.

Bucky licked his lips before replying; his plump lips now glistening against the slight darkness of his stubble drew your attention to them.

“No, doll,” he mumbled, eyes still closed. “I just…” a small yawn interrupted his explanation. “Just need your warmth. It’s cold.”

You sometimes found it unbelievable how this man, who appeared stoic before the world, could turn into putty in your hands! Away from the ever-scrutinising eyes of the society, he was just another, rather large, teddy bear looking for a warm hug.

His words melted something inside you, and you found yourself shifting closer to him until your chests were together and your leg was nestled between his. While one arm slipped under his neck, the other drew soothing circles on his scalp.

“I’m here, love,” you whispered on his lips. “Right here…with you.”

Bucky hummed sleepily before nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. You shifted again to accommodate him. Back in the comfort of the bed, and enveloped in the warmth of Bucky, your eyelids had started feeling heavy again. You had just drifted off, your mind had just started weaving a dream, when you were pulled back into reality. And the cause wasn’t annoying at all! It was, in fact, very endearing.

A trail of soft kisses and light scratches of stubble now tickled the skin of your neck, slowly making its way to your collarbone and eventually reaching your jawline. An involuntary smile showed up on your lips.

“Mhm…Buck…”

A part of you wanted to push him off and get some more sleep in this beautiful, lazy weather. And another part wanted to indulge in his pampering, tease him back and see if it ended up in your favourite tangle of sheets and limbs.

Bucky’s mouth graced your cheeks, forehead and nose, while his flesh hand sought more warmth beneath your t-shirt. Your nightwear was eventually bunched up at your waist. With his hand exploring your swells and dips, with his lips writing small prayers on your skin, and with his scandalous thigh pressing against your naked core, your lust finally won.

What was sleep before the delicious and rare concoction of excitement and peace that Bucky’s touch could brew!

You held his face with both hands, and gently urged him to look up from the hollow of your neck. You were finally greeted by those familiar blue orbs. The clouds may have hidden the ball of fire that people called the Sun but this - this view before you - was your sunrise.

“Hey, handsome!” You smiled at him.

“Hey, doll!” His voice was still gruff, thanks to the sleepiness lingering in his muscles.

“Good morning!”

“Good morning to you, too, love!”

And his lips moulded with yours so perfectly that you could never be bothered about morning breath or any of those petty things that humans usually cared about. This feeling that you found only and only with Bucky surpassed all material things. It may sound too poetic or exaggerated to others but you did not care. It was what it was. Bucky was the real-life projection from your favourite fantasy novel, the answer to all the prayers that you had been sending to the Universe. You loved him and he loved you like you hung the stars in the sky, and nothing else mattered.

Slowly, Bucky rolled you on your back, moving in sync to lay on top of you. You loved his weight on you - never too much but always warm and assuring, a thousand times better than the best gravity blanket on the entire planet!

His tongue danced a lazy pas de deux with yours. When the need to breathe became unavoidable, your mouth found its new course on his shoulder, trekking through the length of his neck to ultimately close itself around his earlobe. A gentle bite there and a soft tug with your lips was all it took to hear his beautiful groan.

“Doll!” There was an undertone of a warning in his moan, and it sent a hot shiver down to your core.

“What?” You asked innocently, for you knew well what it did to him.

When he looked at you, the blue of his eyes were mostly overtaken by his pupils. You didn’t mean to but the sight made you bite your lips. And this, in turn, made him devour yours. Desperate hands tried to push your t-shirt up and over your head. You arched your back and lifted your shoulders and arms to help him accomplish his mission.

Your arms wrapped themselves around his neck by instinct, and pulled him closer for a kiss. One fervent kiss that seemed to dissolve the edges of the morning, blurring where you ended and he began, stirring something low and tender in your chests, as the world beyond your bed quietly waited its turn.

What followed was a beautiful blur of sighs and moans and hymns of each other’s names, sometimes accentuated by a soft cry or a whimper or a growl.

Bucky’s mouth found new places to explore, pausing for a long while at your breast, where he took his delightful time sucking and licking your taut bundle of nerves, before finally releasing with a small pop and a slight tug with his teeth. Relishing the way you were squirming beneath him all the time, and chanting his name, he decided to up his game with your other breast. His lips left wet kisses on the underside, eventually taking the soft mound in his mouth and biting it very lightly. A jerk shot through your body and a whimper left your mouth. And he, with a triumphant smirk, licked his way to taking your nipple in mouth where he continued his magic.

Bucky’s hips had been moving in a smooth and constant rhythm all this time. The man could multitask really well! The wetness pooled between your legs was now smeared on the crotch of his boxer shorts. Once out of the spell that his tongue and teeth had been casting on your chest, you managed to reach beneath the covers and push your hands beneath the elastic resistance of his shorts. Oh, you loved that ass on him! When you kneaded them real tight, you indirectly urged him to carry on with his movements - stronger, faster, harder. Bucky knew the intention behind it all, and he stopped. The man had the audacity to stop moving when you were just beginning to get high! And to arch his hips to avoid any contact at all! That wretched hundred-year old man!

“I’m not going to beg!” You shook your head slightly; both mischief and resolution clearly visible in your lust-blown eyes.

“Beg me?” Bucky asked innocently. “For what?”

You were one tease away from snapping. Taking a deep breath, you steadied your heart. Two could play this game.

“For...I don’t know…What do you think?” Very slowly, your hand reached the front of his boxers where they slipped in and gripped him like a vice.

Bucky’s smugness immediately slipped away when he jerked forward and inhaled deeply. You moved your hand torturously slowly, occasionally swiping his head with your thumb.

“What happened, Buck?” The ball was in your court now. (Pun intended!) “All good?”

Your hands continued rubbing him as you enjoyed the view of him unraveling before you. Bucky had started moving again. In your hand. You let him enjoy the moment for a while. You allowed him to bury his moans in your mouth. With your other hand, you gradually pushed his boxers down until they were bundled somewhere near his knees.

It was your turn now to get revenge.

Just as he was reveling in the moment - eyes closed, lips parted - you removed your hand. Just like that!

Bucky’s eyes snapped open.

“Doll,” the warning that was once cloaked, was now clearly evident, “don't!”

Oh, how you loved that! You were playing a dangerous game, and you loved every bit of it!

“Don't what?”

“I'm not going to beg,” he repeated your lines but they sounded so much more sinful when coming out of his mouth.

“Beg for what, love?” Though your words feigned innocence, your thumb swiped wickedly over his head, making him crazy with that only touch you offered.

A beat. Or two.

Bucky’s stare never faltered.

“For you to fuck me,” he said in that low baritone that meant only one thing: the game's over.

Or shall we say, just begun?

Had Bucky not been between your legs, you'd have rubbed your thighs tight.

Before you could come up with a smart quip, he sat up on his knees. The heavens would have blushed furiously and closed their eyes in shame at the sight before you. But you were ready to go to hell if this was how your days started. Or ended, for that matter.

Bucky, in all his naked glory, sat on his knees, between your spread thighs, with his chin slightly up. The white comforter was pushed behind his waist, giving him the aura of a fallen angel. His hair was messed up; lust-blown eyes narrowed at you like that of a hunter assessing his prey right before he makes his move. Plump lips glistened with the marks of your kisses. Your eyes moved down to his dog tags that shone faintly on his chest, and eventually ran down his perfect abs, pausing for a while at the delicious “V” that was bracketed by his hips, down to his thick thighs and the treasure that lay between them - now leaving no doubts about his intentions for you. His underwear was nowhere to be seen; you didn't realise when he had kicked it off.

Bucky waited for you to rake your eyes all over him. He was enjoying it. Every bit of you was screaming with lust for him, and he was sitting there, proud and waiting. Waiting to make his move when you least expected him to.

And he found his moment. Your hand instinctively made its way down south on your body to soothe the ache a bit. You had almost made it there, had almost touched yourself, when Bucky suddenly caught hold of your wrist.

“Tsk! Tsk! No doll, you're not allowed to do that. Not until I tell you to.”

A small whimper left the lips that you were busy biting - both at the loss of contact and at his command.

Strong hands grabbed your thighs from underneath and pulled you towards him. He leaned forward. The metal hand rolled your nipples between his fingers while the flesh hand rubbed his length between your slick folds.

“What happened, doll? Cat got your tongue?” He teased when all your quips were replaced with whimpers and moans.

“Fuck me, James!” You finally managed.

“Ooh! My first name! You must be desperate!”

At that moment, you wanted to punch that smirk off his face.

You could feel Bucky twitch in your folds; you knew he was as desperate as you were. He was just better at hiding it.

Gently taking hold of his right wrist, you pushed him slightly inside you. You knew he couldn't resist that, and the moan that spilled from him not only proved you right but God! It was pure sin!

Looking right into his hooded eyes, you commanded in a low voice, “I'm not asking you, sergeant. I'm ordering you!”

“Fuck!”

It was the only whisper that Bucky could utter before he slid inside you in one smooth motion. And when he bottomed out, his left hand found anchor on your breast, leaving you both moaning loudly.

The next thing you knew, Bucky was gripping your thighs with both hands, and pounding into you without any mercy. Not that you complained! Your body arched itself off the mattress as your mouth poured chants of his name into the air.

The patter of the rain outside was forgotten as the room filled with squelching sounds of skin slapping on skin, not to mention the music of ecstasy escaping you both.

At one point, Bucky lay down on you, framing you with his strong arms, kissing you with an urgency that was mixed with reverence. His mouth left its marks on the side of your neck, on your collarbone, on your chest…wherever it could. His dog tags left cool trails on your chest - the sudden invasion of cool metal on hot skin feeding your lust.

You wrapped your legs around him, allowing him to go deeper, to hit that perfect spot every time that made you see stars! His weight pinned you down on the bed in the most unholy way: his chest created friction on your nipples while down south, your clit enjoyed the same with every move of his hips.

Your hands tried to roam the landscape of his back but he pinned them on either side of your head, eventually locking his fingers with yours.

“My baby is too lazy in the morning to do anything, isn't she?” Bucky grunted between moans.

All you could manage was a small whimper.

“Can't even form an answer? So drunk on my cock? So lazy, huh?"

You loved it when he talked filthy. You absolutely did! Bucky was a caring man, careful and sweet with his actions and words. A mischief here and there? Yes! But talking dirty wasn't his thing. He was, after all, a gentleman from the 40’s.

But sometimes when things got heated, you got to see a side of him that never revealed itself otherwise. Raw and untamed. And you loved to be the one to unleash it!

“I'll take care of you, doll! Always! I love you, baby! Let me take care of you!”

His words were in rhythm with his movements which, you noticed, had begun getting sloppy. He was close. And so were you.

You bit on his shoulder lightly, earning a growl from him. He pushed in even harder in response, which made you scream.

And immediately, Bucky lifted his head from the crook of your shoulder and looked at you in utter concern. His movements had become much slower.

“Did I hurt you baby?” With one hand cradling your cheek, his eyes searched your face for any sign of discomfort.

“No! No, love,” you shook your head. “I'm fine. I'm more than fine!”

“You sure?”

The love this man had for you often overwhelmed you!

“Yes, Buck! You can never hurt me! Can only make me feel great!"

With a dazzling yet wicked smile that made you melt inside, he regained his pace, chasing that high that you both were almost close to grabbing.

A few more strong thrusts, a few more filthy words and a few more sloppy kisses…and you came with a guttural moan that echoed against the walls of the room. The way you clenched hard on him made it impossible for Bucky to hold it back any longer, and he painted your walls as he came right after.

You both rode through your highs slowly, with messy kisses and lazy dances of your tongues.

As your bodies tried to calm down, Bucky peppered small open-mouthed kisses on your shoulder, still lying on you, still buried deep inside you.

It was a minute or two…or was it five - neither of you knew, not that it mattered anyway - before Bucky finally pulled out of you, leaving behind an empty feeling and a whine of disappointment escaping your mouth.

He chuckled as he settled beside you.

“We'll need a warm shower,” he murmured as his lips ghosted your knuckles. “Maybe there…I can do something about that whine of yours.”

You were enjoying the mischief in his eyes.

“I'm feeling too lazy for a shower now,” you drawled. “And, it's raining!”

Though you'd never admit, you loved being pampered by him.

“How about this then?” He turned to lay on his stomach now while supporting himself on his elbows. “I prepare us a nice warm bath, and then breakfast, and then we can spend the entire day doing…nothing!”

“I would love that but I wouldn't want you to do everything alone. I'm coming with you. Let me prepare the bath-”

You were about to get up when Bucky gently pushed you back.

“Uh-uh! I'll do it all, doll. If you really feel bad about it, then…well, you can make it up to me in the bath…and again any time of the day…and…”

You laughed at his words! “Alright, Mr. Barnes, I get it. As you say!”

With a long and deep kiss, Bucky got up to prepare the bath, as he had promised, while you lay in bed planning all the ways you could make it up to him. All day…

***

Bucky Masterlist

[seraphont]

What is the difference between Drone Tessa and SpaceSuit Tessa… Personality wise.

Drone Tessa wakes up an amnesiac- flashes of memories remain, gaining them back as time goes on.

so her caring and sporadic nature that we saw at the manor isn’t altered too drastically. Until Tessa starts recovering more memory files (the horrors) she’s mostly herself- just tired and adjusting, shielded from the trauma (for now). She’s giddy to be alive and free- and pretty reckless about it.

On the flip side, Spacesuit Tessa remembers the fiasco we know as the gala event very well she especially remembers her friends turning into bloodthirsty killing machines, and the eldritch biomechanical horror massacring earth.

I imagine there’s not much room to be that same positive girl- bogged down with the guilt of knowing she was a catalyst for these events.

So you could say she’s definitely jaded, walls thrown up. On a mission to right some “wrongs”. perhaps leaning towards how Cyn depicted her, but a bit less cylly about it. Extremely cautious to robots and trusting others in general.

When she actually reconnects with the DD’s, maybe bit of that will crack and her old self will shine through.

[hy6erion]

can we get some nsfw with cult leader viktor? maybe we are one of his followers and want some more private healing 🤍🤪

sanctum — viktor x reader

synopsis: in the shadowed sanctuary of zaun, you seek out viktor—the revered, transformed leader of the glorious evolution—for a more private kind of healing. drawn to him by faith and burning need, you offer yourself fully

cw: fem! reader, explicit, power dynamics (leader x follower), mild restraint, oral (f receiving), unprotected penetrative sex

The first time you laid eyes on him, he looked like something half-alive, half-holy.

Viktor walked barefoot through the core hall of the commune with his head bowed and arms slightly raised, palms open. Sunlight slashed through the crumbling glass roof, catching the polished sheen of the exposed Hexcore grafts climbing up his spine like divine roots. The dark robes he wore were open at the chest, revealing the split of purple skin.

No one spoke in his presence. You didn’t dare. The room—once a gutted Zaunite observatory—was thick with silence and shimmer incense, warm on the tongue and tinged with sweat and hope.

He was everything they whispered: messiah, martyr, machine. Something new. Something holy.

And he had touched you once.

When you entered the circle that first night, trembling from detox and pain, he pressed his forehead to yours. His breath had been shallow, his skin cool and almost soft. “You do not need to be fixed” he whispered. “You only need to shed.”

You cried. He didn’t flinch.

Now you would do anything to be near him again. Anything.

⸻

You waited until the candles burned low. Until the others had fallen into their floor mats and silks. His inner sanctum was not guarded—he refused it. If they wish to see me, they will. And yet none dared.

Your bare feet were silent against the tiled floor. You padded past shrines of dismantled shimmer devices, old clocks and teeth and copper hearts, offerings laid like relics to the Evolution. Past the low chanting of a sleepless acolyte.

You reached the inner chamber.

The door was ajar.

He stood at the center of the room, bathed in pale blue light from the floating Hexcore, suspended like a heart above him. His robes were loose, his bare chest aglow in the dimness. Runes traced up his side like veins. He did not turn to face you. His voice came low.

“You should not be here this late.”

Your voice trembled “I need healing.”

“You have already been healed.”

“Not the kind you gave earlier.”

That made him pause.

You took a step forward, the silk wrap of your commune garment sliding off one shoulder. “Please, Viktor. I want… more.”

Finally, he turned. The look in his eyes—deep amber, backlit with cold fire—wasn’t surprise. It was understanding. Slow. Gentle. Hungered.

“You seek communion.”

You nodded, breath trembling. “Yes. Yours.”

He approached you soundlessly. You reached for him instinctively and he caught your wrist—not to stop you, but to guide you. His fingers curled around your pulse.

“So fast” he murmured, pressing the pad of his thumb over your wrist. “You are afraid.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.”

Your lips parted, but the words died when his hand moved—trailing down your arm, your waist, until his palm was splayed over your lower belly, heat radiating through the thin wrap you wore. His other hand came to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lips.

“I will give you what you seek. But you must surrender.”

“I already have.”

A beat of silence “Good girl.”

He undressed you like he was peeling away old skin.

The fabric slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, leaving you bare before him in the blue light. Viktor stepped closer, eyes dragging over your body with the kind of reverence that made your throat go tight.

He touched you like you were sacred.

One hand trailed up the curve of your thigh, slow and warm and deliberate, thumb brushing the crease where leg met hip. The other grazed over your chest, palm open, like he was blessing you. When his fingers finally closed over your breast, your knees almost gave out.

“So soft” he murmured, more to himself. “So warm. I forget.”

You whimpered when his thumb flicked your nipple—gently, then again, harder. He watched it stiffen with fascination, then leaned in. His mouth was hot and wet around it, tongue circling, suckling slowly until your back arched.

Viktor held you in place, arms around your waist, mouth sealed to your skin like he was drinking from you. And when he pulled away, your nipple wet and glistening in the glow, his voice was thick.

“You taste like longing.”

⸻

You were on the ground before you realized he’d lowered you there—his knees beside your thighs, his hand spreading them open, baring you to the cool air.

The breath left your lungs.

Viktor stared. Not with lust—at least not just that. There was awe in his face, hunger and disbelief.

You reached for him, wanting him to touch you there, to fill you. But he only caught your hands and held them to your sides, pinning you gently to the floor.

“Not yet.”

“But—”

“You asked for healing” he said, voice velvet-smooth. “And I will give it to you.”

Then he kissed down your stomach. Slowly. Carefully. His stubble scratched lightly against your skin, sending tingles over your ribs, your hips, your trembling thighs.

When his mouth finally reached the soft, wet heat between your legs, he groaned—genuine, low and needy.

You could only gasp when his tongue licked one slow, deep stripe up your slit. The sound was obscene—wet, greedy. Your thighs shook when he did it again, then again, slower each time, teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue before plunging back down.

Your hands flexed against his hold. He didn’t let go.

“You will come from my mouth” he said against you. “And then I will give you the rest”

Viktor’s tongue was relentless.

He licked you slowly, like he had all the time in the world—and maybe he did. His mouth was reverent, almost prayerful, sliding over your folds with deliberate worship. When his tongue found your clit, he sucked softly at first, just the barest kiss of pressure—

“Ah—!”

Your hips bucked, but he tightened his grip on your wrists, holding you down. The tips of his fingers trembled slightly, the only betrayal of how hard he was holding back.

“Stay” he said simply, and dragged his tongue in one long, curling motion over you again.

You felt everything.

The rasp of his breath when it ghosted over your soaked cunt. The slight tremor in his jaw as he shifted, burying his face deeper. The wet, sticky sounds of your arousal as his mouth worked you open.

It was sinful. It was salvation.

You moaned his name—soft at first, then again, louder, when he slipped the flat of his tongue over your clit and began to move it in slow, tight circles.

“Viktor—!”

He groaned into you, the vibration shooting through your core like a surge of voltage.

Your back arched. Your legs locked around his head. And still he held you down, your wrists pinned beside you in one trembling hand, while the other snuck between your thighs and slid a single finger inside you.

It was slow. So slow.

Thick. Deep. Curled just right.

You nearly sobbed.

,,So greedy. Is this what you wanted?” he murmured, lips brushing your folds.

You nodded frantically. “Yes—please, don’t stop—”

“You will come now” he said simply. “You will cry my name”

Your body shattered.

Your thighs clenched around his face. Your arms trembled. And your voice broke into a desperate, high cry as your orgasm ripped through you—wet and violent and holy.

He didn’t stop. He kept licking, working you through it with slow, luxurious pressure, as if your pleasure was his communion. He only pulled away once your thighs trembled with overstimulation, and even then—he kissed the inside of your thigh like a benediction.

“You are ready” he said softly.

⸻

You watched as he rose to his knees—taller now, almost imposing in the flickering blue light. His chest heaved. His eyes burned.

He untied his robe.

It fell open.

You gasped.

The grafts along his hips shimmered faintly, a delicate blend of gold and purple, trailing down to where his cock stood hard and flushed—a striking contrast, glinting, metallic veins running up his lower belly.

He was thick, long, almost painfully beautiful—tip glistening, heavy and twitching as he stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on your still-trembling cunt.

“Look what you’ve done to me” he said softly. “I am supposed to be above this.”

You reached for him—wordless, desperate.

He climbed over you, his body hot and shuddering with restraint and braced himself on one forearm as he lined up his cock with your entrance.

“I will not be gentle, he whispered.

He pushed in slowly, with one long, devastating stroke.

You whimpered—his cock was thick, stretching you open in ways you hadn’t felt in years. Your hands gripped his back, fingers digging into the scarred skin between cybernetic seams. Viktor moaned low in your ear, his hips stuttering as he sank deeper.

“You feel like heaven—”

Your walls fluttered around him, sucking him in.

“Viktor—!”

“Say it again.”

“Viktor—please—!”

The slap of skin-on-skin echoed in the quiet room as he began to fuck you—deep, rhythmic, unrelenting. Every thrust dragged a moan from your throat. Every movement sent shockwaves up your spine.

He fucked like a man possessed.

Like he needed it—needed you.

Your name spilled from his lips in a string of curses, half in English, half in Zaunite dialects, some too old to translate.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper.

Until he bottomed out—grinding his hips against yours with a groan that made your skin ignite.

“I’m going to come” you gasped.

He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again—pressing hard, circling fast—and your vision white’d out.

You came with a cry that tore from your chest, soaking his cock, your cunt clenching violently around him. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a raw groan, spilling into you with hips jerking, mouth open, eyes dazed.

He collapsed over you, panting.

You laid together in the silence, your bodies tangled in heat and wetness. Viktor’s hand brushed sweat-damp hair from your face. His lips found your temple, soft and reverent.

“You are no longer just a follower” he whispered.

You blinked, dazed. “What am I?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

“Mine.”

And you knew then—this was not just communion. This was ascension.

[dina-winchester]

Couldn’t Let You Go

Pairing: Dean x you // Established relationship

Warnings: Angst, pregnant reader, blood, loss of a child, hurt/comfort, bittersweet hope. Proceed on your own accord 🫶

The night had started quietly. Too quietly, in hindsight.

Dean had his hand on the curve of your stomach, murmuring something low and teasing about the name “Winchester” being a lot to live up to. You’d rolled your eyes, laughing, reminding him that his child wasn’t going to be born swinging a machete and downing whiskey—hopefully.

Then the pain started.

At first, it was just pressure—just Braxton Hicks, you’d told yourself, brushing it off. But then the color drained from your face and it doubled you over. Then warmth—too much warmth—between your legs.

Blood.

Dean’s world dropped out from under him the second he saw it.

He caught you before you hit the floor. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re alright. Just hold on.”

He drove like the Impala could outrun the inevitable. One hand on the wheel, one clutching yours. You were fading, slurring through breaths, trying to reassure him even as your voice thinned out like fog. You could see it in his face—the fear. He’d faced monsters, demons, literal death—but this? This was something he couldn’t shoot or bleed for. He was helpless. And he hated it.

By the time you got there, everything blurred.

Nurses rushed. Monitors beeped too fast. You were rushed into a room, Dean close behind until someone put a hand on his chest and said, “Sir, we need you to wait here.”

“No,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not leaving her—”

“She’s hemorrhaging. We need to move.”

It was chaos. Then silence.

And then… the doctor came back.

Dean stood in the hallway like a man waiting for a sentence he already knew would break him. His fists were clenched at his sides. His heart was in freefall.

The doctor didn’t sugarcoat it.

“There are complications. A placental abruption—massive. She’s losing blood too fast. The baby’s not stable either. We… we need to operate now. And Dean… you have to make a choice.”

Time stopped.

The words hit like bullets:

Her or the baby.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He felt like someone had ripped his chest open and started sawing away at what was left. You—the love of his life. The reason he’d even considered peace. And the baby—the impossible, terrifying, beautiful future you’d made together.

He didn’t cry. Not yet.

“I’m sorry, but there’s not enough time to save both.”

Dean stared at him. His ears rang. His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

He thought of the ultrasound. The way your eyes lit up when you first heard the heartbeat. The tiny shoes you’d found and placed on the dresser with a reverence he didn’t think he had in him.

But then he thought of you. Laughing in the kitchen. Falling asleep on his chest. Kissing him like he was the only thing keeping your world steady. You, who looked at him like he was worth saving.

He closed his eyes.

And made the only choice he could live with.

“Save her,” he whispered. “Save her.”

You came back to the world slowly.

You were alive. Barely.

But the baby… the one you’d only just started to imagine a life with… wasn’t.

Your fingers twitched against the sheet, searching. They didn’t have to search long—Dean’s hand was already there, rough and warm, gripping yours like a man clinging to a ledge.

The beeping of machines was the first thing. The sterile smell. The pressure in your lower abdomen. The weight of pain, dull but steady.

You blinked open your eyes, dry and heavy, and turned your head with effort. He was there. Right there. Sitting beside you, bent forward with his head lowered, holding your hand like he was afraid it might vanish if he let go.

“Dean?” you whispered, voice raw and thin.

His head shot up.

Relief flooded his features—immediate, visceral. He leaned in, brushing a hand through your hair.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart. You’re awake.” His voice cracked. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But he looked like hell.

Eyes red. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking ever so slightly. And beneath the surface—something dark. Something breaking.

You tried to sit up, but the pain made your breath catch.

“Easy,” he said quickly, rising to help. “You had surgery. There were complications. You—you lost a lot of blood.”

That word. Complications.

Your heartbeat picked up.

You looked down. Your hand instinctively moved to your belly—flat now. Bandaged.

Then you saw it in his eyes.

The grief. The guilt.

“Dean…” Your voice trembled. “Where’s our baby?”

He froze.

And that silence—that pause—told you more than words ever could.

“No,” you breathed. “No, no—please—”

Dean caught your hand in both of his, holding it like a lifeline. He brought it to his lips. His eyes were glassy.

“There was a rupture. You were bleeding out fast. They—they said they didn’t have time to save both. I—I had to make the call.”

Your chest twisted like someone was squeezing your heart in their fist.

“I didn’t want to choose,” he said, his voice breaking now, barely above a breath. “God, I didn’t want to. I prayed they’d save you both. I begged. But when they told me…” His voice cracked, and his free hand curled into a fist in his lap. “I couldn’t lose you. I just—couldn’t. I chose you.”

You stared at him. Eyes swimming. Body numb.

It hurt. God, it hurt. But not because he chose wrong—because there was never a right choice to make.

He waited. Silent. Ashamed. You saw the war inside him all over again—the guilt, the grief, the agony.

A long silence fell.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You blinked slowly, tears sliding down your temples. “Don’t be.”

His eyes darted to yours, confused.

Dean blinked. “What?”

You squeezed his hand. Weak, but firm.

“You chose me. And I would’ve chosen you.”

Fresh tears filled his eyes.

“I could never leave you behind in this world,” you said. “And if you’d let me go—I don’t think I could forgive you. Even from the other side.”

A broken laugh burst from his throat—half joy, half grief.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I know,” you said. “I’m still here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours, breathing hard like he was trying to hold the weight of the world together in his lungs.

He kissed your forehead, slow and reverent, as if trying to press your soul back into your skin.

And for the first time since the nightmare began, he let himself believe there might still be something left to hold on to.

[moonmaiden1996]

Love at First Sight (According to Nagumo, Anyway) Part 12

Waking up in your apartment felt surreal. The bright light of a summer morning spilled into the master bedroom, warm and quiet. For the first minute or so, you mewled softly—no alarm, no irritating traffic, no yelling from the street. Just a soft bed and...                     

You shot upright

Nagumo.

The covers tangled around your legs as you scrambled out of bed, eyes scanning the room. Empty. You moved through the flat, each room just as quiet. No sign of him—only the usual clutter: mugs on the counter, half-read books, mismatched pillows, and the loud, obnoxious furniture you'd convinced yourself was "quirky."

He wasn’t there.

He was gone.

Or—not gone. Just not here yet. He always popped up eventually: crawling out from behind the couch or dropping from the roof like some smug, gravity-defying lunatic.

It sat plugged into the charger on the kitchen counter—odd. Not where you usually left it. That sent a small flutter of warning down your spine. You approached it slowly, as though it might bite. The screen lit up at your touch, and you slid your finger down the side sensor to unlock it. The glow of the lock screen stung your eyes.

The time. The date. You blinked.

Your sense of time had stretched thin, days bleeding into nights in a tangled loop of Nagumo-related absurdity. You scrolled through your notifications in a daze: new contracts congratulating you on the promotion you’d half-forgotten, performance reports that looked surprisingly good, and a few messages from friends asking if you were “still alive” or “still employed.”

Everything seemed normal.Suspiciously normal.

Sighing, you brewed yourself a far-too-strong coffee. The machine sputtered and hissed as it normally did, and you took comfort in the ritual. Mug after mug, you sat in the kitchen, staring at the empty hallway, and waited. And waited. And waited.

With every tick of the clock, an unfamiliar feeling crept in—relief.

By the third cup, it hit you. He wasn’t here. And somehow, impossibly, that was fine.

You sat still, fingers around a half-empty mug, listening to the hum of your own breath. The air was still. The day was bright.

Xxxx

Thankfully, it was the weekend—which meant you had time to get your head around your current predicament.

You were a boss now. Not by choice, you’d watched your former boss get slaughtered in front of you—along with an entire gang of Yakuza. The memory made your stomach twist. You paled, squeezing your eyes shut in a feeble attempt to block it out. Not that any of them were innocent. Especially your boss. The fact that he even knew those kinds of thugs, let alone had the audacity to send them after you… well, that said enough. Even if it was technically Nagumo’s fault for threatening him first.

Still, with your old boss dead, at least you didn’t have to suffer through his terrible orders anymore. No more staying late. No more silently enduring his mood swings. Small blessings, you supposed.

As for the absence of a certain black-haired assassin? It didn’t mean he was truly gone. You’d be more surprised if he gave up that easily. But, judging from the chaos his friends caused yesterday, maybe Nagumo had decided it was hopeless.

Maybe after seeing you so upset, he took the hint.

For once… everything was quiet.

Rather than test fate, you stayed in—holed up in your flat, curtains drawn, door double-locked. You only ventured out the next day to run some long-neglected errands. Just in case, you avoided the block with Sakamoto’s convenience store. Still, even though you rushed through the aisles, cutting corners and half-jogging between shelves, nothing happened. No smug assassins lurking by the frozen foods. No overly friendly shopkeepers with strange smiles. No glitter-obsessed assistants popping out from behind displays.

xxxx

On Monday, you waited.

On Tuesday, you still waited.

On Wednesday, you thought you saw a black-haired assassin tearing through the canteen and bolting up the fire escape. You had run after him, only to corner a very flustered mailroom intern mid-cigarette break, who looked about two seconds away from crying.

On Thursday, you seriously considered counselling. Every black-haired guy who walked past made you jolt upright in your chair. Every guy in an ill fitted suit pants sent you into a spiral of jitters. It was starting to get embarrassing. Everyone had noticed that one or two of them had even dyed their hair black in the hope of catching your attention— which was beyond embarrassing.

By Friday, you were just about ready to lose your damn mind. You didn’t know whether you were traumatized or having a very quiet, very dull breakdown—but you’d come to an alarming realization.

You were sick.

Not cold-flu-headache sick. Emotionally compromised sick.

Because while you were definitely relieved Nagumo was gone, you also… fucking missed him. Like, deeply, unsettlingly missed him.

No one had ever really asked you on a proper date before. People hung out. Sometimes. But no one demanded a date. Not unless they were a complete arsehole. Which, of course, Nagumo absolutely was. But he’d been there. Every day. Always at the store, loitering until you talked to him. Sending you ridiculous gifts you didn’t even want—but still couldn’t bring yourself to throw away. And more importantly of all he had killed for you. Granted that was sort of his job and you weren't really sure if it counted but he had. He had protected you.  You were sick, or insane, or both—but at least sane enough to know: this wasn’t normal.

And not knowing where Nagumo was? That gave you anxiety. Real, teeth-grinding, floor-pacing, coffee-chugging anxiety. You need to figure out what the hell was wrong with you 

Which is exactly why, at 6:42 p.m. on Friday, you stormed into Sakamoto’s shop. You shoved the door open with enough force to make the bell jangle violently, stomped up to the counter, and slammed your palms down with a thud.

“Where the hell is he?” you snapped.

Sakamoto blinked, boba straw paused halfway to his mouth, eyes steady on you—not out of fear, not even surprise, but in genuine confusion. 

“If he doesn’t bring his raggedy, tacky shirt wearing arse out here right now, I will—I don’t even know what I’ll do, but I will do something!”

Sakamoto opened his mouth to reply, but his eyes flicked past you. You felt it before you saw it: the shift in the air, the faint echo of a car door slamming somewhere outside, the sound of heavy boots pounding against pavement. Your instincts prickled.

Then—

The front door burst open behind you, the bell above the frame yelping in protest as a cluster of scruffy-looking men in ill-fitting jackets stormed in. One of them jabbed a finger in your direction.

“There she is! It’s true. Told ya she was in cahoots with him and this little convenience store of weirdos. She’s linked to that assassin. Her boyfriend insulted us. We demand payback—”

“I don’t care!” you yelled, launching a tin of spam directly at his head. “I’m talking! Didn’t your mothers ever teach you not to interrupt?”

You barely turned. Your hand shot out to the counter and hurled the first thing it came into contact with, a rather hefty bell, then a bottle of water, then a mini torch. “Ow—stop throwing—what the hell—this isn’t—”

“Listen, crazy lady your boyfriend—” one of them began.

“He. Is. Not. My. Boyfriend!” you snarled, hurling can after can, various contents soaring into the air in a swirl of colours. One man ducked; another took a tin of sweetcorn straight to the cheek and crumpled.

“Will someone stop this crazy bitch?”

Sakamoto slurped his boba, unmoved. “She warned you,” he said mildly.

“I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m losing my mind,” you growled, grabbing a bag of gummy dumplings and lobbing it like a brick. “Now is not the time to call me a crazy bitch, because you do not want to see how crazy I can get.”

The man at the front—clearly the leader—wiped sauce off his sleeve and scowled. “Get her.”

The fight exploded.

Sakamoto leapt the counter with a lazy sort of grace, his boba still in hand as he twisted one man’s arm and flung him headfirst into a snack shelf. Glass shattered. The shop turned into a brawling chaos of limbs, food products, and flying cans

You kept throwing. Bottles. Boxes. A watermelon. Anything within reach.

One of the men lunged for you and missed. Another managed to grab your wrist, but you bit his shoulder so hard he screamed and ran. Just as you were about to hit someone with a novelty rice cooker that had been on discount at the front of the counter, a heavy hand seized your hair and yanked you back.

“Enough!” barked the leader, dragging you against him. You kicked and struggled as he hauled you upright. “You’re coming with us, crazy girlfriend or not. I am sure your boyfriend will come running—”

Big mistake.

Your eyes flicked to the counter—where a packing knife gleamed beside a box of instant noodles. In one quick motion, you twisted in his grip, grabbed the knife, and slammed your weight backward into him, driving him to the floor with a crash.

“Now look,” you said sweetly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you knelt on his chest, holding the blade right against his cheek. Your smile was disarming—almost charming—if not for the manic glint in your eyes.          

The man whimpered, wide-eyed. ‘’Please,” he gasped, turning to Sakamoto, “Get her off me!”

                                                              

“If you want to see how crazy I really am, let me tell you…” You leaned closer, knife pressing into skin. “I’ll cut off your dick and burn it while you watch, and that's before I get into the really horrible stuff.”

Sakamoto took a sip of his drink.“You started it.”

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

“What do you mean you don’t have his number? He’s your friend.”

“Doesn’t mean I like him,” Sakamoto shrugged, sweeping up the last remnants of the brawl . The packing knife had mysteriously reappeared clipped to his apron, and he’d shoved a giant bao bun and a can of your favourite iced coffee into your hands while muttering something about stabilising your blood sugar.

“Then how the hell am I supposed to find that little shit?”

Sakamoto’s gaze slid toward the pile of unconscious Yakuza currently decorating the floor. One was groaning into a crushed packet of instant noodles, another lay half-buried under an upturned shelf, and in the corner, one particularly twitchy, gagged man squirmed against his zip-ties.

“If he’s got any sense,” Sakamoto muttered, flicking a glance toward the mess, “he’ll be running the other way.”

“Sakamoto!”

The shop door slammed open with enough force to rattle the wind chimes, and in strode Nagumo, beige trench coat flying behind him. He was breathless, wild-eyed as his shoes squeaked against the linoleum as he skidded to a halt in front of the wreckage, blinking at the sight before him: splintered wood, canned goods strewn across the floor and several very unconscious men littering the shop floor.

He didn’t even get a word out before you pointed at him“You!” you shrieked, your voice echoing off the freezer doors.

“Wifey—are you okay? I was gonna come sooner but—”

“Don’t you wifey me!” you snarled. You didn’t even hesitate—just launched the empty iced coffee can with an expert eye, it cracked him squarely in the forehead with a satisfying clunk.

Nagumo stumbled back half a step, clutching his head, but still somehow grinning at you. “Ow... but also? Damn. Good aim— very sexy.”

You stormed toward him, brows drawn, fists clenched. “Where the hell have you been?”

Nagumo opened his mouth—probably to deflect with a joke—but paused, eyes drifting back to the chaos behind you, the shell of a broken rice cooker and half a dozen dented tins along with a rather sorry looking group of gangster spawned out on the floor. He raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a satified smirk. “Uh… did you do all this, love? You really threw a rice cooker at someone?”

You scoffed, “No. I got grabbed before I could. I had to threaten to cut his dick off instead. Something I am very tempted to do to you.”

“Oh, my perfect wife, I would be honoured.” he cooed, practically swooning as he leaned in—despite your furious glare—with hands half-lifted to hug you— if he thought he could get away with it without a swift slap.

You shoved him back with a palm to the chest.

“Touch me and I will finish what I started with that knife.”

He grinned, utterly unbothered. “God, you’re hot when you’re like this. I wish you threw that rice cooker at me.” he all but gushed, ignoring the pure murder in you eyes.

Sakamoto groaned in the background as he swept past the bodies with the same level of interest he gave rubbish on the floor “Take it outside this isn't a soap opera...and don’t bleed on the sidewalk, I just washed it..”

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

You stormed out of the shop, nearly taking the door off its hinges. The cool evening air hit your face but it did little to calm the rage boiling in your chest. How dare he just disappear like that. After everything. After the chaos and the dates and the weirdly heartfelt gifts and the way he hovered around you. How dare he make you miss him?

Footsteps padded after you. Soft ones. Sneaky ones. You didn’t even have to look to know.

“Wifey—hey, wait!” Nagumo called, jogging to catch up, his coat flapping behind him like he thought he was in a dramatic romance movie and not the action disaster that was your life. “I didn’t mean to worry you, I just thought—”

“You thought?” You rounded on him so fast he nearly collided with you. “You thought disappearing without a word after dragging me into a gang fight was a good idea? ”

He winced, hands raised in the air . “Well... when you say it like that—”

“I don’t like you!” you snapped, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I didn’t miss you! I didn’t spend the week checking over my shoulder because I was hoping you’d pop up like some creep in a trench coat!”

Nagumo blinked. Then grinned. It started slowly tugging at the corners of his mouth till it stretched and grew into a radiant smile that bloomed on his face “You missed me?”

You stared at him in horror. “That is not what I said.”

“You totally did.”

“I did not—”

“You just admitted it. You missed me.” he cooed.

“I swear to god, Nagumo, I will push you into traffic.”

He rocked on his heels, clearly delighted in the threat as if it was the highest form of affection.

You huffed and turned, stomping down the road, ready to march into the nearest oncoming bus just to get away from the sheer smugness of him. But before you could make it far, he caught up again, falling into step beside you, uncharacteristically soft.

“I, uh, I put my number in your phone,” he said casually, scratching the back of his neck. “In case you... ever wanted to see me again. After our little dinner date.”

You stopped walking.

“That wasn’t a date,” you muttered, arms crossed.

“Right, right. Not a date,” he agreed far too quickly. “Just dinner. With me. Sakamoto. Aoi. Shin. Lu.Totally normal not to date with the family. Especially after all the work Lu put into that meal. Glitter sprinkling is an art.”

You glared at him. “That was inedible.”

“You didn't come for the food you came for me…or you could come for me later if you're up for it. It would be my pleasure.’’

You groaned and kept walking, but he was still at your side, voice dropping into something lower, smoother. Something that made your spine go rigid.

“I figured you needed space. You’re stubborn like that. Strong. Smart. Mean as hell. I like that. Like really like that” He gave you a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “But just so you know... I never stopped watching over you. I kept my distance, yeah. But I always had an eye on you.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not comforting.”

“It should be,” he said simply. “Because I’d never leave you.”

You stopped walking again. This time it wasn’t out of irritation. It was the weight of his words, the quiet certainty in his voice that made your chest twist unpleasantly. The street around you was still, the low glow of the setting sun casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. A breeze rustled through the trees above, brushing hair across your face as you turned to look at him.

“I’m not a stray cat you get to adopt,” you said, voice quieter now. The words came out tight, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him.

“Nope,” he said, and he leaned in closer—too close, like he didn’t know what personal space meant. His eyes shone a little too brightly. “You’re mine. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Happy, too.”

You scowled and took a step back, heat flushing your face. “Then drop dead,” you spat, jaw tight.

“Can’t,” he replied with a small, maddening smile. “You’d be too sad.”

The audacity of him.

You turned to him slowly, your glare sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re insane.”

“Clinically.” He said a little too pleased with himself.

“You’re a stalker,” you snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest.

“Only for you. My one and only.” He reached out to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You narrowed your eyes, daring him. Testing him. “You’d kill someone if I asked.”

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. “Or if you cried.”

Your breath hitched.

The air between you stretched thin, electric. His eyes never left yours. There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm on his face—only absolute, terrifying sincerity and that might’ve been the most frightening part of all.

You stared.

God help you, this man was a murderous golden retriever. Tail always wagging, eyes always shining tongue, lolling, ears perked, delighted just to be near you and if anyone so much as looked at you wrong, he’d bare his teeth and tear their throat out with the same enthusiasm he’d fetch a stick—then drop it at your feet, tail thumping, waiting for a treat.

You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face as the weight of your situation finally hit you. “I need therapy,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

His grin widened instantly, like you’d just suggested a picnic. “Only if we go together. We could make it our weekly date. Speaking of dates, where shall we go this evening. I am staving.”

I have been stuck for the longest time on this. But I ended up really liking it.

Please let me know what you think?

@yomsy @noodle81937 @cjafjatkstke

[revelboo]

could we please get another one with Cosmos? I’m excited to see another waspinator-like story where the mech’s forced to live in the tiny house with their human <3

🤣 he’s a cutie

In Space Pt 3

Cosmos x Reader

• Hear him groan as he pauses, head down and big hands splayed on the ground as he vents raggedly. And just shrinks to scare you, shuddering as his visor dims and his arms tremble like he’s about to go down. “Almost there,” you coax, laying a hand on him and realizing he’s a lot closer to your height now, but still much bigger. “You can’t give up now.” Able to wrap your arms around his arm, you pull and he makes a pained noise, but makes himself keep going.

• Why won’t you just give up on him? You don’t owe him anything and don’t know him. How can you just trust him implicitly? “Why are you helping me?” He groans, feeling energon slicking his side. Needing to rest. Heal. And you frown up at him, expression clearly saying how stupid a question you think that is. Pulling at his arm like you think you can move him instead of being sensible and running as far from him as you can get before that Decepticon comes back to finish him off. Knows he should be running you off, but he’s scared. Doesn’t want to offline out here alone.

• “Because you need help,” you say, eyeing him as the house comes into view through the trees. “Almost there.” Since he’s smaller now, you can get him into the garage and hide him. He’s leaking something, venting raggedly and the sooner you can get him out of sight, the sooner you can try to see about stopping the leak. You’re almost positive he’s alive not just an uncannily human machine, but he’s still mechanical. So you can hopefully tape up the leaks? Maybe? You doubt you can make them worse.

• Trembling as limps up to the structure, mass shifting in an attempt to hide had sent him into the redline, consuming energy he didn’t have. He collapses onto his knees when you go to open the garage door, drifting in and out of awareness as you lean over him and try to bully him into getting inside. Helm pressed against your driveway to try and gather himself, his paint scrapes as he drags himself inside and drops again. He’s going to offline or at the very least into stasis. Can’t move as his optics unfocus, bleeding out energon and dimly aware of you talking to him, the words seeming like they’re coming from a distance. Can’t fight it as his systems shut down to force him to heal, throwing him into stasis.

• His visor is dim as you fetch a roll of electrical tape. And he’s unresponsive now, venting on a low rasping sound as you bend and start finding the leaks, taping the lines and having no idea if it’s enough. If you’re enough to save him, but you need to try. Can’t just leave him to bleed out glowing stuff. “You’re going to be okay,” you whisper, touching his helm and feeling the warmth of him as you check for any other leaks to tape off. Trying to hold him together with hope and tape, and aware of how useless you are to him. That he needed help and got you.

Previous

[trinity15]

INTO THE SPIDERVERSE

Spiderman! Andrea Kimi Antonelli x fem! reader word cound: 4k summary: Because of a machine invented by a scientist Kimi is sent to another universe that forces him to relive his greatest trauma and…drive fast? Italian! Reader (Not really but she lives in Bologna). Same title as the movie but is not the same story, is just that i dont have any imagination for titles. I've made some changes in the F1 calendar for the story to make sense. I'm sorry if something doesn't make sense, i was too lazy so i wrote it in my native language and later translate it with the translator (I checked it a couple of times to see if something did not make sense but still).

masterlist

25th of August, 2024. Bologna.

No.

No.

No, no, no, no.

Today should have been one of the best days of his life. Y/n had planned everything to make Kimi's birthday memorable, but a turn of events would make it horribly memorable. So much so, that just remembering the date would make his heart compress with grief and sadness.

The explosion had dragged him several meters away from where he was before, face to face with the green goblin, and had knocked him unconscious. Kimi raised his head and opened his eyes, dazed, lost, confused. He couldn't see well, he couldn't hear well either. The abandoned factory where he had been fighting with the green goblin, whose identity he did not yet know, had been reduced to ruins. And worst of all? There was no trace of him anymore, he was alone, he had lost him. Surely he had felt that the explosion had finished him off and he had left in triumph.

When Kimi was finally able to stand upright without needing to lean somewhere, he remembered Y/n.

Oh, shit.

She was with him. He had told her to stay away, to go home, but his girlfriend was stubborn and he knew it. She followed them to the factory and Kimi now didn't know where she was.

Kimi looked around, his hear rate was increasin fast. “Y/n!” He tried to scream her name, he was just looking for an answer, he didn't care if it was an incoherent scream, his name back or anything, he just needed to know she was okay. “Y/N!? Fuck, where are you?” no answer, no noise, he only heard the echo of his own screams.

He was weak, his whole body ached, but the desperation to find her allowed him to move. He would not allow himself to give in to the pain until he knew where Y/n was. A few more steps allowed Kimi to see a body on the ground. He didn't need to see her face, nor distinguish the color of her clothes to know who she was.

“Y/N!” Kimi started running in the direction of his girlfriend's lifeless body. Once he arrived it took him time to assimilate the situation. He dropped his body on his knees in front of her, took off his mask and lifted her face with his hands. With extreme care he wiped the dust of the explosion from her skin.

"No... Don't do this to me, don't go. Y/n, please..." It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. “I’m okey, see? I’m alive, Y/n I’m…“ Tears wouldn't stop flowing from his eyes. She was dead because of him. He had condemned her to love him and that had led her to die for him. This day should have been a dream, but it had turned into a nightmare, a nightmare he would never forget.

Thursday, August 21, 2025. Bologna.

“Thank you very much Mr. Wolff for giving me the opportunity to work with you” Kimi shook Dr. Toto Wolff's hand enthusiastically. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, to work at Woscorp even if it was only for four months, until the end of the year.

Y/n's aunt worked there as a scientist and had offered Kimi the chance to have a job with the company, even if it was a small one. For an 18 year old teenager with a bright future ahead of him this opportunity meant a great deal personally.

He was extremely glad that Y/n's family did not blame him for her death. On the day of the explosion the firemen arrived and the first to enter the building was Y/n's father. He saw Kimi kneeling on the floor, crying, hugging his daughter's body and wearing the Spiderman suit. Kimi just said sorry and left, not looking him in the face and praying that his girlfriend's father wouldn't say anything about his identity.

"We are more than delighted to have you here Kimi. Remember to come tomorrow at the same time so I can show you around the facility" Kimi just smiled, nodded several times and left after saying goodbye.

Once he was far enough from the company he called his best friend, Oliver Bearman. He was British but came to Italy to study two years ago and he and Kimi had become really close.

“Man, I'm in, I'm going to work at Woscorp.” Ollie could sense Kimi's excitement in his voice.

“That's great!, but remember we're meeting to celebrate your birthday today.” Ollie would be heading back to London with his family the next day to spend the last two weeks of summer they had left, so he wasn't going to be able to be there for Kimi's birthday.

Later that day Ollie was waiting for Kimi sitting on a bench at their usual meeting point. Kimi, as usual, was late.

Half an hour later Kimi arrived, his hair wet and trying to catch his breath. “Wow, only half an hour late, record time” Ollie said in a sarcastic tone.

“Ha, ha. you know-” before Kimi could finish the sentence Ollie stepped forward and completed it for him, “spiderman duties. I know, I was kidding.”

The plan Ollie had prepared was simple: go to the movies and then go to his house to talk and spend some time together doing nothing.

After going to see the movie Kimi and Ollie arrived at Ollie's house. The good thing about his best friend's house was that it was always empty, because he lived alone, and they could talk freely about the other part of his life, the extraordinary part, Spiderman.

His life hadn't been the same since the spider bit him. The day Ollie found out that Kimi was Spiderman wasn't so chaotic, but when Y/n found out it was horrible.

Ollie just stood there quietly, saying nothing, in shock. Then he started asking him a thousand questions: Did the bite hurt? How did you realize you had powers? What was the coolest villain you've ever faced?

On the other hand, Y/n realized it on her own, after noticing several strange behaviors from her boyfriend. She never told him, she didn't want to accept it. That's exactly why Y/n was ignoring Kimi for several days and he didn't understand why. Y/n didn't agree with Kimi risking his life in that way and after a very strong fight between the two Kimi made her a promise: to always come back to her to show her that he was okay.

Kimi sat on Ollie's bed as if it was his own home. He dropped his body on the mattress and let out a sigh. “It's going to be a year” Kimi's voice had taken on a sadder tone.

Ollie already knew what his friend was referring to, and hated to see him suffering and blaming himself on his own birthday. “The worst part of it all is that the green goblin is still out there and I don't know who he is.”

“Well, he hasn't reappeared since that day either” Ollie was right. The green goblin hadn't reappeared since Y/n died and it was something that made Kimi uneasy, always kept him on his toes. If he showed up again Spiderman would be ready to finally defeat him and not cause another misfortune.

“Anyway, tell me how it was at Woscorp, do you have to come back tomorrow?” Ollie changed the subject in an attempt to lighten the mood. Kimi looked up at him and smiled, it was a small, weak smile but visible enough for Ollie to see that Kimi was thanking him for talking about something else.

He was grateful to have Ollie as a friend, they understood each other and complemented each other. Kimi couldn't be himself without Ollie, and he couldn't be Spiderman without him either.

Friday, August 22, 2025. Bologna.

Kimi arrived 15 minutes early at Worscop. He didn't want to be late and make a bad impression, plus he was excited to see the facility where he would start working next month.

“Kimi! what a surprise to see you so early.” Kimi turned around, surprised. Behind him was Toto Wolf with his typical smile. “I guess you're ready to start the tour” Kimi only nodded and followed him inside the building.

The company was huge and Kimi admired every detail like a little boy. The laboratories had the latest technologies and the company's inventions and new products looked promising. The building also had common places ideal for resting, these had a warmer and cozier design.

“I always like to save the best for last” Toto glanced sideways at Kimi who was gawking at some scientists discussing about a project while others were doing an experiment he had never seen in his life.

The two stopped at a metal door. Next to it was a glass window to see inside the room and a table with controls. “This is to my credit, I invented and built it, and it's finally finished.” Toto turned to look at Kimi. “Would you like to look inside and see what it does?” Kimi, without a second thought, nodded excitedly and entered the room. Toto stood outside at the controls.

The room was small and dark. All the walls, floor and ceiling were covered with what looked like identical machines, symmetrically placed. Wires were also visible and ran from the ceiling to the center of the floor. Kimi was fascinated and the curiosity he felt to see it all working was huge.

“Cool right?” Kimi heard Toto's voice through the speakers. He looked at Toto in the eyes and nodded, signaling that he could turn on the machine(s), that he was ready to see the room work. Toto just smirked.

The room began to light up and warm up at the same time. Kimi looked around in wonder. “Good luck Spiderman” Toto's words made him lock his gaze on him in seconds but the shock of the moment didn't let him react. In a second Kimi felt his body fall into the void and started to see everything black, until he didn't feel anything anymore.

Friday, August 22, 2025. Bologna???

Kimi woke up in a small room. He sat up and looked around. White walls, a mirror and a bedside table with a bottle of water and his cell phone. A closet, with very few clothes, and a bed where he was sitting right now. He got up and approached the closet. There were only T-shirts with the Mercedes logo and many other sponsor’s logos. There were also two pairs of weird sneakers that he clearly wasn't going to wear to go outside to walk, but then what were they used for?

Kimi thought about his Spiderman suit, was he still wearing it? he separed his shirt a little from his body to see if he still had his suit on underneath. When he saw the red fabric he let out a sigh of relief.

Where was he at? Where had that machine teleported him to? How did Toto know he was Spiderman?

Kimi grabbed his cell phone and looked at the notifications. Missed calls and unread messages from his mother, from his father, from���, from Y/n. Y/n? It wasn't possible, she was dead. In four days it would be a year since her death. He himself embraced the lifeless body of his girlfriend.

Quickly Kimi unlocked his phone and called Y/n, he needed to hear her voice, to make sure it was real and not a bad joke.

On the third ring Y/n answered. "Kimi! You hadn't answered my calls and I was about to call you." Her voice was the same, she was alive, she was talking to him right now.

“Y/n?” his voice came out weak and nervous, he couldn't believe it.

“Yes. Are you okay Kimi? is something wrong? you sound strange” Y/n replied worriedly. Kimi not to alarm her only decided to continue the conversation. "Yes, yes… why did you call me?"

"I just wanted to tell you that tomorrow I won't go to the paddock because I have to attend the university, but I will try to finish the work I have pending so I can go on Saturday to the Qualy and on Sunday to the race." Paddock? race and qualy? Y/n was talking about Formula 1?

"Yeah, okay, no problem. I'll call you later, okay Y/n?" Kimi hung up the call and put the cell phone back on the nightstand. He looked at himself in the mirror, trying to figure out what was going on. He changed his clothes and put on his Mercedes T-shirt. If he was going to be there, whether for a short or long time, then he would have to act like he belonged there.

As he left the room and walked down the stairs he followed some people into what looked like a garage.“Ah Kimi! I thought you had fallen asleep, I was going to go wake you up now, in half an hour you have to go out on track.” Now kimi was even more confused. The gentleman who was talking to him looked like he knew him. He looked around. A formula one car, lots of screens and the typical headphones they use to listen to the radio.

Kimi was a big fan of formula one but he had never expected to be in that situation, as if in this universe he worked in it. Because he had assumed that, that he was in another universe, otherwise how would he explain that Y/n was alive then?

Thirty minutes later Kimi was inside the car with a special suit on and a helmet covering his entire head. As expected, he had set the worst time among the 20 drivers. If in his universe he had only driven his father's car, to practice for his driver's license, and had played the formula one video game on the playstation, how was he going to know how to drive a formula one out of nowhere? At least he didn't crash into any walls.

Kimi got out of the car as best as he could and took off his helmet. “Sorry guys, I'm having a bad day” The engineers understood Kimi but they were concerned. They needed the points and they needed both drivers to score and Kimi didn't look like he was even going to finish the race.

The Mercedes staff said goodbye to Kimi, encouraging him. They told him that tomorrow's free practice 3 and qualifying would probably go better for him, Kimi doubted it but he wasn't going to tell them anything either.

When he got back to the room, which he now understood to be his driver's room, he plopped down on the mattress. He picked up his cell phone and just then a Twitter notification popped up with the news that a building was on fire and that firefighters were trying to save as many people as possible.

Kimi jumped up and ran out of the paddock. In a corner he took off his clothes leaving only his spiderman suit and went in the direction of the burning building.

When he arrived at the building he saw people shouting from the balconies and firefighters helping, but they were too slow. A policeman who was otside the building approached Kimi “Hey kid, I don't know what game you're playing, but this is no time to come dressed up and get in the way.” That's when Kimi understood that in that universe they didn't have Spiderman either, everything was so different there.

Instead of leaving Kimi climbed up the building and pulled as many people out as posible, even faster than the firemen. An old woman approached him and asked him to go inside her house to look for her cat. Kimi did, he went inside the house. He risked his life to save a cat, because that's what Spiderman does. The apartment was full of smoke but there were not so many flames. Kimi saw the cat in a corner and picked it up. It was at that moment that he noticed a bomb placed on another corner, it looked like it was intentionally placed there. It was also the exact same bomb that had killed Y/n in his universe. There was no Spiderman here, but the fucking green goblin was, and it was going to be his turn to finish him off once and for all.

He got out with the cat before the bomb exploded and returned it to the lady. Seconds later the bomb exploded and that whole part of the building was destroyed. Kimi looked to the side and saw a figure flying away. “Son of a bitch” Kimi went running towards the goblin, waddling in his webs. Spiderman and the green goblin came face to face again on the roof of another building.

“What a surprise Spiderman” The green goblin was trying to unnerve Kimi. On the other hand Kimi's anger was growing. This was his chance, he just had to finish him off right there.

The two started to fight each other, a melee battle. Kimi ended up immobilized by the goblin, his body was full of wounds and blows. “You are weak against me, Spiderman” and with those words the goblin flew away, leaving Kimi there, desperate and angry. Again, another fucking time he had defeated him and he had taken off.

He didn't know why he was doing this, maybe out of habit after the promise he made her in his universe, or maybe to feel better after what had just happened. He leaned against the window and tapped on it. The window opened without warning and Kimi fell into the room. He let out a sound of pain and looked up. Y/n was shocked, confused, she didn't know what was going on. Who was the lunatic in spiderman costume that had fallen inside her room?

“I'm fine” Kimi's voice was weak, he was tired after the fight. Y/n helped him up, sat him on her bed and left the room. Then she came back with a first aid kit to heal his wounds.

Y/n sat in front of Kimi. “Who are you?” Kimi didn't want to tell her, he didn't want to make the same mistake as in his universe. Telling her that he was spiderman would lead to her death. He didn't want that, not again.

“It doesn't matter” Kimi downplayed it and looked down. Y/n only frowned.

“It does matter” she snapped back at him. “I'd like to know who's in my room right now, I don't feel like having a crazy person in front of me, because at the moment you meet all the requirements for being a crazy person.” Kimi sighed and lifted his head slightly, giving Y/n access to remove his mask. Y/n carefully removed it until it reached his nose. She didn't remove it all the way and left it there. She didn't need any more, she already knew who he was. She opened the first aid kit and began to clean his wounds. “You're crazy” she whispered, Kimi only let out a little laugh.

It didn't seem real to him. He had Y/n in front of him, after so long they were together again. Y/n's reaction this time to his identity had been much calmer than in the other universe. She hadn't seen his full face yet but she already knew who he was and was calmly cleaning his wounds. “Only you could come up with the idea of dressing up as a character from a comic book and sneaking into a burning building to save people” Kimi only let out whimpers from the stinging he felt as Y/n cleaned his wounds. He had already realized that there was no Spiderman in that universe, but he didn't expect him to be a fictional character. No wonder people had treated him like a crazy person when he appeared in the burning building.

Once Y/n finished cleaning his wounds she put everything away in the first aid kit and left it on the floor. She stood there, looking at him, and cradled his face with her hands. “But you're my favorite crazy person” Y/n whispered those words against Kimi's lips and the only thing he could do was smile. Their lips connected and Kimi felt like the happiest man in the world. How he had longed to kiss her again, to touch her again. He had missed her so much. They broke apart for a second, Y/n pulled his mask off completely and kissed him again. They were kissing as if it was the last time they where going to kiss each other, and deep inside kimi he knew that that might be the case.

Monday, August 25, 2025. Bologna but in the universe where he is a F1 driver.

His weekend as a Formula 1 driver had not been successful. He was last in qualifying and failed to finish the race. Luckily Y/n was there to support him.

The green goblin had not reappeared. He also discovered that his boss in this universe was Toto Wolff. The person who had brought him to this universe, who knew he was spiderman, is also here, in this universe. Kimi suspected that he was the green goblin, but had no proof to confirm it.

Today was his birthday and Y/n had insisted on making a special plan. They were walking down a street with very few people, on the suburbs of the city so Kimi could have privacy. Celebrity life was stressful for him and he was still not used to it. Suddenly Kimi stopped in his tracks and Y/n who was holding his hand looked at him with a confused expression. “Are you okay?” Y/n asked, but Kimi just looked around, until he saw smoke coming out of a factory. “Y/n go home.” It was an order, and if Y/n didn't obey it he would take her home himself, he would not put her in danger again.

“I'm not going home, I'm going to stay with you.” Y/n had already decided, she would not leave Kimi alone. “Yes you're going to leave and we're not going to discuss it Y/n” she, instead of answering him, started running in the direction of the factory. Kimi followed behind. “Y/n please go home” Y/n turned around, looked into his eyes and replied. “Together or nothing” And that's when Kimi realized what day it was and the situation they were in.

No matter what universe they were in, it was always going to end the same. It was the same scenario as a year ago in his own universe and he knew that even if he tried to do anything to change the fate, it was going to be in vain and Y/n was going to end up dead. Because his girlfriend was stubborn and he knew it. Because the love Y/n felt for Kimi was just as strong as the love he felt for her, and if Kimi was willing to sacrifice himself for her Y/n was willing to sacrifice herself for him too, and that's what was going to happen.

I would appreciate it if you could leave a comment!! I want to know if you guys liked it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

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[dioslesbianwife]

can you do the Jojo x gender neutral reader who's always had bad luck,but is very optimistic about it. Like there whole life is just one big "Final Destination" movies*(The whole premise of the movie is that the literally death itself is trying to kill the characters in ridiculous convoluted ways)but they never died and only get minor injury . That be a very cool concept. (If you want a reference to this just look up Milo Murphy's Law)

ooh sure i love the final destination movies haha hope u enjoy and thank you for requesting <333

Jonathan Joestar

The first time Jonathan sees you narrowly dodge death (a chandelier falls two inches to your left), he screams.

The second time (you trip into a sword display and only get a scratch), he faints.

You’re always like, “Well! Could’ve been worse!” with a sunny smile and a bleeding knee.

He starts shadowing you. Holding umbrellas over you. Moving sharp things. He’s like a bodyguard for a cartoon character.

“You must have the luck of angels,” he says, amazed.

“Nah, I think death just keeps missing,” you joke. He does not find that funny.

Honestly? You give Jonathan anxiety. But he also deeply admires your bravery and optimism.

“How are you still smiling?” he asks, genuinely.

“What else am I gonna do? Frown about my cursed fate?”

He falls in love right then and there.

Joseph Joestar

Thinks you’re joking at first. Until you’re nearly flattened by a falling billboard during lunch and just go, “Oopsies!”

“You attract danger like I attract women,” he says, watching you trip over a rake into traffic and somehow come out with only a scraped elbow.

You’re the only person he’s met with worse luck than him- and that thrills him.

You: “Anyway! At least I didn’t die!”

Joseph: “Marry me???”

He brags about your survival record constantly. “My partner’s been through 26 almost-fatal events and walked away with a limp. Top that.”

Buys you themed merch like a “Death Can’t Catch Me” t-shirt.

Tries to outrun death with you like a duo. He makes it a game.

Lowkey terrified, but loves how you make even horrible situations feel like adventures.

Jotaro Kujo

You dodge a car crash, get hit by the bumper, and just sit up like “Huh. That was weird.”

Jotaro stands there in dead silence, staring like you’re a cursed object.

“Yare yare daze. Are you immortal?”

You: “Nope. Just lucky! Or unlucky? One of those.”

He doesn't talk much about it, but he follows you everywhere.

Starts using Star Platinum to yank you out of danger before it happens.

The number of times he’s caught you mid-fall is insane. You don’t even realize it half the time.

You: “How come I always end up okay?”

Jotaro: internal screaming ‘Because I’m literally playing whack-a-mole with fate to keep you alive.’

He never says it aloud, but he thinks your optimism is the strongest thing about you.

Falls in love when you smile through a broken arm like, “Well, at least it’s not both arms!”

Josuke Higashikata

You show up to school with a bandaged leg, a burn mark, and paint in your hair like it’s totally normal.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU???”

You explain that a scaffolding fell, you stepped in a pothole, and then your oven exploded a little.

Josuke is in TEARS. He immediately tries to use Crazy Diamond to fix you.

You: “Oh, don’t worry! It’s not that bad! Last week I almost got eaten by a bear!”

Josuke: “HELLO??? MAJORLY WORRYING???”

He gets extremely overprotective. Everything becomes a threat.

The microwave? Dangerous. A butterfly near your eye? Death omen.

He loves how you’re always smiling through the chaos. You literally fall down a flight of stairs and go “Wheeeeeee- ow!”

He calls you “his little disaster magnet” (affectionate).

Starts a journal of all the ways you almost died. 

Giorno Giovanna

Giorno is convinced you’re cursed.

Not in a mean way- he just genuinely suspects some ancient, malicious power is following you around.

“You’re sure you haven’t pissed off a god?”

You: “Nope! I thanked the vending machine last week, does that count?”

He has to help patch you up constantly. Like on a daily basis.

But he’s fascinated. 

He sees you smile after almost getting electrocuted and goes, “You’re incredible.”

He starts plotting ways to outsmart death around you. Moves obstacles out of your path before you notice.

“You think I’m going to die?”

“No. I’d never allow it.”

“Aww”

Jolyne Cujoh

Jolyne watches you trip over nothing, fall off a third-story ledge, land in a bush, and pop up with a thumbs-up.

“You good???”

“Yup!”

She’s a mix of horrified and in awe. Like, death is actively trying to grab you by the ankles and you just keep cartooning your way out of it.

“You remind me of a final girl in a horror movie who just won’t die.”

You: “I am the final girl. But like, in every movie. And the sequels.”

You become her favorite person to hang out with. Life’s never boring around you.

Uses Stone Free to grab you whenever anything looks remotely dangerous. (You almost get pulled into a pasta machine once.)

At first, she teases you for being cursed. But over time, she gets really defensive if anyone else says it.

“You’re not cursed- you’re… built different.”

Johnny Joestar

You fall off a roof. Land on a trampoline. Bounce into a hay bale. Walk away with a nosebleed and a smile.

Johnny stares at you like: "That was three death traps in a row. Are you possessed?"

You: “Honestly maybe.”

He starts thinking you’re the Stand. Like you’re just manifesting ridiculous survivals by sheer will.

You’re the only person whose luck is so bad it outdoes his, and he respects that.

At first he’s frustrated- “WHY is everything trying to kill you?!”- but over time, he softens.

You never whine. Never cry. You just keep walking.

That hits something deep in him.

“You’re strong,” he says once. “Even when you shouldn’t be.”

You: “You too.”

Josuke Higashikata (Gappy)

He watches a construction crane fall right next to you. You come out with paint on your shoe.

Gappy: “WHY do these things keep happening to you??”

You: “I dunno! But check it out, I found a cool rock!”

You find strange joy in near-death. He finds that terrifyingly attractive.

He worries every time you leave the house.

“Message me when you get there. And if the building hasn’t collapsed.”

Soft & Wet starts following you around like a mom duck. It steals hazards out of your environment.

You appreciate the help but keep going, “I’ll be fine!” with your arm in a sling.

Josuke starts to believe you're invincible. Still freaks out every time.

When you survive getting hit by a fridge dropped from a blimp, he just proposes on the spot. (Kidding. Maybe.)

Jodio Joestar

He witnesses you get electrocuted by a power line while tripping over a cat. You get up like, “That was zappy! Anyway- ”

He immediately thinks you’re some kind of Stand magnet or government experiment.

“You need to STOP going outside. Just stay indoors. In a bubble.”

You: “But I like the sun!”

He watches you walk through a literal chain reaction of chaos and come out of it with a stubbed toe and a coupon.

You’re so chill about it. So breezy.

“How are you still ALIVE?!”

“Vibes.”

He’s both deeply scared for you and a little bit in love with your unbothered energy.

Starts to look at death itself like “you want them, you gotta go through ME.”

[ross-hollander]

The inexperienced...

...'mech pilots, what they say is, you train hard enough, you can do anything. Enough hours in the simu-games or out in the field on training battles, they'll tell you, and you can simply be good enough that becoming a casualty will be something that happens to other people. They just need to know every situation, train for every crisis, memorize every potential battle plan.

The hardened pilots know better. They know how brittle the best-laid plans can be. They've seen a squadron of war machines turn into smoking wrecks in a moment with an unexpected barrage or a commando squad detonating a thicket of charges. They'll tell you that skill gives you, at best, a one percent chance, when the chips are truly down, of getting out alive.

The veterans, though, they know even better. They might have even witnessed it, what a pilot who is simply that good looks like. They can tell you what it's like to watch a mountain of metal turn on a dime, shoot down an incoming artillery barrage shell by shell like it's skeet-shooting, and then blitz an enemy 'mech squad without more than a scratch in the armor. There is such a thing as a true ace, and when they're on the battlefield, all you can do is hope that it's your side they're fighting for.

[sodaguzzler]

GREASERS AND THEIR FAVORITE SNACKS !!!

Ponyboy Curtis 🥀

☆ Pepsi. Canon. No drink has ever owned a boy like Pepsi owns Pony.

☆ Little Debbie Mini Blueberry Muffins. He’s surviving on them.

☆ Peanut Butter Crackers <3

Darrel “Darry” Curtis ☕️

☆ Sunflower seeds. They keep his mouth busy while he’s stressed.

☆ Chocolate cake. A given.

☆ Also: plain black coffee and toast with way too much butter. He doesn’t have time to cook, okay.

Sodapop Curtis 🥤

☆ SUGAR ADDICT. Sour worms, bubble gum, pixy sticks, licorice….he’s got a sweet tooth that could end wars.

☆ Root beer floats are his idea of luxury. He slurps ‘em too fast and gets brain freeze.

☆ Also: he eats maraschino cherries straight from the jar.

Dallas Winston 🚬

☆ Cigarettes are a full food group to him.

☆ Burgers so greasy the wrapper is see-through. He licks his fingers after.

☆ Secretly? Vanilla milkshakes. Like, closes his eyes while drinking vanilla milkshakes.

☆ Also…beef jerky, diner hashbrowns, and gas station pickles.

Johnny Cade 🕯️

☆ Anything that feels alive. Tomatoes, peaches, strawberries, even dandelions if he’s feeling weird.

☆ Johnny picks stuff from peoples gardens and scurries off like a raccoon if caught. He wipes juice off his chin with his sleeve.

☆ Grilled cheese. Melty and warm and feels like a home he never had.

Two-Bit Mathews 🃏

☆ Alcohol. The staple of every meal. But man will also devour:

☆ Chocolate cake like a gremlin. He licks the icing off the fork.

☆ Gas station nachos, half-melted M&Ms from his pocket, marshmallows on fire.

☆He eats pickles out of the jar and drinks the juice with zero shame.

Steve Randle 🔧

☆ Chewing tobacco is food. Will fight you about it.

☆ Salted peanuts + Coke = sacred combo.

☆ Hot dogs from the DX vending machine.

☆Thinks spicy chips are a personality trait.

[hexsichord]

Post canon jayvik where after the rune implodes Viktor loses his human body and his soul instead finds a home in Jayce (stream of conscious ficlet/drabble that I may or may not flesh out more later into a proper fic)

Everything happened so quickly. The rune and anomaly collapsing in on itself, the idea of where he ended and Viktor started, the apprehension of the end before a peace settled into his bones and he feels a sense of wholeness Jayce hasn’t felt in a while. Overwhelming light followed up unending darkness. 

And then he wakes up. Takes a minute to find the strength to push himself up into a sitting position and take in….everything. He’d no idea what happened, where he is, what he is. Alive? Dead? In limbo? He looks around and recognises nothing. Goes to thumb over the rune stone and feels nothing.

They did it. They finished it. It’s all over. Piltover’s safe. Everyone’s safe. Viktor’s safe. Viktor. Where’s Viktor?

He rushed to his feet, stumbling, feeling like a newborn deer, not right in his body. Feels a pain shooting through his leg but doesn’t pay any attention to it. He’ll be fine once he’s found Viktor, he just needs to find Viktor. He calls out to him, desperately looking around for where he could be. They were together at the end he knows it so the other has to be around here somewhere. “Jayce?” He hears him but there’s no sense of direction to the sound. The voice is just there. “Jayce, you need to calm down.” Jayce can feel his panic spiking before there’s a flood of calm. It’s not his calm. He knows it’s not. There’s no way he could be calm in a moment like this. 

“Viktor? What’s going on?” Why can’t I find you he wants to say but he can’t say the words out loud. The calm doesn’t stop and he swears he feels the ghost of a touch on his wrist when the rune once sat, tracing over the iridescent scarring that’s been left behind.

“I think you can’t find me Jayce because I’m not here. Physically at least.” Oh maybe he had said that out loud. “You didn’t say it out loud Jayce.” What the fuck is going on?

“What the fuck indeed.”

Viktor’s body was indeed physically not there. 

“Perhaps since fusing with the hexcore my body was seen as an extension of the arcane and thus went with the rune and anomaly.” Viktor theorises. It makes sense Jayce thinks. The Herald was a symbol of dabbling in the machinations of the arcane. If everything attached to the rune no longer existed then neither would Viktor’s body. Viktor’s beautiful imperfect human body. Once again destroyed by Jayce’s selfishness. Jayce thinks this is it, that he’s finally slipped into the ever looming insanity.

“So I once again kill you and what, get haunted by your ghost till the end of time? Is that how this works?” His final punishment. That ghost of a touch is there again against his skin and he hates how it soothes him. How it feels like Viktor’s here with him but he’s not. “No no, I don’t think I’m a ghost. Not corporeal but not dead.”

“Great, fantastic, real helpful there V.” 

They decide to stress about whether Viktor is or isn’t a ghost later and work instead on getting Jayce somewhere safe. It’s a struggle and takes him far longer than either of them planned but he finally finds a cave to rest in. Viktor lists through the numerous issues Jayce has physically; leg, his left eye and ear, his left wrist. Each location tingles upon the mention, like Viktor is physically examining him and it makes Jayce want to scratch beneath his skin and grab at whatever essence of Viktor he can grab. Pull him out so he can hold him and smell him and have him here. Actually here. 

His leg brace is fine for now they decide, and he can make a temporary splint for his wrist for the time being. His sight and hearing is another issue.

“I have an idea, if you’ll let me?” There’s a nervousness in Viktor’s voice and a tremble that he feels down his spine that he can tell is a reaction from the other and all he can do is nod in agreement. He’s hit with a headrush and the side of face feels like it’s being cradled and then everything clears up. The world comes in sharper than before, louder than before and he’s overwhelmed. “Viktor what did you do?” He can feel his body trying to spiral into panic but the calm from before comes back and Jayce feels like he’s going to suffocate with it all. It’s all too much and things go back to being softened. 

“Sorry, I didn’t think it’d be that big of a difference for you.” “What did you do Viktor?” “I’m letting you see and hear through me Jayce. I just miscalculated how accustomed you are to everything, I shouldn’t have uh…cranked it?” “So you’re possessing me? So you are dead.”

It takes Jayce a while to get used to Viktor helping with his hearing and sight. The sharper senses make him more alert. More on edge. He can’t tell what sounds are real and what’s fake. Sees things out of the corner of his eyes and questions if they’re actually there or not. Viktor helps. Checks in on him, ensures what’s real and what’s not. Including himself. He’s real and here. Just not in the sense they both wish. They hypothesise how exactly Viktor came to be in this state. Viktor talked about how when everything disintegrated in on itself and nothingness he was left afloat. His body gone and he couldn’t see Jayce anywhere. And then something pulled him through, pulled him out. Held him close and safe and he was prepared to die. And then Jayce woke up and Viktor woke up with him. In him. 

“God we’re so fucked up.”

 Despite how absolutely fucked the situation really is if you take too long to think about it they get used to it. Jayce gets used to lending some control of himself to Viktor. Appreciates the efforts he goes to to comfort Jayce when he needs it. Appreciates the closeness they share. Literally. Viktor appreciates Jayce trusting him after all he’s done. There’s struggles with it all. With the mix of emotions, memories, of working out who’s who in the moment. There are times though when Jayce absolutely knows they’re feelings from Viktor. Phantom pains in his leg, his back, his chest where he shot him. His heart clenching sense of guilt when he catches what he looks like in a body of water. Fingerprints branding his forehead, his left eye an amber gold that matches Viktor. It doesn't matter how much he tries to insist to him that it’s all okay really the guilt never leaves. But Jayce guesses it matches his guilt. Guilt for dooming Viktor’s soul to living in a body that isn’t his. Guilt for wanting to keep him a part of him.

The one issue though of being two souls in one body is trying to keep things in private. Feelings, memories, nightmares about traumas you’ve been through. They’ve plagued Jayce since his time in the ravine and now is not different. He knows they affect Viktor but he doesn’t talk about them. Can’t talk about them. And Viktor doesn’t ask about them. He doesn’t have to really. He knows enough. Jayce knows he knows enough. Until one night they stop. He feels the start of them, the pull of fear and terror he’s come to expect but then it dissipates. And then there’s a sense of comfort. A feeling of fingers gently scratching his scalp and a mumble he can never discern through the fog and sleep. After a week of no nightmares he asks Viktor about it. 

“I thought I was helping. If you want me to stop I can. But you need your rest Jayce.” The thought of Viktor keeping him safe in his sleep warms his heart. So like Viktor to help others where he can.

“What about your sleep though?” “Oh. I don’t really need sleep in here.”

Oh.

The other thing that seems to be impossible to keep private however much he wishes he could is his bodily reactions. He’s a man after all. “You can just tell me you need space Jayce it’s perfectly alright.” “Viktor I’m not gonna tell you when I want to…crank it.” There’s a part of him that wants to though. He want Viktor to know how he feels, how he makes him feel. Wants Viktor to know that those 7 years of yearning and wanting were reciprocated even though it took him so long to realise. He wants Viktor to watch him, to tell him what to do, to make him feel good. He wants to make Viktor feel good somehow too. He wants Viktor and he wants release and he-

“What, you want me to watch you put on a show whilst I tell you what a good boy you are for me?” Feel a flush of heat run through his whole body and he knows it’s not just him feeling it.

“God Viktor, yes, yes I want that. Please.”

God they’re so fucked up.

They never find people. They find abandoned towns in worse and worse states as they go along. It feels familiar to Jayce and that sense of familiarity only grows until one day he sees it. A puppet. One of Viktor’s puppets. “Oh god.” He knows where they are.

The puppets grow in numbers but this time they don’t chase him. Don’t move at all. 

Neither of them like it there. Both feeling more than they can explain. It’s understandable really. The outcome of their devotion to each other would be difficult for any person to process. But if they’re in ruined Piltover then maybe, just maybe there’s someone who can help. Although now Jayce doesn’t know how he’d be able to cope without Viktor with him, in him. And Viktor doesn’t know if he can ask himself to give up his body so he can continue to live on with Jayce.

They search for him though. The old mage that saved Jayce and thus doomed the world. Viktor hates to admit he’d do it again and again in a heartbeat. There’s a lingering guilt for everything he’s done but he’s grown too selfish to truly care now Jayce is his. So selfish that he hopes they don’t find the mage.

[donaweasley]

On a Rainy Morning

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Plot:

A rainy morning, Bucky, and … everything poetic and sinful that can happen with that combination.

Genre: Fluff, sm.u.t

Warnings: 20 mins of worshipping the art called “Bucky” and filthy sm.u.tt!!

Read time: ~20 mins

MINORS, STAY AWAY!!

The rain tapped rhythmically on your windows. It wasn’t too loud nor was it too soft. It was just…the right kind. The kind that makes you feel cosy, that reminds you that Nature had heard your heartbeat before you even knew it.

With the cool tiles of the floor placing cold kisses on the sole of your bare feet, you slowly trode to the nearest window. Your oversized t-shirt could cover you till just mid-thighs, and was not enough to stop goosebumps from erupting on your skin as the cold air hit your warm body. Slumping your shoulder against the cool wall, you tried to get a view of the city through the rain-washed glass. It was a blur. A beautiful blur that gently made the presence of the world known without imposing its heaviness on the mind. The morning light, filtered through the dark grey clouds, had painted the city in a soft bluish-grey. The green of the trees swaying in the wind accentuated the evenness of the background while hints of lights from distant buildings added little sparks to the canvas, like lights on a far away Christmas tree.

Almost unbeknownst to yourself, the low hum of an old song found its way to your vocal chords, and mingled with the music that the incessant rain kept composing on your window. You tried to draw a smiley on the hazed glass. Nothing. The fog was on the outside. So you warmed it up with your breath and then drew on it.

Chuckling to yourself, you turned to look at the bed where you were tucked in warm right before you decided to surrender yourself to the thrum of the rain outside. Your eyes lingered on the figure sprawled on the sheets like art on a white canvas, with hair ruffled, muscles rising and falling softly like the tide, his mouth slightly apart and eyes still dreaming, still unaware of the new day. Some time during the night, he had pushed the comforter down slightly, thus allowing you now a glimpse of his beautiful, smooth skin, and an uninterrupted view of his metal arm - his black and gold metal arm that most people feared but you revered. The morning light, though filtered by the clouds, lent a soft shine to it.

The arm fascinated you. Not simply because it made him look ethereal but because of the weight it carried from the past. It was a testimony of all the things that its owner had to bear, had to break through and then become the man that he was now. It was a timeline in itself. Scars were littered on the skin where this metal arm melded with his flesh. But in those scars you had found constellations.

Sometimes it surprised you how much you loved and admired this man. A few times it scared you. You had not loved him since the moment you had met him, no. Love crept up on you slowly, stealthily. And before you could fully understand what was happening, you had found yourself drowning in his words…in his gentle gestures, his kindness and oh, in his eyes! His mesmerising, blue, ocean eyes!

You had accepted the longing, the pining, the ache of your unrequited love. You had made peace with watching him from a distance, of being by his side under the shadow of friendship. It was better than being torn away from him by the harsh claws of rejection, wasn’t it?

But Fate had her own plans.

A capsized mission and an almost fatal injury. Almost three weeks of breathing in the air of the medical bay, of being kept alive by machines and pipes and another two weeks of remaining bedridden in your room - that’s what you had to go through to hear the sweet words of confession pouring out of Bucky’s sweet mouth. It was only when he realised what losing you forever could feel like that he decided to act upon his long-suppressed feelings, regardless of whether you would accept him or ask him to leave. He just had to put his heart on the table. You simply had to know!

You had wanted to jump out of bed and kiss him right then and there. But one small attempt at getting off the bed only resulted in a painful whimper. And so, putting aside any shame or embarrassment that might have haunted you on any normal day, you had quietly asked him to kiss you. A train of emotions had flashed through his features. The supersoldier looked surprised at first, then relieved and finally elated as he bent down, and gently cupped your face with both hands. You still remember the crinkles that adorned his blue eyes when he had smiled at you. The memory of the soft touch of his lips still tingled your own. Though gentle, it was a kiss that spoke volumes of all the love that you both had been hiding - keeping safe and unscathed in your heavy hearts. He had pulled away too quickly for your liking.

“Get well soon, doll,” he had whispered while kissing your knuckles. “And then we’ll have a lot to compensate for.”

You remember blushing at his forwardness.

And now, two years later, you still feel everything that you used to feel for him when you used to hide your love behind polite smiles and small talk. They say that time gradually erases love and replaces it with practicality. Maybe they were right. You’d never know. You never wanted to know.

Bucky was your anchor as well as the wind in your hair. He was your secure hold in a crowd and your mischief at 3 AM. He was your nostalgia of old, yellow-paged books and your thrill of dark alleys and neon lights. Life with a soldier who was over a century old, had a dark past and wielded a metal arm was supposed to be difficult, right? Maybe. Again, you’d never know. For you, it was a poem; it had its lack of rhyme sometimes but as you flowed through it, it became more and more assuring and irresistible!

Tiptoeing your way back to the bed, you tried to control your movements so as not to wake Bucky up as you climbed back beneath the comforter. Your side of the bed had been left empty long enough for the cold to seep in. With a low hiss, you tried to gently scoot towards Bucky to get some warmth but his bionic arm was in the way. You were torn between the desire to pick it up and wrap it around your waist, or to endure the cold sheets just so that you could watch Bucky sleep peacefully a little longer.

But before you could come to a decision, Bucky let out a soft sigh, and shifted. You froze in place, worried that your indecisiveness had awoken him. But the moment his black-and-gold arm wrapped securely around your waist and pulled you close to him, all your worries evaporated. It was suddenly alright if you had interrupted his slumber; these little displays of affection were what you lived for.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” Your words came out in little wisps of breath, their existence so soft that nothing could disturb the tranquillity of the room.

Bucky licked his lips before replying; his plump lips now glistening against the slight darkness of his stubble drew your attention to them.

“No, doll,” he mumbled, eyes still closed. “I just…” a small yawn interrupted his explanation. “Just need your warmth. It’s cold.”

You sometimes found it unbelievable how this man, who appeared stoic before the world, could turn into putty in your hands! Away from the ever-scrutinising eyes of the society, he was just another, rather large, teddy bear looking for a warm hug.

His words melted something inside you, and you found yourself shifting closer to him until your chests were together and your leg was nestled between his. While one arm slipped under his neck, the other drew soothing circles on his scalp.

“I’m here, love,” you whispered on his lips. “Right here…with you.”

Bucky hummed sleepily before nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. You shifted again to accommodate him. Back in the comfort of the bed, and enveloped in the warmth of Bucky, your eyelids had started feeling heavy again. You had just drifted off, your mind had just started weaving a dream, when you were pulled back into reality. And the cause wasn’t annoying at all! It was, in fact, very endearing.

A trail of soft kisses and light scratches of stubble now tickled the skin of your neck, slowly making its way to your collarbone and eventually reaching your jawline. An involuntary smile showed up on your lips.

“Mhm…Buck…”

A part of you wanted to push him off and get some more sleep in this beautiful, lazy weather. And another part wanted to indulge in his pampering, tease him back and see if it ended up in your favourite tangle of sheets and limbs.

Bucky’s mouth graced your cheeks, forehead and nose, while his flesh hand sought more warmth beneath your t-shirt. Your nightwear was eventually bunched up at your waist. With his hand exploring your swells and dips, with his lips writing small prayers on your skin, and with his scandalous thigh pressing against your naked core, your lust finally won.

What was sleep before the delicious and rare concoction of excitement and peace that Bucky’s touch could brew!

You held his face with both hands, and gently urged him to look up from the hollow of your neck. You were finally greeted by those familiar blue orbs. The clouds may have hidden the ball of fire that people called the Sun but this - this view before you - was your sunrise.

“Hey, handsome!” You smiled at him.

“Hey, doll!” His voice was still gruff, thanks to the sleepiness lingering in his muscles.

“Good morning!”

“Good morning to you, too, love!”

And his lips moulded with yours so perfectly that you could never be bothered about morning breath or any of those petty things that humans usually cared about. This feeling that you found only and only with Bucky surpassed all material things. It may sound too poetic or exaggerated to others but you did not care. It was what it was. Bucky was the real-life projection from your favourite fantasy novel, the answer to all the prayers that you had been sending to the Universe. You loved him and he loved you like you hung the stars in the sky, and nothing else mattered.

Slowly, Bucky rolled you on your back, moving in sync to lay on top of you. You loved his weight on you - never too much but always warm and assuring, a thousand times better than the best gravity blanket on the entire planet!

His tongue danced a lazy pas de deux with yours. When the need to breathe became unavoidable, your mouth found its new course on his shoulder, trekking through the length of his neck to ultimately close itself around his earlobe. A gentle bite there and a soft tug with your lips was all it took to hear his beautiful groan.

“Doll!” There was an undertone of a warning in his moan, and it sent a hot shiver down to your core.

“What?” You asked innocently, for you knew well what it did to him.

When he looked at you, the blue of his eyes were mostly overtaken by his pupils. You didn’t mean to but the sight made you bite your lips. And this, in turn, made him devour yours. Desperate hands tried to push your t-shirt up and over your head. You arched your back and lifted your shoulders and arms to help him accomplish his mission.

Your arms wrapped themselves around his neck by instinct, and pulled him closer for a kiss. One fervent kiss that seemed to dissolve the edges of the morning, blurring where you ended and he began, stirring something low and tender in your chests, as the world beyond your bed quietly waited its turn.

What followed was a beautiful blur of sighs and moans and hymns of each other’s names, sometimes accentuated by a soft cry or a whimper or a growl.

Bucky’s mouth found new places to explore, pausing for a long while at your breast, where he took his delightful time sucking and licking your taut bundle of nerves, before finally releasing with a small pop and a slight tug with his teeth. Relishing the way you were squirming beneath him all the time, and chanting his name, he decided to up his game with your other breast. His lips left wet kisses on the underside, eventually taking the soft mound in his mouth and biting it very lightly. A jerk shot through your body and a whimper left your mouth. And he, with a triumphant smirk, licked his way to taking your nipple in mouth where he continued his magic.

Bucky’s hips had been moving in a smooth and constant rhythm all this time. The man could multitask really well! The wetness pooled between your legs was now smeared on the crotch of his boxer shorts. Once out of the spell that his tongue and teeth had been casting on your chest, you managed to reach beneath the covers and push your hands beneath the elastic resistance of his shorts. Oh, you loved that ass on him! When you kneaded them real tight, you indirectly urged him to carry on with his movements - stronger, faster, harder. Bucky knew the intention behind it all, and he stopped. The man had the audacity to stop moving when you were just beginning to get high! And to arch his hips to avoid any contact at all! That wretched hundred-year old man!

“I’m not going to beg!” You shook your head slightly; both mischief and resolution clearly visible in your lust-blown eyes.

“Beg me?” Bucky asked innocently. “For what?”

You were one tease away from snapping. Taking a deep breath, you steadied your heart. Two could play this game.

“For...I don’t know…What do you think?” Very slowly, your hand reached the front of his boxers where they slipped in and gripped him like a vice.

Bucky’s smugness immediately slipped away when he jerked forward and inhaled deeply. You moved your hand torturously slowly, occasionally swiping his head with your thumb.

“What happened, Buck?” The ball was in your court now. (Pun intended!) “All good?”

Your hands continued rubbing him as you enjoyed the view of him unraveling before you. Bucky had started moving again. In your hand. You let him enjoy the moment for a while. You allowed him to bury his moans in your mouth. With your other hand, you gradually pushed his boxers down until they were bundled somewhere near his knees.

It was your turn now to get revenge.

Just as he was reveling in the moment - eyes closed, lips parted - you removed your hand. Just like that!

Bucky’s eyes snapped open.

“Doll,” the warning that was once cloaked, was now clearly evident, “don't!”

Oh, how you loved that! You were playing a dangerous game, and you loved every bit of it!

“Don't what?”

“I'm not going to beg,” he repeated your lines but they sounded so much more sinful when coming out of his mouth.

“Beg for what, love?” Though your words feigned innocence, your thumb swiped wickedly over his head, making him crazy with that only touch you offered.

A beat. Or two.

Bucky’s stare never faltered.

“For you to fuck me,” he said in that low baritone that meant only one thing: the game's over.

Or shall we say, just begun?

Had Bucky not been between your legs, you'd have rubbed your thighs tight.

Before you could come up with a smart quip, he sat up on his knees. The heavens would have blushed furiously and closed their eyes in shame at the sight before you. But you were ready to go to hell if this was how your days started. Or ended, for that matter.

Bucky, in all his naked glory, sat on his knees, between your spread thighs, with his chin slightly up. The white comforter was pushed behind his waist, giving him the aura of a fallen angel. His hair was messed up; lust-blown eyes narrowed at you like that of a hunter assessing his prey right before he makes his move. Plump lips glistened with the marks of your kisses. Your eyes moved down to his dog tags that shone faintly on his chest, and eventually ran down his perfect abs, pausing for a while at the delicious “V” that was bracketed by his hips, down to his thick thighs and the treasure that lay between them - now leaving no doubts about his intentions for you. His underwear was nowhere to be seen; you didn't realise when he had kicked it off.

Bucky waited for you to rake your eyes all over him. He was enjoying it. Every bit of you was screaming with lust for him, and he was sitting there, proud and waiting. Waiting to make his move when you least expected him to.

And he found his moment. Your hand instinctively made its way down south on your body to soothe the ache a bit. You had almost made it there, had almost touched yourself, when Bucky suddenly caught hold of your wrist.

“Tsk! Tsk! No doll, you're not allowed to do that. Not until I tell you to.”

A small whimper left the lips that you were busy biting - both at the loss of contact and at his command.

Strong hands grabbed your thighs from underneath and pulled you towards him. He leaned forward. The metal hand rolled your nipples between his fingers while the flesh hand rubbed his length between your slick folds.

“What happened, doll? Cat got your tongue?” He teased when all your quips were replaced with whimpers and moans.

“Fuck me, James!” You finally managed.

“Ooh! My first name! You must be desperate!”

At that moment, you wanted to punch that smirk off his face.

You could feel Bucky twitch in your folds; you knew he was as desperate as you were. He was just better at hiding it.

Gently taking hold of his right wrist, you pushed him slightly inside you. You knew he couldn't resist that, and the moan that spilled from him not only proved you right but God! It was pure sin!

Looking right into his hooded eyes, you commanded in a low voice, “I'm not asking you, sergeant. I'm ordering you!”

“Fuck!”

It was the only whisper that Bucky could utter before he slid inside you in one smooth motion. And when he bottomed out, his left hand found anchor on your breast, leaving you both moaning loudly.

The next thing you knew, Bucky was gripping your thighs with both hands, and pounding into you without any mercy. Not that you complained! Your body arched itself off the mattress as your mouth poured chants of his name into the air.

The patter of the rain outside was forgotten as the room filled with squelching sounds of skin slapping on skin, not to mention the music of ecstasy escaping you both.

At one point, Bucky lay down on you, framing you with his strong arms, kissing you with an urgency that was mixed with reverence. His mouth left its marks on the side of your neck, on your collarbone, on your chest…wherever it could. His dog tags left cool trails on your chest - the sudden invasion of cool metal on hot skin feeding your lust.

You wrapped your legs around him, allowing him to go deeper, to hit that perfect spot every time that made you see stars! His weight pinned you down on the bed in the most unholy way: his chest created friction on your nipples while down south, your clit enjoyed the same with every move of his hips.

Your hands tried to roam the landscape of his back but he pinned them on either side of your head, eventually locking his fingers with yours.

“My baby is too lazy in the morning to do anything, isn't she?” Bucky grunted between moans.

All you could manage was a small whimper.

“Can't even form an answer, huh? So drunk on my cock? So lazy, huh?”

You loved it when he talked filthy. You absolutely did! Bucky was a caring man, careful and sweet with his actions and words. A mischief here and there? Yes! But talking dirty wasn't his thing. He was, after all, a gentleman from the 40’s.

But sometimes when things got heated, you got to see a side of him that never revealed itself otherwise. Raw and untamed. And you loved to be the one to unleash it!

“I'll take care of you, doll! Always! I love you, baby! Let me take care of you!”

His words were in rhythm with his movements which, you noticed, had begun getting sloppy. He was close. And so were you.

You bit on his shoulder lightly, earning a growl from him. He pushed in even harder in response, which made you scream.

And immediately, Bucky lifted his head from the crook of your shoulder and looked at you in utter concern. His movements had become much slower.

“Did I hurt you baby?” With one hand cradling your cheek, his eyes searched your face for any sign of discomfort.

“No! No, love,” you shook your head. “I'm fine. I'm more than fine!”

“You sure?”

The love this man had for you often overwhelmed you!

“Yes, Buck! You can never hurt me! Can only make me feel great!”

With a dazzling yet wicked smile that made you melt inside, he regained his pace, chasing that high that you both were almost close to grabbing.

A few more strong thrusts, a few more filthy words and a few more sloppy kisses…and you came with a guttural moan that echoed against the walls of the room. The way you clenched hard on him made it impossible for Bucky to hold it back any longer, and he painted your walls as he came right after.

You both rode through your highs slowly, with messy kisses and lazy dances of your tongues.

As your bodies tried to calm down, Bucky peppered small open-mouthed kisses on your shoulder, still lying on you, still buried deep inside you.

It was a minute or two…or was it five - neither of you knew, not that it mattered anyway - before Bucky finally pulled out of you, leaving behind an empty feeling and a whine of disappointment escaping your mouth.

He chuckled as he settled beside you.

“We'll need a warm shower,” he murmured as his lips ghosted your knuckles. “Maybe there…I can do something about that whine of yours.”

You were enjoying the mischief in his eyes.

“I'm feeling too lazy for a shower now,” you drawled. “And, it's raining!”

Though you'd never admit, you loved being pampered by him.

“How about this then?” He turned to lay on his stomach now while supporting himself on his elbows. “I prepare us a nice warm bath, and then breakfast, and then we can spend the entire day doing…nothing!”

“I would love that but I wouldn't want you to do everything alone. I'm coming with you. Let me prepare the bath-”

You were about to get up when Bucky gently pushed you back.

“Uh-uh! I'll do it all, doll. If you really feel bad about it, then…well, you can make it up to me in the bath…and again any time of the day…and…”

You laughed at his words! “Alright, Mr. Barnes, I get it. As you say!”

With a long and deep kiss, Bucky got up to prepare the bath, as he had promised, while you lay in bed planning all the ways you could make it up to him. All day…

***

Bucky Masterlist

[cricket-reader]

Fraying Threads of Recovery

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: Bucky Barnes doesn't have a home. He is a relic of a bygone era, abandoned, forgotten and alone. Life has thrown everything his way, and he has endured it. The fight was never-ending, just one after the other. Bucky had had enough. This was no way to live. He just didn't know what he'd be leaving behind.

warnings: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts

word count: 3,266

A/N: prompt fill for day 16 of @juneofdoom | Alt: "Why didn't you tell me?"

{Read on A03}

Bucky is tired.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t fix. The kind of weariness that clings like soaked clothing to a body. The kind of fatigue that weighs down a person until every breath, every step feels like a task insurmountable. Getting out of bed feels more and more like a chore with each passing day.

This tower, this place that Valentina tells them to call home, it feels like a cage. The modern walls and furniture suffocate him. The echoes of laughter from down the hall stab him like a knife. He sits alone in his room most days. He comes out to eat, to train early in the morning. He passes like a ghost in the tower, never heard and seldom seen. Sometimes he watches as Yelena and Bob laugh over a disaster they made in the kitchen, or as Ava and Yelena tirelessly make fun of Walker, observes the way they all have their own designated spots on movie nights. He watches the easy way they seem to get along, interconnected cogs in the grand machine.

Bucky doesn’t belong.

He notices the silence that coats the room every time he enters. Notes the way that the others never quite know how to approach him. He used to wait on his bed for one of them to come and invite him. Used to drop everything the second that he smelled the popcorn popping and heard the arguments over what they were going to watch. He sat there, listening as they settled, as they started the movie. Not once did they make mention of him. And he sat there, in the dark of his room, wondering why he could never find a home for himself—never one that lasted anyway.

The only time the New Avengers interacted with him was when they got called out on missions. And even then, he felt displaced, like a broken cog in the machine. Inside jokes that he wasn’t privy to, shared laughter and easy conversation. He was the puzzle piece that didn’t fit, the clashing piece of fabric, the odd one out.

Sam didn’t pick up his calls anymore.

Not since that stupid fight they had. The one person he was beginning to find a home in, and it was all torn away from him over something as stupid as a name. Bucky was beginning to see a pattern he wasn’t quite sure he liked: each time he dared to hope that he’d found a place to call home, it was ripped away from him, swiped away like a rug under his feet, leaving him flat on his ass and aching.

Loneliness has long since carved out a place in his heart, leaving him empty, devoid of everything that made him feel alive. Everything feels pointless, and he can’t bring himself to care anymore. Everything he eats tastes like ash, music is all nonsensical noise, even the sun seems dimmer.

There is nothing left of Bucky Barnes. There is nothing left in this world for Bucky Barnes. He is a relic of a bygone era, abandoned by those he trusted, moulded by the trauma that seeped into every aspect of his pathetic life. He’d learned long ago that this life wasn’t his. He feels it to be so when every day he sits in the passenger’s seat, watching himself through faded lenses as he pretends to be human—as if he is something more than just an empty shell. He is fraying at the seams, the thread unravelling at an alarming pace, and soon he’ll be nothing more than used fabric, torn apart and stained with blood.

This is no life. No way to live.

And so, with trembling hands and a heavy heart, Bucky opens the nightstand drawer. He stares at the sleek metal, matte black and perfectly polished. It will get the job done nicely, he thinks. Tears dot his eyes as he picks up the gun. It’s okay, a voice inside him whispers, it’s okay. No one will miss you anyways.

Bucky stumbles over to the ensuite bathroom. He yanks back the curtain, ignoring the three rings that snap, clattering to the floor. He sits down in the tub, eyes never leaving the cold metal that sits like a boulder in his hand. His mind races now, thoughts of Steve, of Sam, of the team sitting just outside watching another stupid movie without him. None of them will miss you, the monster inside him growls. You’re better off dead. They’re better off without you.

He almost screams; instead, he hits his head against the knees curled up to his chest. He wants the voices to stop, wants the memories of blood and grief to be wiped away. Choking on a sob, Bucky lifts the gun to his head. His heart stutters in his chest, staring down the barrel. He’s been on this side of a gun too many times to count. He never feared for his life as he does now. Because this time, Bucky isn’t fighting against someone else; this time, he’s fighting against himself. It’s a fight he knows he cannot win.

He closes his eyes, presses the mouth of the gun to his forehead, and murmurs under his breath. Tears stream down his face as his finger hovers over the trigger. This is it. He can finally rest now. He left notes just in case any of them cared enough to read them. Even left one for Sam on the off-chance that he’d give a shit. All that’s left is for him to pull the trigger.

Breathing in deep through his nose, he squeezes the trigger.

A strangled noise startles him just before the gun goes off, his eyes flare open to see Yelena standing at the entrance to his bathroom. His hand jolts, the gunshot echoes through the room, and the bullet barely grazes the top of his head. He bites down a scream as the bullet tears through his flesh. Blood streams down his face as Yelena darts over to him. He vaguely remembers her grabbing the gun, the sound of it skidding across the tile. She’s crying and talking to him, but it’s all muffled. He winces as she brings a white towel to his forehead, applying pressure and screaming for help.

He feels bad.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Yelena was supposed to be curled up next to Bob as they watched a movie, throwing popcorn at Alexei every time he interrupted the movie with a question or a stupid joke. They weren’t supposed to find him until he was nothing more than a cold corpse, dried blood across his temple and lips a shade of blue. Why did she have to find him like this? Why did she even come looking for him?

He sees a blur in the corner of his eyes, tries to focus his eyes enough to make out who else joined his sad pity party uninvited. Walker’s face slides into focus, mouth gaping and body frozen. He hears Yelena yell at him to “Do something, damnit!” and he blinks a few times before disappearing. Bucky’s eyes slide shut, exhaustion pulling him under. He blinks when a cold hand slaps his face once, twice. Yelena has tears streaming down her face, the makeup she likes so much leaving blue tracks down her cheeks. He wishes she wouldn’t cry over him.

“Stay with me, god damnit, Barnes. You gotta stay with me,” she cries, her hands tilting his head to the light. He grimaces as she removes the towel. It’s so red he has a hard time believing it was ever white.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. Because he is. He never meant for her to find him like this. Never meant to hurt her. Never meant to hurt anyone. He just wanted the voices to stop, just wanted the aching, all-consuming loneliness to go away.

She chokes on a sob, pressing the towel back onto his weeping wound. He loses time, and now Ava’s next to Yelena, face grim as she hands her a new towel. Bucky tries to tell them not to bother—no point in ruining another perfectly good towel, but all that comes out is a garbled grunt. He blinks as strangers appear before him, surrounding him, pushing Yelena and Ava aside. His heart races as the familiar faces are pushed to the background. He squirms as the foreign hands touch him, his skin crawls, and he lets out a groan that was supposed to be words. His brain is too fuzzy to be of any use as they load him onto a gurney.

Shame curls inside him, however, at the sight of Yelena and Ava watching him being dragged away, both visibly shaken by what they witnessed.

When he wakes up, he is alone.

He should have expected as much, but it still cuts him down to the bone. With nothing but the heart monitor’s steady beeping to keep him company, his mind begins to swirl down a dark, dangerous path. If the team didn’t like him before, they surely wouldn’t like him after pulling such a stunt. They already had been through so much, they didn’t need Bucky’s shit on their plate too.

The Watchtower was never his home, but now, it certainly never will be.

He startles when the door opens. Blinking fiercely, the image does not fade; he rubs his eyes to rid the figure from his mind. Certainly, he must be hallucinating.

Sam Wilson walks in the door, shoulders slumped and face pulled into a heavy frown. He has a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands, which he resolutely stares at as if it holds all the answers to the questions swimming behind his expressive eyes.

Bucky coughs then, doesn’t mean to, but after going so long without water, his throat is dry and scratchy. Sam jolts, wide eyes darting over to him. The coffee in his hand spills out of the lid at the sudden movement, but Sam doesn’t pay it any mind. His attention is solely focused on Bucky.

His eyes remain fixated just above his eyes, and for a second, Bucky isn’t sure what he is staring at. A cold rush of dread sweeps over him when he reaches a hand up to the bandages wrapped around his head. It’s instantly replaced with a burning shame that has Bucky looking down at the scratchy hospital blanket.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice cracks over the monosyllable. Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t respond because the only thing on the tip of his tongue is a scathing, Why are you here? After all this time of radio silence, after all the missed calls and ignored texts, why now? It’s not fair, and he knows it to be so, yet that is the only thing on his mind as he glances up at the man.

Sam clears his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable in his own skin, like an intruder in the sterile walls that hold Bucky. “John called me,” he says. “I’m glad I didn’t have his number saved, or I wouldn’t have picked up.”

The joke fell flat, only furthering the suffocating tension coating the room. Bucky didn’t know how he could just go back to that easy joking way they used to be with each other after everything that went down. Sam abandoned him. Just like Steve did. Everyone abandoned Bucky at one point or another. He couldn’t blame them either. Not when the only thing he seemed to be good at was fucking things up. So why did Sam come back? Why did he come back when he knew that the only thing Bucky was capable of was destruction?

Sam shifts his weight onto his other foot, looking back down at the coffee in his hands for a few minutes. He looks up, opens his mouth, then closes it. Bucky just stares at him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls,” Sam says, shuffling closer as if afraid of overstepping.

Bucky’s mouth twists into a frown. “Are you?”

Sam blinks at him. “I… I am.”

“And how much of that is because I tried to put a bullet through my skull?”

Sam tenses, furrowing his brows. “What… that has nothing-”

“The only reason you’re here is because I tried to kill myself. You wouldn’t be sorry about dodging my calls and texts if I hadn’t.”

Sam doesn’t respond to that. Probably, because it holds some ring of truth to it. Bucky coughs again. “Could I get some water?” he asks. Sam stares at him for a bit before grabbing the dull-looking pitcher and a plastic cup from across the room.

Sam sits down on the chair next to his bed once the cup of water is safe in Bucky’s hands. “Your team is in the family room.”

Bucky almost chokes on his water. “They’re not my team,” he gruffly denies. Then, “All of them?”

“Yeah, had them all super worried… You had me super worried.”

Bucky’s heart lurches in his chest. That can’t be true. No one cared about him. No one should. Was it because he tried to kill himself that they cared? “I don’t need your guys’ pity.”

Sam’s face scrunches up, anger flickering beneath his eyes. “This ain’t pity, man. Believe it or not, people do care about you.”

“Sure have a funny way of showin’ it,” Bucky remarks, shifting on the bed.

Sam sighs. “I messed up, okay? And I’m sorry. I didn’t know that the whole ‘New Avengers’ thing was sprung up on you like that. You gotta understand how it looked from my point of view.”

“Is a name really worth that much to you?” Bucky asks. “Is it worth more than our friendship?”

Sam has nothing to say to that. His head lowers to look back at that damn coffee. “No,” he finally says.

“Then why…”

“I don’t know, man. Okay? I… I don’t know.”

Bucky wishes Sam had a better answer than that. “You can go now,” he says once he realises that that’s all Sam has to say.

Sam’s face crumples, regret painted across his features. He stands up slowly, as if hoping Bucky will change his mind; he doesn’t.

“Is it okay if I send Yelena in? She wanted to see you once you woke up.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, although it’s not fine, not really. The door snicks shut quietly, leaving Bucky to stew in anxiety as he awaits the arrival of Yelena. He hopes that she’ll accept his apology, that she’ll understand he never wanted her to find him like that, that he never wanted to hurt her.

The first thing he notices when Yelena walks into the room is that he’s never seen her look more dishevelled. Even after fights that took everything out of the team, Yelena always managed to hold onto her appearance. He could see the bags under her eyes as clear as day, even from across the room. Her arms are wrapped around herself, her body tense as her eyes flicker over his body. She shoots him a smile that looks more like a grimace as she approaches him.

She plops down on the seat where Sam had vacated just minutes prior. She sniffs once before saying, “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” It’s true. She didn’t do this. It wasn’t her fault. The culmination of decades of torture, murder and loneliness had just finally caught up to him; it was inevitable.

“I just… I just keep thinking that maybe if I paid more attention… if I-”

“Don’t spend your time on ‘what ifs,’” Bucky advises. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“You almost killed yourself!” Yelena shouts. “What if I hadn’t gone to check on you?”

“Why did you?”

“Because you hadn’t left your room at all, Bucky,” Yelena says, as if it were obvious. “Not to eat, not to train, not even to get your morning coffee.”

Bucky stares at her for a second too long, brows furrowed. “I didn’t think you guys’d notice.”

Yelena frowns at that. “Of course, we noticed. Bucky, you’re a part of the team.”

“Doesn’t really feel like it,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?”

Bucky sighs. “You guys don’t want me there. I get it, really, it’s not that big of a deal. I just wish you wouldn’t pretend like you did.”

“What-” she splutters- “of course we want you on the team!”

“And if I told you I wanted a break from the fighting?”

“Then you wouldn’t have to come out with us. You could stay back with Bob.”

Bucky doesn’t mean to let out the incredulous scoff, but it just comes out. “Yeah,” he says, voice gruff, “right.”

“You’re as much a part of the rag-tag family as any of the others,” she says, insistent and stubborn.

“Am I? I spend most of my time alone in my room. I don’t watch movies with you guys, don’t have a seat at your team dinners.”

“That doesn’t matter to us,” Yelena insists. “You don’t have to spend time with us to be a part of the team.”

“What if I wanted to?” Bucky questions. “What if I waited for you guys to invite me like a fool? What if I sat alone in my room, having to listen to you guys laugh and bicker and… and I wasn’t included.”

Yelena opens her mouth, brows furrowing deeply. “We didn’t think you wanted to hang out with us.” Bucky’s brows crease. “You always seemed so… unapproachable. Like movie nights and team dinners were above you. We didn’t… we didn’t want to annoy you.”

“Oh,” he says, at a complete loss for words.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say anything? Oh god… We… this whole thing could’ve been avoided if we just invited you-”

“It wasn’t just that, don’t… I don’t want you guys blaming yourselves. I’m fucked up. It wasn’t… it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine. I just… I just wanted the voices to go away.”

“Oh, Bucky…” Yelena mourns.

He didn’t say anything.

His eyes are glassy, but he refuses to let anyone see him cry like this. He fixes his gaze on the opposite wall, knowing that if he looks at anyone, he’ll crumble.

Yelena stays quiet for a beat. Then, gently, like she isn’t sure if she’s allowed, she reaches out and brushes her fingers against his wrist.

He doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to carry it alone, Bucky,” she says, soft and light. “Not anymore.”

His lips twitch, hand clenching minutely around the scratchy hospital blanket. “I don’t really know how to not be alone,” he confesses.

“How about this,” Yelena offers, squeezing his hand, “when you get outta here, you’re coming to dinner. Ava makes the best Choripán. We’ll have a movie night too, your pick. It’ll be like a party.”

He blinks at her. “I’m not exactly the most fun at parties.”

Yelena smirks. “Neither is Walker, but we still let him come.”

Her words startle a small chuckle out of him.

“Be there at six, no excuses.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky murmurs, saluting her. He grins at the way Yelena glares at him, no real heat behind her eyes.

Things aren’t okay, and maybe they never will be for him. But maybe, just maybe, he can find a home for himself, carve out a place that’s just for him, and hold it tight, never letting go. Because if there’s one thing Bucky knows, it’s that life isn’t complete without a place to call home.

Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @filmsbyblair