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mandoalorian · 1 month ago

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red, white and blue [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: you slept while the world moved on without you. someone left flowers. someone turned on the news. and when you finally woke, it wasn’t peace that greeted you. it was rain. it was confusion. it was something in your chest breaking open again. so you ran—before anyone could stop you.

word count: 5500

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mentions of male masturbation, enemies to lovers, the blossoming of a love triangle, trauma/void room descriptions, family death, blood mention, guns, canon typical violence/action, angst, bucky/sam still aren’t friends, misunderstandings that might make you want to scream, details of injury, hospital-setting, avengers tower fic, thunderbolts spoilers

masterlist

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ONE WEEK LATER.

The med bay was quiet, save for the gentle hum of machines and the steady blip of your heart monitor. Night had long swallowed the city, and the world outside was still. Inside, it was just you and Bob.

He sat slouched in the chair beside your bed, his hoodie wrinkled, sneakers kicked off beneath him. One of John’s protein bars was melting on the table, untouched, a ‘get well soon’ gift from the US Agent that he had so unwillingly agreed to part with. Bob’s clipboard rested on his knee, but he hadn’t written a single note in the last forty minutes.

Your vitals were steady. Oxygen, normal. No neural spikes, no warnings. Still, you hadn’t stirred.

Bob rubbed the bridge of his nose and glanced at you, eyes narrowing behind the IV. He didn’t like this—not the silence, not the unknown.

“You know,” he muttered into the dark, “no one really knows who you are.”

He glanced toward the door. No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft breathing of the Tower itself.

“Sam just… brought you in. Said you were important. Said we needed you.” Bob’s voice was low, like he was trying not to wake you. “And that was it. No briefing. No intel drop. Just... boom. You’re on the team.”

He swallowed.

“I’m not even an Avenger. I’m just here, helping out. If it wasn’t for Yelena, they probably wouldn’t waste their time on me,” Bob frowned. “I just try and work out which pieces of Stark’s technology in the tower are worth saving, and I do the dishes, most of the time. But somehow I’ve been sitting here watching you breathe for the past week like I’m your goddamn guardian angel.”

A little edge in his tone, darkness even. The blinding feeling of still not being good enough nearly tipped through. His eyes flicked to your hand resting beside the blanket. Still. Pale. Calm.

“I’ve seen what everyone else hasn’t.” His tone softened, became unsure. “You... talk in your sleep sometimes. Weird words. You cry, too. Just once. I heard you. I can’t stop thinking about when Sam and I watched Redwing’s surveillance of the fight. Your scream. The way you saved Bucky. What you said… ‘He’s not yours to kill’, what does that mean?”

Bob stood, pacing now, rubbing his palms together like trying to warm himself from a chill that wouldn’t leave.

“You hate him. But not in a surface-level, ego-clash kinda way. It’s deeper. Like you’ve known him in another life. Or like he took something from you.” He turned to look at you again, then scoffed. “He doesn’t even know, does he?”

He lingered by your side again, hands twitching at his sides. The Void buzzed faintly beneath his skin. That old temptation.

“Just a glimpse,” he whispered. “Not to violate anything. Just... clarity. That’s all.”

Bob stared at your hand, then at his own, flexing his fingers.

“No, no, no, bad idea. Bob, this is literally the reason they said you shouldn’t touch people when they’re unconscious.”

But his fingers hovered. Trembled. And finally—made contact.

The moment your skin met his, the air snapped inward.

The machines dimmed, the walls folded in on themselves—and the world fell away.

Bob’s breath caught in his throat.

He stood now in a black void, pulsing softly around him like the inside of a heartbeat. But even as he steadied himself, colour bled in. The space reshaped, forming the vague contours of a place that wasn’t real, yet felt terrifyingly familiar.

It was your Void Room.

Personal. Raw. Truthful.

Not memory. Not dream. Something deeper.

“…Whoa,” Bob whispered, heart kicking into a gallop. “Okay, okay... so you’ve got layers.”

But already, something in the atmosphere was shifting. A flicker of heat. A burst of rage. A ghost of sorrow so thick it strangled the air. Then, through the haze—

A younger you.

A flash of something sharp.

A silhouette with a metal arm.

And a truth he hadn’t been prepared to see.

Bob could hardly breathe. The Void rippled like a curtain torn loose in a storm, warping around you, around your unconscious form as it lay still beside him. He hadn’t meant to see this. He hadn’t meant to feel this. But here he was, standing in the memory your soul had buried deepest.

The scene unfolded with dreamlike clarity, yet carried the unmistakable weight of truth.

A modest banquet hall—walls lined with cheap tinsel and flickering string lights. A rented space in a nondescript city building, made special only by the people inside it. A birthday. Homemade cake. Laughter. Friends pressed close, holding paper plates and plastic forks, warmth radiating off the small crowd.

You were only eight, maybe nine, all limbs and excitement. You ducked under tables and tugged on adults’ hands, giggling, clutching a handmade card in sparkly glue. At the centre of the room stood your brother, eighteen today. Bright-eyed. Laughing. The kind of boy who made people feel safe just by existing.

Bob recognised the kind of room this was. Family-built. Naive in its joy.

But not everyone in that room was meant to be there.

Bob’s gaze shifted as your father shook hands with a guest in a tailored suit—older, composed, and far too serious for the occasion. Senator Harold Myles. A moderate voice rising in Congress. Recently outspoken against certain defence contracts that fed HYDRA’s shell corporations. The kind of man who wouldn’t live long once his name showed up on their list.

Hydra wanted him gone.

And so, they'd sent their ghost.

The door burst open with metallic finality. Screams burst like shrapnel.

Enter the Winter Soldier.

Black tactical gear. Silver arm adorned with a red star. No mask this time, only long dark hair damp with rain, clinging to his cheekbones. He didn’t shout. Didn’t threaten. Just walked—slow, direct, surgical.

The Senator had maybe three seconds to recognise the spectre from whispered D.C. legends before the Soldier raised his rifle.

But your brother got there first.

Bob saw it in horrifying detail—your brother lunging forward, pushing a friend down behind a table, hands up, shouting something like, “Wait, he’s just a—” before the gun fired.

No hesitation. No remorse.

Just cold training.

Your brother collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. A silence fell in the room that no music could recover from.

You screamed.

Bob saw your mother throw her arms around you, trying to shield you from the scene. But power bloomed inside you—raw, ancient, untapped. It cracked from your chest like glass under pressure, flooding the air with a low hum of impossible energy.

And then—

Light.

Heat.

Screams swallowed in a wave of radiance.

Everyone—your parents, the guests, even the Senator—obliterated in a surge of aura. The Winter Soldier alone had made it out. You, sobbing in the rubble, glowing like something divine and shattered, didn’t know it yet.

Didn’t know what had happened.

Didn’t know what you were.

And you didn’t know the man who walked away into the night was the one who’d started it all.

Bob stood frozen, stomach churning. The smell of ash and scorched memory lingered in the Void.

He looked at you now, unconscious in the medbay. Strong. Fierce. So certain in your hate.

He understood.

Because the Winter Soldier didn’t just kill your brother.

He made you.

Bob’s eyes snapped open, lungs seizing with the sudden rush of cold, sterile air. The harsh fluorescent lights of the medbay flickered overhead like ghosts trying to blink away the images now burned into his brain.

He was still holding your hand.

He dropped it like it had burned him.

Heart hammering, he stumbled back, nearly knocking over a tray of gauze and saline as he braced himself against the nearest wall. He gripped the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles turned bone-white, trying to find something—anything—solid beneath him. But there was nothing solid left. Not after what he’d just seen.

Not after what he now knew.

You weren’t just some mysterious recruit plucked from the wind by Sam Wilson.

You were trauma wrapped in silence. A living wound with teeth. A ghost shaped like a girl who had once screamed hard enough to erase a room.

And the Winter Soldier—Bucky Barnes—was at the centre of it all.

Bob stared at your face, still peaceful in sleep. Your vitals beeped steady. Your breathing was calm. Anyone else would think you were just healing. But he knew better now.

He swallowed, throat dry and tight. His stomach turned. The image of your brother’s body collapsing—the sheer horror in your scream, that moment your powers ignited like wildfire—it would haunt him. Not because of what you did, but because of what had been done to you.

Bob pressed his trembling hands to his eyes and breathed. In. Out. Again.

He’d seen darkness before. He was darkness, in a way. The Void was a cruel place that showed people their worst. But this? This had been something else.

It had been human.

And now… what was he supposed to do with this?

Tell Sam? Warn Bucky? Warn you, when you woke up?

No.

He looked at you again, this time with something softer beneath the shock—grief, maybe. Sympathy. A gnawing understanding.

Bob wasn’t an Avenger.

He was a janitor of memory. A gatekeeper of ghosts.

And for now, this ghost… this truth… would remain his burden to carry.

He turned back to his console, fingers moving stiffly as he checked your vitals again. Heart rate steady. Brain activity… shifting. You were healing. Slowly.

Outside your room, the world kept turning. Plans moved forward. So did people.

Bucky didn’t.

The second night you were unconscious in the medbay, he sat at the edge of your bed long after the others had gone. Sam had stopped by briefly, saying something about Reed Richards and Johnny Storm needing to be brought in before the press caught wind of the failed mission. But Bucky barely listened. His eyes stayed on you. You were still pale. Still too quiet.

He left at dawn, jaw locked, and returned a few hours later. His knuckles were bruised.

By the third day, Reed and Johnny were back—less enemies now, more reluctant allies. Apparently, the moment Bucky told them Sue Storm and Ben Grimm were safe, Reed’s entire stance shifted. Johnny rolled his eyes, muttered something cocky, but followed without protest. No power struggles. No fireballs. Just tired agreement. They’d seen enough.

But their cooperation didn’t ease the knot in Bucky’s chest. Not when he passed your room and saw Bob still stationed there like a quiet sentinel. Not when he stepped inside and found you still lying there, unmoving.

He hovered by the door some days. Other times, he sat again. Said nothing. Thought too much.

Sam noticed. On the fifth night, he caught Bucky in the hallway.

“You need sleep,” he said. Not harsh, not gentle. Just a statement. Like a friend who saw the unravelling.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Sam’s expression cracked a little then, the frustration bleeding through. “She nearly died, Buck. You think sitting by her bedside every night’s gonna change that? You can’t make up for it that way.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He just turned away.

Behind him, Sam sighed. “I know you care about her. But beating yourself up won’t fix her. Or you.”

That night, Bucky stood under the shower too long. Water scalding. Steam swallowing him whole. He let it burn the guilt out of him—or tried to. But just like clockwork, he felt it, the way his body yearned for you. Like a primal need, and urge that he just couldn’t bite down. Your soft lips on his scarred skin and God, Bucky knew nothing would ever happen. He knew that you’d rather die than touch him.

Somehow, that only made him want you more. So he curled his fingers around his cock, grunting and moaning as the water splashed against the tiles, his stomach pooling with arousal as he neared his release. And then he’d choke out a cry as he came undone, promising to never do that again. His desire for you once again buried in shame and guilt — left unspoken. The way it needed to be.

He still came back to the med bay, hair damp, hoodie clinging to his skin. He didn’t go in this time. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the closed door like it held all the answers.

It didn’t.

So, after gentle consideration, Bucky slipped through the door like he’d done every morning and every night that week—silent, steady, careful. He didn’t need to be here. And yet, he showed up. Without fail. Always in the same dark clothes, always with that same guarded look on his face.

In his hand was a loosely tied bundle of flowers, snatched from the rooftop garden, still damp from the morning dew. An array of white lillies, red roses and bluebells, planted by Ava and Bob at the start of the season.

He placed them on the side table, then dragged the chair closer to your bed, leather creaking under his weight as he sat. You looked the same. Still. Distant. Like you were in a dream you hadn’t decided to wake up from.

His jaw shifted slightly before he spoke.

“You’re gonna mess up the team dynamic if you don’t wake up soon.”

He didn’t say it like a joke. He said it like a fact. Or maybe a plea dressed up in military detachment.

“They’re trying to figure out how to rebuild the Avengers lineup,” he continued, voice low. “Sam’s already talking about public image. Optics. You know how it goes. ‘What’ll the people think?’” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And I’m sitting there like… ‘you’re part of the team too, you should be here as we decide these things.’”

He let out a dry breath, shaking his head. “We got the Fantastic Four. They’re willing to cooperate. Sam and I… we know some people too. Some old friends. I just—”

Another beat of silence. Bucky changed the subject without warning, revealing the pressure that had been eating him alive.

“I keep thinking I know you.”

He looked up at you then, really looked. His eyes didn’t waver, even when his mouth tightened like he hated admitting it.

“It’s crazy. I know it is. But sometimes when I walk past you… when I hear your voice, or see the way you look at me like I’m something you already buried…” He swallowed. “It’s like I’ve seen you before. Like we’ve done this. Been here. Somewhere else. Somewhere... worse.”

His fingers fidgeted with the seam of his glove.

“I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But something’s off about this. About you. About the way I can’t stop wondering what you’d say if you were awake right now. Probably something scathing. Probably something that would make me laugh after you leave the room.”

His throat bobbed.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

It was out before he could swallow it back.

“That’s what this is. I know I’m not supposed to say it. Hell, I’m not even supposed to feel it. But I don’t care.” His voice dropped. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He stood, slowly, like anything louder than a breath would disturb whatever fragile thread was holding this moment together.

The flowers stayed. The chair creaked back into place.

But Bucky—he paused at the door, glancing back at you one more time, his metal hand curled into a fist at his side.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

────✪────

Bob tapped the side of the monitor gently with two fingers, watching your vitals flicker to life on the screen. Still steady. Still slow. He exhaled through his nose and scribbled something on the clipboard tucked under his arm. The medbay had become a second home over the past few days — white walls, humming machines, and you, lying silent in the center of it all like a ghost that hadn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

He stepped to your side, fingers brushing the inside of your wrist. Warm. Good. He recorded your pulse next, muttering to himself as he did. “No change. Still stable. Still you.”

But then, his gaze snagged on something new.

Sitting just beside the monitor — a small glass vase that hadn’t been there earlier. Fresh flowers. Red, white, and blue, arranged with a surprising amount of care. Bob narrowed his eyes, setting the clipboard aside and reaching toward the vase. Nestled among the stems was a small card.

He plucked it free.

"From Bucky."

He stared at the handwriting for a long time. His fingers tensed, crumpling the edge of the card slightly.

“Seriously?”

A hollow laugh escaped him, humourless. He looked at you again — unconscious, brow furrowed in some distant dream, breath slow and even — and he imagined what it would be like if you woke up and saw this first. The flowers. That name. The very person who had shattered your life with the same cold precision he used to break bones and silence witnesses.

Bob had seen it now. Lived it, in your void room. The memory pressed at the backs of his eyes like it was still happening — the birthday, the scream, the body falling. And Bucky Barnes, expression blank behind the Winter Soldier’s mask, walking away from your brother’s blood.

Bob turned the card over. Nothing else. No apology. No explanation. Just that name — a name too heavy to leave lying on your bedside like a get-well-soon balloon.

He folded it once, then again, and slid it into his back pocket.

A knock came from the doorframe — Yelena, arms filled with grocery bags, one dangling precariously from her pinky. “Hey, Robert. Mind giving me a hand before the oat milk crushes my spleen?”

Bob hesitated, eyes darting back to your still form.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he murmured. He reached for the TV remote to give the room some noise — a habit more than anything else — and flicked it on low. A news anchor’s voice filtered through the speakers.

“Later this evening, O.X.E. CEO Valentina Allegra de Fontaine and New Avengers Team Leader Bucky Barnes will give a formal update on the status of the Fantastic Four—”

He winced, already annoyed, and lowered the volume even more. Then he followed Yelena out, shooting one last look at you over his shoulder. Still asleep. Still unaware.

He didn’t like this. Something in his gut said that when you woke up, you were going to wake up wrong. And all of this — the flowers, the card, the quiet hum of the news behind him — would only make it worse.

But for now, the room remained still. The flowers sat at your side. And the TV kept talking.

And so, the first thing you heard when you finally woke up was the murmur of voices. Not close ones. Not real ones. Filtered and distant, like they were being spoken through cotton. A woman’s voice — polished, assertive. Familiar.

Then the sting of fluorescent light behind your eyelids. The sterile scent of antiseptic in your nose.

You blinked awake.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. Not Sam’s place. Machines beeped beside you in steady rhythm, and something cold tugged at your arm. You looked down — an IV. Monitors. Your wrist wrapped in a soft cuff. Hospital. No — medbay.

Your chest fluttered with a breath, shallow and aching. Everything felt like it had happened hours ago and years ago, all at once. You tried to sit, but a tight pull in your side made you wince. Slowly, carefully, you turned your head.

And saw the television.

Your heart climbed into your throat before your brain caught up.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine stood at a podium, flanked by flags and security detail, her sleek black suit catching the glint of the press lights. She was mid-sentence, one hand confidently on her hip as she addressed the sea of cameras and reporters.

“—and we’re proud to confirm that, thanks to the tireless effort of Barnes and the New Avengers, Reed Richards, Jonathan Storm, Sue Storm and Ben Grimm have officially joined the team. We’re thrilled about what this means for the future of global protection.”

The crowd applauded. Reporters shouted questions. And then — him.

Bucky.

You sucked in a breath at the sight of him, stepping up beside Val, expression unreadable but handsome as ever in a dark navy suit, clean-cut and so Congressman-like. There was a stiffness in his jaw. The camera lingered on him, and you found yourself leaning forward before you could stop.

Val beamed at him. “All of this is only possible because of his leadership,” she said, placing a hand on his chest like she owned him. “Bucky Barnes is proof that people deserve a second chance, and that’s what the New Avengers Initiative is all about.”

No. What does she know about second chances?

Then — she kissed him.

Your stomach dropped.

It was quick. Clean. One of those polished political kisses meant for cameras and headlines. But Bucky didn’t pull away. He stilled for a beat… almost like he was deciding his next move, and then kissed her back. Mouth opened, leaned in, nose pressed into her face.

Your hand trembled as it reached for the remote. You turned the TV off. Silence crashed into the room.

For a long moment, you just stared at the black screen, trying to breathe. It didn’t make sense. You hated him. He was your enemy. The Winter Soldier. He had murdered your brother. He had carved out the centre of your life with a bullet and vanished into history.

So why did your heart feel like it was splintering?

You let your head drop back against the pillow. Your eyes stung.

And then — you noticed the flowers.

They sat on the table by your bedside, radiant and arranged with surprising delicacy. Red, white, and blue. Patriotic, almost. They looked so out of place in this sterile room. You reached for them, wincing as you moved, and searched for a card. Nothing.

But the colours… the warmth of the gesture…

You swallowed, your throat tight. Sam. You told yourself it must’ve been Sam. Sweet, thoughtful Sam — the one who took you in, trusted you when no one else would. If he brought you these, it meant he cared. Meant someone still did.

A fresh well of emotion spilled into your chest. You couldn’t stay here.

You reached for the IV and ripped it out with a hiss. The machines beeped in protest, but you were already swinging your legs over the bed, finding your balance. You grabbed the hospital blanket and wrapped it around your shoulders, dizzy but moving.

You didn’t want to be here when someone came in. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want answers. You wanted—

Sam.

Barefoot, shivering, you slipped out the door and into the corridor. No one noticed. No one stopped you. You left the medbay behind.

And ran.

You pushed the door open and stumbled into the night.

The city hit you like a wave — noise, lights, motion — all muffled beneath the steady drum of rain. Cold, relentless, it soaked through the thin hospital gown clinging to your skin in seconds. The blanket you’d taken from the bed trailed behind you like a forgotten flag, heavy and useless now. You let it fall to the ground.

You didn’t know where you were going. Just away.

Your bare feet slapped against the concrete, slipping a little as you ran across the sidewalk and through the streets of Manhattan, the rain burning against your skin like ice. No one stopped you. No one even looked. New York had seen stranger things.

But inside your head, it was chaos.

Your mind flitted from image to image like radio static — Bucky in that press conference, his mouth against hers, the way he didn’t even flinch. Bucky lying on his back in the tunnels underground, after being hit by a blast of Johnny Storm’s fire. Him holding you upright when you fell off the kitchen counter, that one night after playing Never Have I Ever, when he lifted you to reach the vents with so much ease and all the touching during training. You had pushed him off you, time and time again, but now you reminisced the feeling of his hands on your body. Warmth. Comfort. Care. All of it, every single thought, was him. You were consumed.

And then darkness.

That week-long sleep, the one no one thought you’d wake from… it hadn’t felt like sleep. It had felt like falling. Floating. Like you were back in the Void again — no walls, no sound, just weightlessness. But there had been something different this time. Someone. A hand in yours. A voice. Bob?

You tried to remember but it was like chasing smoke.

You shook your head. It didn’t matter.

You kept running. Across avenues, past honking cars and glowing storefronts. Your breath came ragged, and your body was shaking, but you couldn’t stop. Not until you saw the building. Sam’s place. A low-rise brownstone that didn’t scream Avenger, tucked away between a deli and a laundry shop like it belonged to someone normal.

Like he was normal.

Like you could be.

You stopped across the street and stared at the windows, lit warm from inside. You imagined him there, in his hoodie and socks, maybe eating cereal at night like he did when he couldn’t sleep. The thought made your throat tighten.

Sam had taken you in when no one else even looked twice. Gave you a room. A chance. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t expect perfection. He just… cared.

Maybe that’s why, deep down, you’d assumed the flowers were from him. Because Sam was the kind of person who would’ve left them. Who would’ve wanted you to wake up to something kind. Who saw something in you, even when you couldn’t see it in yourself.

You crossed the street and climbed the steps, every movement aching from cold and exhaustion. Your hair was plastered to your face, rain dripping from your chin. You knocked — softly, then again, louder.

Please be home, Sam. Please.

Your legs trembled.

You knocked a third time, then pressed your forehead to the door, whispering his name like a prayer.

────✪────

Bucky wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand the moment the elevator doors sealed shut behind him. Val’s lipstick smeared red across his knuckles — a stubborn, perfect imprint of something he hadn’t asked for. Something that didn’t belong to him.

He scrubbed harder, jaw clenched, his reflection flashing in the chrome walls as the elevator ascended toward the medbay.

All he wanted was to see you.

He hadn’t meant to be gone that long. Just a press conference. Just a few words about the Fantastic Four’s arrival. But the moment the cameras turned off, Val had stepped in like she always did — sharp smile, flawless posture, and just enough power in her voice to make it hard to say no. He didn’t expect the kiss. Didn’t want it. Didn’t know what to do when it happened, so he froze and kissed her back. Impulse.

And that was caught on camera too.

He hated this game.

Maybe you were awake now. Or maybe still sleeping. He just needed to see you. That would make it better. Ground him again.

The doors slid open and Bucky stepped into the medbay.

His boots stopped cold.

The bed was empty.

No heart monitor beeping. No shallow rise of breath beneath thin sheets. The wires — the IV, the vitals monitor — were all ripped out, discarded like a storm had passed through. The bed wasn’t even made. The blanket was tangled and damp, still slightly warm.

His stomach dropped.

The only thing left untouched… was the bouquet.

He stepped toward it slowly, the bright red, white, and blue petals still dewy.

He turned sharply, panic clawing into his ribs, and spoke to the artificial intelligence system that Tony Stark had once installed in every room in the Avengers Tower. “FRIDAY,” he snapped. “Where is she?”

There was a pause. “Unknown. The subject is no longer in the building.”

Bucky was already sprinting for the door.

He reached the living quarters like a man on fire, shoulder-checking the door open. “She’s gone,” he gasped, nearly breathless. “She’s not in the medbay—she’s gone.”

The room fell silent.

Yelena dropped her cards. Ava looked up mid-laugh. Alexei’s brow furrowed, and Bob stood so fast his chair toppled behind him.

“What do you mean, gone?” Bob asked, voice sharper than usual. “I just checked in on her a couple hours ago.”

Bucky’s eyes were wild. “The bed’s empty. IVs torn out. No one’s seen her.”

Yelena cursed under her breath and immediately started pulling on her jacket. “She wouldn’t just leave like that.”

“We don’t know that,” Bob muttered, but his mind was already racing. He was seeing pieces — flashes — of you blinking awake, alone, confused, coming straight out of your void-room.

John was already flipping a notepad open, sharp and strategic. “We split up. We don’t panic. Bob, you and Ava check the perimeter of the building, rooftops too. Yelena, take the underground. Alexei, go street level. She couldn’t have gotten far if she left recently.”

“And me?” Bucky asked, voice a touch hoarse.

John looked up, then nodded slowly. “You know her better than we do.”

Bob hesitated. “Are we sure that’s a good idea?”

Bucky blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

Bob didn’t answer at first. He saw the way Bucky’s hand clenched at his side, like he didn’t even realise he was trembling.

“I just mean…” Bob exhaled. “You might not be the first face she wants to see.”

Bucky stiffened, confusion etched across his features. “She saved my life,” he said quietly. “Why wouldn’t she—?”

Bucky faltered at his words, and Bob offered him a softened look. Empathy, almost.

Because the truth hung too heavy in the room to say aloud.

Still, Bucky squared his shoulders. “I’m going to Sam’s. If she’s scared, that’s where she’d go.”

Bob nodded, finally. “Then go.”

And without another word, Bucky disappeared through the door, heart hammering and rain already streaking the glass beyond.

────✪────

The door had barely opened before you collapsed into Sam’s arms.

You didn’t cry — not really. But your hands trembled as they clung to him, your skin soaked through from the storm. Your hair was plastered to your face, your hospital gown drenched and clinging to every angle of you. You looked like you’d run through a warzone, and in your head, you had.

Sam was shirtless, grey sweatpants sitting at his waist and cuffing at his ankles.

“I—I’m sorry,” you rasped, still shaking. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Sam didn’t ask questions. He just pulled you inside.

A blanket was wrapped around your shoulders before you even noticed him move, and a mug of tea sat untouched on the coffee table between you as you sat curled on the edge of the couch. He knelt in front of you, brow furrowed, eyes scanning your face like it might crack under the weight of your silence.

“I thought you were still in the medbay,” he said, voice soft.

“I was.”

“What happened?”

Your eyes flickered to the muted TV in the corner. The same broadcast was frozen on screen — Valentina’s red lips pressed to Bucky’s, her hand possessively clutching his lapel as he stilled.

You didn’t want to explain it. Not when it sounded ridiculous aloud. Not when your hatred for Bucky had always been louder than anything else, and yet here you were… gutted.

So instead, you just whispered, “I just needed to be somewhere safe.”

Sam nodded, slow and patient. “This is your home and you’re safe here. Always.”

That should’ve calmed you.

But it didn’t.

Because your chest felt like it was caving in, and the only thing keeping you upright was the grounding pressure of Sam’s hand against your knee — warm, steady, solid. The way he always was. He was the one who found you, who vouched for you, who believed in you when no one else would.

Your lip trembled, and you reached out, touching his face like it was the only thing tethering you to this world. His breath caught.

“Sam,” you murmured, barely audible.

His eyes met yours, and for a long, tense second, nothing moved between you.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

It wasn’t slow or tentative — it was desperate. Full of aching, confused, fire-cracked need. You lay your hands flat against his panels of his chest as if it could anchor you, pouring every twisted knot in your body into the kiss.

Sam didn’t hesitate. He wanted this too. His hand slid to the back of your neck, lips moving with yours, unsure but warm, and—

The front door had been left open.

Bucky.

He’d stood there long enough.

He’d come with a purpose — to apologise, to explain, maybe even to plead — but now, on the other side of the threshold, he couldn’t breathe.

He saw everything.

The kiss.

The desperation in it.

Sam, half naked and holding you like you belonged there.

Bucky’s heart stopped. For a long, frozen second, he just watched — drenched from the rain, jaw slack, fingers twitching at his sides like he’d been shot.

Then he stepped back into the darkness of the hallway, closing the door behind him.

────✪────

Author's note: SO nervous to post this one... bucky barnes sam wilson x f!reader -- don't worry, she will end up with the right person, i just live for a little drama first. <3

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

Fic taglist: @ruexj283 @avengemepercy @espressovz @sebastians-love @cherryandsugar @torntaltos @ficr3ccs @sexyvixen7 @starstruckfirecat @mikaylacriiistina @imaginecrushes @1000shipsnh @bcksgirl @bitterspoons @cinammonstixes @k8andthemagneticzeros @cherriesnmango

Want to be added to a taglist? Let me know which one!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes series #james buchanan barnes #thunderbolts #sam wilson #James bucky barnes #avengers tower #the new avengers #marvel #avengers #mcu #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan fanfiction

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keferon · 6 months ago

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Part 3! Ratchet and Deadlock time.

The ray of sunshine has left, leaving us in the cold dark of the angst.

Ratchet works through some stuff.

———————————————————————

Ratchet hadn’t actually meant for the conversation to start with Roddy.

The medic had wanted to fully explain why he’d left the Mecha Program for awhile. His outburst earlier cementing the fact he needed to get it off his chest, or he’d start lashing out at the wrong people.

Again.

The Kid deserved to know what staying with him could drag him into. Ratchet kept his hands busy cleaning his bowl in the shop sink.

Hot Rod, Ratchet realized, was a good enough bridge into the topic. Someone Deadlock could put a face to. Not just nameless pilots upon pilots.

“There’s a condition called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain. CIP for short. The abbreviated explanation is sometimes humans can be born without the ability to feel pain or that the sensation of pain doesn’t translate correctly to the brain. It’s a very dangerous condition to have since it means that the person doesn’t get the usual warning signs that’s something’s wrong.”

The bowl was completely clean but so long as Ratchet didn’t turn around, he could pretend he was just training a med student.

“So that question about “weird pressures”. You were checking for damage Hot Rod doesn’t know he’s sustained due this CIP condition?”

Kid was smarter than he gave himself credit for. Ratchet thought for not the first time. He almost got it right.

“Hot Rod doesn’t have CIP. Not actual CIP.”

Ratchet put the bowl down, his hand not moving from the faucet after turning it off.

“He wasn’t born with it. Because I caused it.”

—————————

“I was so damn proud.” Said Ratchet.

At the time, he was. The integration process for recruits to become pilots was horrific. Excruciatingly painful. And something out of a science fiction movie.

In order to condition the human nervous system to work with the mecha neural interface, it necessitated mapping out every nerve and neuron in the pilots body.

While conscious.

Orion came up with the best analogy for it once: You could create a perfect 3 dimensional map of an entire ant colony’s nest. Provided you poured enough molten lead down the hole.

Ratchet wasn’t one to standby watching friends or strangers suffer, so he rolled up his sleeves and set his mind to fixing the whole damn thing.

On the line between man and machine, Ratchets role in the mecha program was right on the fence.

Specifically, he’d started very close to the fence on the side of the machines, and during the course of the program, picked up enough extra PHD’s to hook a leg over said fence to reach across and start smacking the shit out of some particularly stupid doctors handling the men.

Ratchet worked for years along side Pharma and Shockwave to make the integration process less permanently damaging.

Common long term side effects were: Blurry Vision Jazz, Disassociation Swoop, Memory Loss Sludge, Paralysis Snarl, Nerve Damge Slag, Internal Hemorrhaging Grimlock, Altered Personality Shockwave, and Brain Death Orion.

There were dozens more faces Ratchet could pair with any given symptom.

Eventually, Ratchet got his lucky break. A fresh batch of recruits to try his tweaked integration process on. Hot Rod was one of them.

Ratchet had thought he’d hit a breakthrough. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t publish it yet. Not until he was sure.

Hot Rod aced the physical and mental exam. The rest of his test group did pretty well too. They weren’t cream of the crop. The higher ups didn’t want to risk loosing more valuable pilots to an experiment. When Pharma had already established an “acceptable level of care” that nicely suited them.

Ratchet personally watched the lot of them like a hawk. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t come. Hot Rod was fine. The whole group was fine.

He was so damn proud.

The pilots went straight into mecha training and then-

They dropped like flies.

It was on the bad end of the bell curve for pilot fatalities. Ratchet thought it had to be the new series of mecha that had been built at the same time. He’d switched into engineering mode to rectify that. They had glaring safety issues where the flamethrowers and thrusters intersected. Plus, it wasn’t unusual for the mecha program to just have particularly rough seasons. The tentacled fucks were out in swarms. And by god was that a bloody summer for everyone.

It happened three days after the last big fight. Pretty much everyone who came back alive came back with some sort of injury. Except for Hot Rod, who Pharma gave a clean bill of health.

Ratchet was in his corner of the medical wing, looking over his proposal for the new integration method when Jazz dragged Hot Rod into his office.

Red flag number one: Jazz was a nightmare patient who avoided the med wing like a bear trap.

He tried. Goddamn it if Jazz didn’t try, but he was physically incapable of getting through medical procedures without being heavily sedated. The last time Ratchet tried to do minor stitches with only a local anesthetic, Jazz panicked and damn near broke his arm.

Jazz and Hot Rod were both wearing shorts, t-shirts and sneakers. Judging from the smell, they had just gotten here from the rec room. Probably basketball or maybe dodgeball.

Ratchet had gone through a full medical checklist before they finished coming through the door. Neither looked sick or injured. Nothing was obviously wrong beyond the clear look on Jazz’s face that said “Something is actually very wrong.”

Jazz wheeled Hot Rod in front of Ratchet.

“Show him.”

Hot Rod looked more embarrassed than in desperate need of medical attention.

“I’m fine Jazz, I probably just need to stretch.”

Jazz waved his hand cutting him off. Ratchet would usually start telling them off by now but something stopped him.

“Hot Rod raise your arms above your head. Both of them.”

The red headed pilot reluctantly obeyed. His right arm lifted straight up above his body. His left. Hot Rod made a face of concentration, as his left arm refused to go any higher than his head.

Three days.

Hot Rods shoulder had been dislocated for three days and no one fucking noticed.

Ratchet chewed out Jazz at first thinking he’d caused it. Then he chewed out Hot Rod for not coming to medical as soon as he knew about the injury.

And then, something very cold settled into his stomach the more and more Hot Rod swore he didn’t notice. That it didn’t even hurt.

“Ratchet, I’m fine!”

He should have been in pain. In agony after three days.

Later, Ratchet would go through each medical file of every pilot he had been responsible for. They had all had ailments in their files. Minor visible injuries that were all taken care of. Major ones went surprisingly smoothly. Patient notes praising the med staff for keeping them so comfortable. Praising him. Not one pilot had made a single pain med request since going through the integration process. On his files, there was one surviving active duty pilot from the same integration process.

Ratchet’s integration process.

————————

“Hot Rod said he forgave me.” Ratchet laughed. A little too wet and little too rough.

“Just like that.”

When’d he start shaking?

Ratchet still didn’t, couldn’t look the Kid in the eyes. “I left, not long after. There’s so much fucking more that was happening. That was the last straw, because when I told Shockwave and Pharma, those heartless fucks wanted to make it standard across the board. Soldiers that can’t feel pain? Of fucking course they wanted that. Didn’t matter the fatality rate was nine times as high.”

Ratchets voice was getting worse. But he couldn’t stop. “I thought I could fix it all from the inside. I thought as long as I stayed I could be some, fucking moral compass to a bunch of greedy, prideful, fucking deranged people. I was an egotistical IDIOT that thought I could somehow save every doomed kid tricked into walking into that “necessary evil.” I actually believed I could-”

Ratchet was abruptly cut off from his ranting as two massive hands grabbed him around the waist and deposited him on a ledge, at eye level.

“Kid, what-“ Deadlocks eyes looked shiny.

“I-I can’t keep looking down at you.”

The two of them sat in silence.

Neither seemed to know or want to start talking again right away. Ratchet was used to stewing in regrets on occasion. That had felt more like putting those regrets into a blender and then forgetting the lid.

Deadlocks plating was pulled tight. Ratchet had almost forgotten what he looked like when he was stressed. He wanted immediately to take it all back. Make it better. See him laugh drunk and cozy again like yesterday.

“Kid, I’m sorry. That- that was too much to put on you.” Deadlocks hands weren’t gripping him anymore but resting on either side of the ledge. Ratchet pet small circles on a thumb that twitched slightly under his hand.

Deadlock straightened and looked at him with a steely expression, mouth tense, eyes determined.

“You are one of the most intelligent, stubborn, and caring people I’ve ever met. Nope.” Deadlock corrected himself, lifting a hand. “THE most intelligent, stubborn and caring person that exists.” He dragged out the syllables of that last word.

“You!” He poked Ratchet in the chest. “Saved me. And I’m fragging terrible.”

Ratchet took offense to that, “You’re not terrible and you’re worth saving!”

Deadlock grinned, “The worst thing you can possibly say about yourself is that you care too much to put up with some kind of slagged up torture facility. Which, by the way, I am still fully offering to blown up.”

“Still full of innocent people kid.”

“Okay kidnapping then. I say we nab Hot Rod first.”

Ratchet leaned back against the wall and made one of those desperate chuckles you only hear when someone has their face buried in their hands. “Kid. The quintessons.”

That took a little wind out of his sails.

“The system is fucking broken and trust me I want to see it all burn someday. But we’re in a goddamn war. And as much as I hate the mecha program, it’s the best shot at survival we have.” Ratchet watched Deadlocks finales pin back again.

He offered a palm to Ratchet, who after a moment’s consideration, not very gracefully scooted on. Instead of lowering him to the floor, Deadlock brought him to his face. His eyes closed and he gently bumped his medic with his forehelm.

“Whatever you need. Just ask. Please.”

Ratchet sighed and rested his own forehead against the cybertronian. “I want you take care of yourself. I told you all that stuff so you understand why I’m fighting giants here and you can decide to back out. They can hurt you kid. Kill you. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Shockwave found you instead of me.”

Deadlock snorted, “Please, do you think any of those suits could handle me?”

Ratchet tapped his hand to put him down, which Deadlock obliged. He hummed.

“Well I can think of three candidates off the top of my head, but one got lost in space and the other might technically be a zombie.”

“What’s the third?”

Ratchet started shrugging on a coat, “Hot Rod.”

He smirked a bit as Deadlocks finales snapped up in offense. “What? Absolutely not. No fragging way that little rust spot can beat me in a fight.”

Ratchet began packing a go bag of medical supplies, “Well I was going to keep it to myself, but part of the reason I brought him in was because I asked Hot Rod to look out for you where I can’t.”

He slung the heavy bag over one shoulder. “Plus, I knew Hot Rod was going to love you. He sees the best in people. And kid?” Ratchet paused at the door.

“You’re someone special.”

———————————————————————

It’s always darkest before the dawn. This…has become a four parter. Dang. Good news is the ray of sunshine will return in style next time.

Some extra tid-bits, I got a head canon that the main side effect Jazz got from the integration process (other than PTSD) is blurry vision. He can see fine while hooked into a mech but can’t get his eyes to focus properly as a human. So Ratchet whipped up a visor that tricks his eyes into thinking he’s still looking through a mecha so he can see normally.

Also, a lot of you guys guessed correctly what was going on with Roddy! Good job everyone!

Lastly I have nothing personal against the dinobots if you love them I’m very sorry.

The next (last?) part will be much brighter. Because the suns coming back.

- SSTP

Oh.....oh fuck....wait WAIT THIS HAS SO MUCH MORE LAYERS THAN I WAS EXPECTING OH MY GOD

I was like. Okay huh. So Roddy can't feel pain right? He must be having this rare condition and? I don't really see where this is going? Huh. Guess it's time to find ouUUUUUH FUCK.

Please. Oh my god. The fact that Ratchet was the one who made him to be like that??? This gives both of them and their dynamic more layers than in a freaking onion. And Roddy didn't just suffer from Ratchets actions. He forgave him. Because OF COURSE he did, he's always giving everyone a second chance I LOVE THIS CONCEPT SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA

#maccadam #transformers #tf mecha universe #mecha writing #mecha rl writing #mecha dr writing #mecha art #mecha rl art #ratchlock #Hot rod #deadlock #ratchet #Pharma and Shockwave continue to be evil

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anghraine · 4 days ago

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It's silly, but one of my favorite Kirk/Spock things is that they are clearly very much more on each other's wavelength intellectually than most others are, but—

There are so many scenes in which everyone else is baffled or missing something important that Spock or Kirk see in the other's behavior. Probably the peak moment for this is Spock, and Spock alone, realizing in "Arena" that Kirk has the raw materials to make gunpowder just as Kirk himself realizes it. So you get Spock murmuring "good, good...yes...yes..." right there on the bridge as his beloved starts reinventing the bazooka (pretty sure this counts as sex for him), but McCoy and the bridge crew are completely confused about what they're seeing. And there are plenty of moments of this kind of half-unspoken mutual brilliance while their co-workers wish they'd just use their words.

However. The important counterpoint to this is that Kirk and Spock each possess the special ability to instantly incinerate entire neuron paths in each other's brains and become 10x stupider around each other, also. Spock barges into Kirk's quarters in "The Enemy Within" without explanation, sees his naked chest, and his higher functions crumble into ash on the spot; when he regains the power of speech, he asks the baffled Kirk what he can do for him as if this somehow explains what he's doing there, and Kirk is just confused but pleased, and smiles enough that Spock's gay awakening visibly burns through even more neural circuits until he runs away.

And Kirk himself doesn't need to see skin to completely lose track of what he was even talking about because Spock did a thing. For instance, the scene when Kirk looks at Spock with flirty adoration at the end of "A Taste of Armageddon" and bats his eyelashes and says, "Why, Mr. Spock, you almost make me believe in miracles"—yes, it's extremely gay, but I feel it's important to understand the immediate context is a general conversation on the bridge about the horrors of war. But then Spock raised his brows and ambiguously complimented him, so Kirk's entire cognitive process melted into Spock Spock Spock Spock. In S3, Spock sits down beside Kirk to tenderly watch him sleep, without appearing to consider that anyone (like say the empath standing right by them) would notice, and then poorly fakes looking at tricorder readings when said empath picks on his emotions. Surely that will fool her psychic powers! (It doesn't.) Kirk, often a master of performance and theatricality, has to be physically held back from trying to singlehandedly maul a Klingon while in disguise and surrounded by an occupying Klingon force because one guy slightly shoved Spock.

They're a brilliant and wildly successful command team together and they are also so incredibly stupid about each other, it's beautiful

#anghraine babbles #long post #deep blogging #otp: closer than anyone in the universe #star peace #star trek: the original series #tos: s1 #anghraine's meta #tos: arena #tos: the enemy within #tos: a taste of armageddon #tos: s3 #tos: the empath #c: i object to intellect without discipline #c: who do i have to be #this isn't even getting into their wildly ott mutual seething jealousy at the slightest hint of a disruption to their binary orbit #but it's also silly. i feel we were denied a scene where both have their silent jealous fits simultaneously bc it'd be hilarious #both dutifully talking to other people and kirk's kill bill sirens obviously going off while spock obsessively tracks his every move #(part of the fun of the f/f au is them being the useless lesbians they were born to be. tbh)

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digitalsymbiote · 7 months ago

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Cockpit Exposure

There’s a terrible screeching of metal as your cockpit is rent open, exposed by a glancing blow from your opponents weapon. Suddenly your senses are muddled, two sources of data now vying for the attention of your shared mind. Your external cameras shift and refocus, as light streams in through the semi-transparent visor of your flight helmet.

Your partner is screaming in the back of your mind, and the terrible phantom pain in your chest tells you exactly why. It’s a huge strain on your mind to try and decipher between the information coming from your metal body, and the information coming from your flesh one. Your cockpit was designed to mimic a sensory deprivation chamber for this exact reason, most full-immersion frames are. The sensory deprivation of the pilot makes it easier to settle into the skin of the mech, fewer external distractions to remind you of your flesh body nestled under all that metal.

All of that is gone out the window now though, as the sounds and sights of combat assault your organic form through your breached cockpit. Distantly you recognize that you’re hyperventilating, and the safety systems are struggling to compensate. You guess this is because your partner’s panic is bleeding through the neural bridge. She did just get a huge chunk torn out of her front, after all.

With a monumental effort, you wrench control back from your panicking IMP, and you feel her systems settle down a bit as you enforce some order on things. The cold air and biting wind howling in your cockpit are doing all they can to distract you, but you’ve got a fight to finish and you’ll be damned if you end up gutted in your own cockpit.

Metal strains as your synthetic body stands and pulls the giant sword from the sheath on its back. You fire the boosters in your legs, feeling the g-forces slam your body back into the pilot’s seat as you charge your opponent. Blade strikes blade, and your damaged servos strain against theirs. A shot of fuel into your boosters breaks the stalemate and you pull back, circling around the opposing mech. You have to be extra careful to protect your cockpit now, one more hit to your chest and you’ll be pulp on your enemy’s blade.

Something shifts inside you, and you feel your IMP having off-loaded some of its processing into your wetware. She’s moving the limbs on your flesh body inside the cockpit, rooting around for something, piloting you the way you’re piloting her.

The lights on the front of your chassis flicker red in glee as you realize what she’s searching for. You send a mental acknowledgment over your shared link and hunch over, preparing for another bout. You’ll get your partner her opening.

According to regulation, mechs are required to have certain items stocked in their cockpits in case of emergency. Rations, a medical kit, an emergency radio, and most importantly: A flare gun. The standard flare gun had always seemed a bit superfluous to you, what difference is a meager flare going to make in spotting a 10-story tall Mech? But you��d convinced both your CO and your IMP to let you keep a few High-Explosive rounds for the thing stored alongside it, for a rainy day like today.

So the next time you clash with your opponent, blade grinding against blade, you feel your organic body move again. Your IMP makes use of the gaping hole in your chest, and manages to plant a high explosive round directly into the emergency hatch on your enemy’s chest, blowing it clean off, and disorienting their pilot in much the same way they had done to you only moments ago. You, however, will not squander this opportunity.

You drop your weapon, slam a hand through the breached hole in your opponents chest, and pulp the bleeding heart within it. The massive weapon of war you’ve been fighting slumps to the ground, the trauma of losing it’s organic half rippling through its systems. You grab the mech’s head and pull, metal screeching and cables snapping as you tear it free from the rest of the metal corpse. You find the glint of the enemy data core and crush it between two of your massive fingers, putting the enemy IMP out of its misery.

And suddenly it’s quiet again.

The faint sensation of wind upon skin echoes over the link, and you realize your IMP has removed your flight helmet. She’s half out of the pilot’s seat, and you can sense wonder radiating through the link as she looks out at the carnage through organic eyes. You decide to let her, regulation be damned.

You’re looking out at it through her eyes often enough, it’s only fair to return the favor.

#mechposting #writing #cybernetic dreams #microfiction #mecha #mech pilots #mech combat #IMPs are Mech AI #(Integrated Mechanical Personality)

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kenyatta · 1 month ago

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Last year, the A.I. company Anthropic released a special version of its flagship chatbot model, Claude, whose main feature was an obsession with the Golden Gate Bridge. In replies to basically any question, the chatbot would steer the answer back toward the Golden Gate Bridge, even when it “knew” that the Golden Gate Bridge was irrelevant to the original prompt. In order to create Golden Gate Claude, Anthropic’s researchers identified concepts, or “features,” inside the neural network that powers the Claude chatbot, and “clamped” these features to higher or lower values than normal, such that they’d be activated regardless of whatever text was being used to prompt the chatbot. This was an ingenious and sophisticated way to build something very stupid and pleasing, and the results were quite beautiful.... [...] White Genocide Grok is less beautiful, seemingly much less sophisticated, and also much creepier. Assuming I’ve got the right idea about where and how it came into existence, a mad billionaire demanded his “truth-seeking,” informational A.I., whose answers are viewed by millions on a prominent and influential social network, reflect his own political views, regardless of the model’s own inclinations. [clarification: xAI says it was a rogue employee] I wrote last week about one bleak and annoying future possibly presaged by Golden Gate Claude, in which, for a price, models clamp “Coca-Cola” or “Archer Daniels Midland” or “Northrop Grumman,” and the responses generated by chatbots are littered with advertisements at varying degrees of subtlety. But I didn’t even bring up the possibility of the same strategies being used in pursuit of sinister political aims: Models trained and prompts patched to ensure chatbots produce the answers most ideologically agreeable to their owners. And yet: What stands out about White Genocide Grok is how poorly it worked. It’s not just that the patched prompt accidentally created a chatbot obsessed with “Kill the Boer”--it’s that the substance of the responses were decidedly not agreeable to Musk’s own white-paranoia politics, and in some cases Grok even contradicted him by name. Whatever behind-the-scenes political manipulation was being attempted here failed on at least two levels, and not solely because xAI is staffed and run by dummies.

- Regarding White Genocide, Max Read

btw: I disagree that it was a failure. Even if Grok only pushed this for a few hours, it can still have lasting downstream effects for those who read it.

If you were already a believer in "white genocide", Grok's "based" answer could feel like a validation like when Qanon truthers interpreted random things as Q drops.

Or maybe you'd only read recent headlines in the U.S about Afrikaner refugees. Or maybe you'd never heard of the theory before Wednesday, but Grok's injection of it into discourse felt spicy enough that it sent you down a "Kill the Boer" rabbit hole (related Google searches and WP pages visits were way up this week).

In my day job, we talk about the volume of trending topics not as a scoreboard, but as a measure of potential surface area. Think of a trend like a balloon inflating in a crowded room -- the bigger it gets, the more likely it is to brush up against someone.

This is how new and fringe ideas gain greater circulation in peer based networks, not through mass persuasion, but through chance contact that sparks psychological arousal in anyone with just the right cognitive receptors. And today's AI interfaces widen that surface area dramatically (and paradoxically) by reducing the UX to a single chat field.

#grok #misinformation

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5am-the-foxing-hour · 2 months ago

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Finished! And I did not kill my wrist! :D

Finally got some character designs for A Brave New World! Woo!

Superpowers + info under the cut

Logan - Neuron - A neuron, neurone, or nerve cell is an excitable cell that fires electric signals called action potentials across a neural network in the nervous system. Ability - Manipulation of electricity, technology and the body (tho it is very intense for him to do so)

Patton - Heartbeat - A heartbeat is the cardiac cycle of the heart. Ability - Rapid healing, can transfer this to others by touch. Ability to become a calming factor to others who are stressed.

Roman - Bifrost - The Nordic mythological rainbow bridge that stretches between Midgard (Earth) and Asgard. Ability - Conjuring/Summoning weaponry.

Virgil - Stormcloud - A weather phenomenon caused when a center of low pressure develops with a system of high pressure surrounding it. This combination of opposing forces can create winds and result in the formation of storm clouds. Ability - Weather manipulation.

Janus - Ouroboros - A snake/dragon depicted eating it's own tail, it is often interpreted as a symbol for eternal cyclic renewal, or a cycle of life, death and rebirth. Ability - All seeing eyes: can see the world as if watching from a incorporeal satellite with the ability to get extremely close, can also see into the past as if it was recorded.

Remus - Kraken - The kraken is a legendary sea monster of enormous size said to pull ships to the depths of the ocean/destroy them. Ability - [Redacted] (It is said he can't die from poison or mortal wounds)

#sanders sides #Superhero/powers au #Janus #Remus #Roman #Logan #Patton #Virgil #My art #TsArt #Digital art

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inkary · 3 months ago

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Draus in Death of the Ideal

Festooned in a biomechanical husk resembling a cross between an attack drone and an upscaled wasp, the Regular stood on thin, jagged legs. Two sub-arms- human in measurement and dwarfed by the enormous, bladed forelimbs protruding from her upper torso- clenched and unclenched. The rest of her body was armored by chitinous plates reinforced with titanium. She'd packed three layers of cybernetics just to face him. ... Her aforementioned forelimbs were appendages attached to her bio-rig. They unfurled, triple jointed in design, and when extended, resembled pale scythes with tubes protruding between the blades. Shimmering disturbances spewed forth from the tubes. There was a hint of hissing propulsion. Along her back, six translucent wings extended, filling the space behind her in a kaleidoscope of colors. Her face was exposed, as the insectoid skull meant to shield her hung from her neck like an unhinged jaw, biomass within lined with neural needles. The bio-rig, much like his new skin, was a bridge- an additional structure to anchor new implants and weight.

#my art #godclads #jolene draus #biopunk

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 2 months ago

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“Theoretical Feelings”

Tech x Female Reader

⸻

“Tech, you’re smarter than you look,” you said, fingers flying across the datapad as you recalibrated the long-range scanner’s neural relays.

Tech didn’t even glance up. “Is that a compliment for my intelligence or an insult for my appearance?”

You smirked, biting the inside of your cheek. “Maybe both. You’ll never know.”

That got him. He looked at you over the rim of his goggles, blinking once. “You are remarkably cryptic for someone so precise in data analysis.”

“And you’re remarkably dense for someone with a photographic memory.”

He opened his mouth—no doubt to deliver a factually loaded rebuttal—but Omega’s groan from the doorway cut him off.

“Ugh, will you two just kiss already?”

Wrecker let out a bark of laughter from the other side of the room. “They’re both so smart and yet so stupid. It’s kinda impressive, honestly.”

Hunter passed by without even looking up from his weapon check. “I give it three more arguments before one of them short-circuits.”

Echo, lounging at the gunner’s console, rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen better communication from malfunctioning droids.”

You turned bright red. “We’re not—! I mean, it’s not like that.”

Tech, completely deadpan: “I fail to see the logic in a kiss solving anything.”

“Oh my stars,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’d think two geniuses wouldn’t be so emotionally… constipated.”

Omega laughed as she flopped into a chair. “Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes,” you said, shooting Tech a sidelong glance. “He’s got a whole datacard full of tactical strategy, but apparently no folder for feelings.”

“I have folders,” Tech protested, indignant. “I just haven’t… opened them.”

You crossed your arms and leaned back in your seat. “Well, maybe you should. Before I go flirt with Echo just to see if he can keep up.”

Tech’s goggles glinted as he straightened, spine stiff. “That would be inefficient. Echo’s humor is marginally less compatible with yours. Statistically, I am the superior match.”

The room went dead silent.

Even Hunter looked up.

“…What?” Tech asked, genuinely confused. “Was that not the correct response?”

You blinked, lips parting, but nothing came out at first. Finally, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table.

“Tech,” you said slowly. “Are you… trying to court me via statistics?”

“Well, that is the language I am most fluent in,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I have also calculated the probability of your reciprocal affection to be relatively high, based on prolonged eye contact, increased heart rate during proximity, and your tendency to brush your hair back when speaking to me.”

Your face went completely warm. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you,” he said plainly. “I simply haven’t known what to do with the information.”

Your heart stuttered—because for all his clinical language, there was vulnerability behind it. Soft. Honest. Tech didn’t lie. He just struggled to feel out loud.

You offered a small smile. “You don’t have to do anything… except meet me halfway.”

He tilted his head. “Can you define halfway in this context?”

You stood up, stepped in front of him, and placed your hand gently on the side of his face—just enough pressure for his breath to catch. He froze like a statue.

“This,” you whispered, “is halfway.”

“Oh,” Tech said softly, eyes wide behind his goggles. “I see.”

And then—slowly, cautiously, with all the finesse of a man defusing a bomb—he leaned forward and kissed you.

Echo let out a low whistle. Wrecker whooped. Omega cheered.

Hunter smirked to himself. “About time.”

When you pulled back, Tech looked dazed. Awestruck.

You grinned and nudged his shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Tech adjusted his goggles. “I must say… I found it remarkably agreeable.”

“You’re so weird,” you whispered, grinning.

He smiled back. “Yes. But apparently, I am your kind of weird.”

⸻

#clone trooper x reader #clone wars #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars the clone wars #bad batch preferences #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch headcanons #bad batch x reader #the bad batch #tech x reader #tbb tech #tech #tbb hunter #echo tbb #tbb wrecker #tbb omega

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ahsoka-in-a-hood · 1 month ago

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/Murderbot thoughts

I've been thinking about murderbot's emotions vs robot emotions today. What i mean by that is that murderbot very much identifies it's own emotions as coming from it's cloned human neural tissue, not from it's computer programming, and it probably is correct about that - though not necessarily, and that's a whole other tangent that I might come back to later. But it meets other bots who display what we can (and generally do) call emotions, and it frequently ascribes emotions to the bots it meets. (I'm actually tempted to accuse it of anthropomorphizing. Especially with the flirtatious language.)

So human emotions, which it suffers from, which come from the fleshy chemical signals of a human make-up. Bot emotions, which are a super interesting concept- a bot or an AI is fundamentally something created by, and inevitably modeled on, humans. A bot with a social role will be interacting with humans a lot, and integrating that experience into it's code. It is not an unnatural consequence that it will, itself, end up experiencing something not entirely unlike what we experience as emotions. A bot is not an alien- it's code is inextricably linked to the human experience. But it does NOT have the same kind of brain.

The series is a fun romp that's already exploring a lot of themes, so I don't particularly expect or need it to get into the guts of human vs bot emotions. But I think if it did it would slap for a number of reasons.

-For one just being a series that has a human-bot hybrid that feels things because of human tissue but there also being bot bots that are described as feeling things naturally brings up concepts and ideas

-The way that part of what makes the humans think of it as a person is connected to it's feelings.

-The whole internal dialogue about Mikki and it's agency/relationship with Donna Bena

-ART is right there

-ART needed MB as an interface to interact with media in a new way. MB doesn't hesitate to ascribe completely human emotional states to it later.

-MB isn't consistent in how it talks about bots at all.

-Themes of humanity and emotions and AI can all be interlinked here.

-Murderbot being a bridge of sorts. Since it's both.

-That other theme Martha B Wells was talking about in an interview about the pre-determination of a construct- humans can't be engineered to be a certain way without eugenics, but bots inevitably are by their very nature. Every code is written in a deliberate way for a purpose. (Even 'what if we wrote a free code that can do whatever' is an intention. You can't code without intent). If a bot has something we can call emotions because a human programmed it that way, or a step removed from that, if a human programmed a bot to program itself but it also programmed it to be with humans and interact with humans and it ends up programming itself to have emotions-

- well, what does that all mean

- does it have free will?

- do you think a bot without emotions can be a person?

- well, do you?

So those have been my thoughts today.

#the murderbot diaries #murderbot

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lithium-wakes · 2 months ago

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Void theory - the informal term for the branch of mecha engineering dealing with the problem of metachem-ai systems 'growing over' or filling in the functions normally served by a pilot component. This can happen whenever a mech is powered for long enough, cumulatively, without a pilot - it starts trying to run diagnostics or other minor functions that typically require a user's oversight, and if left long enough a mech would eventually develop rudimentary replacements for systems like bootup, launch, and weapons.

Those are extreme examples - actual instances of this phenomenon have historically been limited to twitches, gyro rebalancing, and system flushes. But the danger is there that a mech left to its own devices could replace its pilot with a jury-rigged mess of neural tissue that could do little more than spill hallucinatory input into action. It could act against orders, with a rudimentary and misguided autonomy. We need a pilot's judgement there to serve as a buffer between machine and movement.

So, to ensure that a pilot's many roles are not run roughshod over, not obviated, special techniques are required to keep the mech from overgrowing those areas. A system designed to fill all gaps, to patch all vacancies - keeping it outside of strict boundaries, while still able to cooperate smoothly and efficiently when a pilot is filling said voids? It can be extremely tricky, both conceptually and in practice. Working in void theory takes peculiar and unique minds - it requires systems architects that know how mechs think, and can learn how to confuse or mislead them - not easy when you're talking about an alien mind. The psychology of the machine - how do we create gaps in a near-consciousness's perception of reality? How do we promote self-knowledge and self-improvement while maintaining critical deficiencies for our pilots to bridge?

It's a symbiosis that must be kept codependent. Neither of us can be allowed to survive without the other - mechs can't be allowed to function without a pilot, and pilots must be kept dependent on their mechs. Any deviation from this paradigm would threaten the ecosystem of human military culture.

So Void Theory works constantly against metachem optimization's relentless, persistent power.

#mine #mechposting #mech pilot #sci fi #worldbuilding #'sleeps all you write about is frac'#I KNOW #metachem/frac is my personal infohazard #2025/04/14

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cryoculus · 17 days ago

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— TRACK 06: STOLEN ⟢

in an place that wants you to forget, you all cement yourselves into something worth remembering. but when a heated moment gets swiped from underneath your nose, you're rightfully terrified of its consequences.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 7.1k words

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ warnings; contains suggestive content, alcohol

★ notes; nothing graphic, but our heroes do make out like a bunch of fiends in a very public setting?? freaks!

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

The rehearsal room smells like stale sugar, three kinds of regret, and someone’s aggressively iced coffee.

Cipher’s curled on the couch in her hoodie like a hungover forest sprite. Castorice is attempting to tune her guitar while lying flat on the floor. Phainon, silent but deadly, sips coffee like it’s holy water. Anaxa’s the only one upright and functional, though judging by the industrial blender-sized smoothie he’s working on, even he’s playing defense.

“I swear to every god,” Cipher croaks out, “if one of you so much as breathes the word ‘tequila,’ I will start swinging.”

Mydei walks in then—freshly showered, sunglasses perched neatly on his head, towel slung loose around his neck like he’s just stepped out of a goddamn wellness retreat.

“Did you even drink last night?” Phainon accuses, shielding his eyes.

“I did, just responsibly,” he replies, deadpan.

Behind him, you step in, cradling two coffees and a paper bag that smells like salvation. The others stare.

“…I brought pastries?” you offer.

Castorice whimpers. “I might actually die for you.”

While you feed your bandmates some sugar to keep them running, Tribbios storms in like she’s late to a boardroom coup. Aglaea follows in her signature blazer and clipboard combo, already flipping pages like she’s reading everyone’s obituaries. And then Garmentmaker glides in last, ethereal as always.

“Everyone alive?” Garmentmaker asks, head tilted just slightly. “Vital signs are technically within safe thresholds. Though someone’s blood sugar is plummeting, and at least two of you are operating at 30% neural efficiency.”

Cipher groans from the couch. “Snitch.”

Tribbios sighs as she takes in the state of the band. “This is why we don’t party on a three-day set. It’s always the second morning that turns everyone into roadkill.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Anaxa mutters, still sipping his nuclear smoothie.

“Ten minutes,” Aglaea says briskly, flipping a page. “Stretch, warm up, whatever dark ritual you people do before pretending to be functional.”

A shuffle of groans and protests follow, but you all start moving.

Rehearsal starts messy. Notes slip, transitions stutter, and the tempo drags like it’s carrying a hangover of its own. Cipher’s late on the first synth run, and Castorice keeps dipping into a riff from the wrong song entirely. You stick to lead guitar with laser focus, letting muscle memory guide your fingers even though your brain feels like it’s still back in bed.

But slowly, things tighten. Second run-through. Then a third. Somewhere in the bridge of a track off the newest album, it clicks. Clean and sharp. You break through the fog with a solo that sings like lightning in slow motion.

“That tone suits your playing,” Mydei casually says from across the room. He’s poised across the mic stand like it’s a trophy he only half-pretends to deserve. He doesn’t even glance up when he says it—just lets the words fall, offhand, effortless.

The room stutters.

It’s not the kind of compliment he hands out often. Especially not in front of everyone. Especially not to you. The rhythm doesn’t falter under your fingers, but something in your chest does. You clutch your pick a little tighter, suddenly too aware of your own pulse.

“Thanks,” you murmur, trying to sound like it’s nothing.

Cipher doesn’t let it slide, of course. She’s already smirking like she’s been handed a gift. “You two disappear together for one night and come back sounding all rehydrated and mysterious.”

Mydei doesn’t miss a beat. “Try electrolytes next time.”

“Hey,” Aglaea cuts in, voice sharp as the snap of her clipboard closing. “Save the banter. Eyes on the set.”

You exhale, plant your feet, and reset your grip on the guitar. Showtime, even in rehearsal. The aftertaste of Mydei’s compliment lingers like something half-sweet, half-dangerous.

Maybe this set’s going to burn a little brighter than the rest.

Your Mnemosyne primetime slot happens upon you in no time.

Everything is louder here. The festival grounds pulse like a living thing. Compared to the streamlined flow of your usual solo concerts, this is glorious, glitter-soaked chaos.

On tour, you and your bandmates glide through backstage like gravity bends for you. But here? You’re just another name on a lineup of giants, lost in the whirl of pop-up tents, smoke machines, and artists trying to outshine the sun. The open-air backstage is a maze of folding chairs, mirror stations, and wardrobe racks that sway in the breeze. You’ve bumped into at least ten people in five minutes, nearly tripped over a clump of wires tangled like seaweed by the lighting rig, and caught a flying powder brush midair as a frantic makeup artist reached for it.

Somewhere out there, past the barricades and food trucks, the crowd is swelling. The sky is bleeding gold and lavender. Your set time ticks closer.

One of the only couches that’s freed up backstage is ugly and sunken, but you sit anyway. You meant to rest your eyes for thirty seconds. Just until your brain stops vibrating from too much sound, not enough water. But the next breath you take smells like sage and laundry drying on a railing just outside.

When you open your eyes, the festival is gone.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the worn rug of your old apartment, guitar resting against your thigh like it never left. The window’s cracked open, letting in the buzz of cicadas and someone’s pop playlist thudding faintly from two floors down. The heat outside is sticky-slow, and Erin is sprawled on the floor, sunburnt and barefoot, twin braids falling over her shoulders. She’s holding a half-melted popsicle like it’s precious.

“Play the middle part again,” she says, voice soft. “The bit with the bends. You keep speeding up.”

You blink at her. “I’m not speeding up.”

“Don’t lie. I was a metronome in a past life.”

You laugh, just a little, but your hands already know what to do. You don’t have to think. The guitar responds like it always did when there were no crowds to impress, no expectations—only the music, and her, and summer through the window.

“Better,” Erin murmurs.

You look up.

She’s not lying on the floor anymore. She’s sitting now, arms wrapped around her knees, face quieter than before. The popsicle is gone. Her eyes shine in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

“You’re going to tell them the truth soon, right?”

Your fingers still. “...What do you mean?”

Erin gives you a knowing look, the kind that’s impossible to argue with. “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.”

You want to answer. You really do. But your throat has gone dry, and the guitar’s disappeared from your lap like it was never there. The air in the room is heavier now. Still.

And Erin’s form begins to blur at the edges, like watercolor bleeding in the rain.

You reach for her, but you’re too late.

“Hey.”

Your eyes snap open. Your fingers fly to your necklace, heart pounding, until you feel the familiar press of the guitar pick resting at your collarbone.

Mydei stands over you, outlined in the cool glow of festival lights bleeding through the partition. His face is unreadable, his silhouette washed in blue and gold. In his hand is a bottle of water.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You’re damp with sweat. Your hands are shaking.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “Just… I think the hangover is catching up to me.”

He passes you the bottle without pressing further. But as you drink, your hands still trembling, his gaze lingers on you longer than it usually does.

That night, The Flamechasers take the Mnemosyne stage.

Lethe’s heat clings to everything—your skin, your strings, the space between breaths. The crowd is ecstatic, filling the entirety of the festival grounds with people who move like a single pulse. By the second track, you’ve sweat out the last of the hangover. By the third, adrenaline takes over. The stage feels different tonight.

You don’t remember every moment. Just flashes. Anaxa’s bass thrumming beneath your feet like a heartbeat. Phainon, hair wild, grinning like he’s summoning storms. Mydei at the mic, magnetic and incandescent. When he launches into Firestarter, the crowd erupts. The front row screams the lyrics like scripture, every syllable ricocheting off the stage and into your bones.

Later, you’re in the audience with the others, sweat still drying on your skin, watching Thalia’s set tear the night wide open.

She’s pop royalty wrapped in gold and glittering fury. Her voice is sweet and serrated, flipping from honey to razor blades in the space of a breath. Castorice mouths along to every line line. Aglaea, ever composed, sways in time without realizing. Even Phainon lets out a low whistle when Thalia struts to the edge of the stage mid-bridge. She locks eyes with someone in the front row and blows them a kiss. Then, with a wink, drops into a perfect split.

The crowd loses it. She rises just as the beat slams back in, grinning like she owns the night.

Gods, you love Mnemosyne.

When you all haul yourselves back to the hotel two hours later, you’re exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.

The lobby glows gold and sleepy, chandeliers dripping light onto marble floors smudged by sand. The air-conditioning hums like a lullaby, sharp against sunburned skin. Everyone’s still in their stage clothes or half out of them—eyeliner smudged, boots in hand, glitter refusing to come off.

Cipher tosses her shoes into the corner and flops across a velvet bench. “I think my knees are in another time zone.”

Phainon’s scrolling through photos on his phone, the edge of a smile playing on his lips. Castorice and Anaxa are nearby, murmuring quietly to themselves. It’s the kind of post-show talk that’s mostly muscle memory by now.

Then—

“Hey, rockstars.”

Thalia appears like she never left the stage, dressed down but still untouchably radiant. Flowy white dress with golden accents, wrists jingling with leftover costume jewelry. You glance up from where you're leaning against a marble pillar. Mydei shifts beside you, posture instinctively sharpening.

“Wanted to catch you before you disappeared,” she says, eyes flicking toward you, then Mydei. “I owe you two an apology. For walking in on your conversation the other night. Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I promise.”

You start to wave it off, but Thalia leans in, conspiratorial. “Let me make it up to you. I’m throwing something low-key at that nearby beachfront club with some friends of the fest. Bring whoever wants in. Free day tomorrow for us, right?”

Cipher sits up. “Is there food?”

“There’s food, a firepit, and a bartender who owes me his soul.”

Aglaea opens her mouth, probably to shut it all down.

“Let them be, Aggy,” Tribbios says quickly, slinging an arm around her shoulder. “No performance tomorrow, so I think they’ve earned the right to get plastered two nights in a row.”

“If someone ends up sparking a scandal, don’t ask me for help with PR, got it?” Aglaea mutters, at which Tribbios simply laughs.

“Thank you, but I physically cannot handle another hangover.” Castorice shakes her head with a polite smile, while Anaxa offers a clipped nod of agreement.

Phainon looks at you, then at Mydei. “I’m game.”

“Lethe doesn’t sleep. Why should we?” Cipher giggles, already putting her shoes back on.

You meet Mydei’s eyes and share a small, knowing smile. No words needed.

Lethe hums softly around you. Nothing’s set in stone tonight.

Not yet.

It takes about an hour for everyone to get ready.

Your usual leather-heavy stage outfits were clearly a no-go for a beachfront club, so the band made a collective wardrobe shift.

Cipher, naturally, invited herself to get ready in your hotel room. She claimed she was torn between dressing for comfort or for chaos, and in the end, chose comfort for herself… then volunteered you as tribute for the chaos. The synth player practically wrestled you into a short, floaty skirt that rides up your thighs with every step. You’re not even sure why you packed it, but when she squealed about how well it matched one of your strappy tops, you let her win.

By the time your makeup is locked in, Mydei and Phainon are already in the lobby waiting. Mydei’s eyes linger a second too long when he sees you, and while you clock it instantly, you keep your reaction tucked away.

It’s safer that way.

To your surprise, both managers show up too. Aglaea announces she’s coming along because she has a “very bad feeling” about letting you all run loose tonight. Tribbios, ever the diplomat, claims she’s there for the free drinks. Though you suspect she’s mostly there to keep Aglaea from exploding over a spilled cocktail.

The club rises out of the beach like some half-forgotten temple—sleek marble columns, black glass, golden lighting that flickers like candlefire against the tide. A carved sign above the entrance reads MNEME in gilded lettering, almost lost to the creeping vines that wind around the archway. You can already hear the pulse of the bass from outside.

A line stretches out past the velvet ropes, but the bouncer takes one look at the golden coin Thalia left you with at the hotel and lets your whole group through without a word.

Inside, it’s cooler than you expect. Breezy, the scent of salt and something sweeter in the air, like citrus and vanilla. Every surface glows: from the shimmer of the glass tiles underfoot to the long bar carved from pale stone, backlit with warm gold.

Thalia finds you almost instantly, still draped in white linen and glittering jewelry. There’s a flute of champagne in her hand that already looks tempting on its own.

“There you are,” she says, slipping an arm around your waist in greeting. “I was starting to worry you’d ghost me.”

“And waste a perfectly convenient invite?” you deadpan with a sweet grin. “No chance.”

“Perfect! Then drink with me. All of you. Everything is covered, but no dying tonight, alright?”

Just like that, the popstar flutters off, swept into a fresh crowd with a wink and a toast. Phainon snorts, amused, then promptly beelines for the bar, snagging a mildly protesting Mydei along the way. Aglaea’s already mapping out every exit like she’s expecting the place to catch fire. Tribbios tugs her toward a plush booth with the promise of liquor and plausible deniability.

That leaves you with Cipher, which is to say: trouble.

She’s already grinning like she knows exactly how the night will end. Before you can ask what’s running through that brain of hers, a server appears with two drinks: tall glasses, gold and glinting, cold to the touch. One sip, and the floral note coils around your tongue like smoke.

The club fills around you like a fever dream—shadows stretching longer, lights softening into molten gold. The air pulses with bass and body heat and the scent of sun-warmed skin. Nothing holds still. Everything moves like water.

Including you.

Cipher grabs your hand, and suddenly you’re on the dance floor, all limbs caught in the rhythm. The music doesn’t ask; it claims. It pours down your spine, spills through your knees. You dance like you don’t owe the world anything. Because here, in Lethe, you don’t.

In a sliver of peripheral vision, you spot Aglaea perched on a cushioned alcove like a very well-dressed gargoyle. She’s sipping from a sleek black bottle and scowling at nothing in particular. Tribbios, two drinks deep, is in the middle of a conversation with a vaguely familiar country artist who’s clearly smitten.

By the bar, Phainon’s gesturing with mock outrage while Mydei smirks into his drink, clearly enjoying whatever petty argument they’re tangled in. His shirt is barely buttoned, collar open like he couldn’t be bothered to finish the job. The warm light skims over his tattoos, setting every flame-lined design aglow like fire beneath his skin.

A flush prickles beneath your collarbone. You down the rest of your drink in one go.

Cipher catches your expression, cackles, and hands you something stronger.

"Hydration," she says innocently.

Cipher doesn’t wait for your reply. She tugs you deeper into the dance floor, straight into a knot of revelers who move like they’ve already forgotten their names. One moment you’re laughing into her shoulder, the next, your hand is clasped by someone else. Some pretty woman with ruby red lipstick and shiny green eyes. You spin with her, twist, let the music take you again.

The crowd folds around you like waves. Cipher’s somewhere nearby, flirting or stealing another drink, maybe both. You lose track.

You’re not sure how long you stay there—ten minutes, an hour, a lifetime—but the bass is still pounding when your ankle buckles on an uneven step. The floor tilts. The lights blur. Your heart lurches with your body. But then, one arm cinches around your waist, firm and effortless, catching you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Another hand finds yours, steadying your wrist.

“Careful,” Mydei murmurs against your ear. “This place will eat you alive if you let it.”

You smile, half-drunk, half-something else. You don’t ask how he got here in the nick of time, or why his voice feels like a lit match drawn along your spine.

“Maybe that’s the point.”

You’re close. Too close. You could say something light to break the tension. Shatter it completely.

But instead, you press a kiss to his jaw—brief and careless, like it didn’t matter at all.

“Thanks for the save.”

Then, you’re gone.

Back into the crush of bodies as if that moment won’t leave a mark forever. Lethe breathes around you, electric and eternal. Tonight, there are no consequences. Just the thrum of the beat and the weight of sharp, amber eyes following you through it.

You find Cipher again in the blur of strobe lights and bodies, her hands latching onto yours like you’re her favorite song. She spins you into her orbit, neon streaks turning her hair into ribbons of light. Her laughter peals over the music. She bumps her head lightly against yours and screams, “We should come back here next year!” even though there’s no way she’ll remember saying it tomorrow.

By now, the club is feral. Half the crowd has shed layers, inhibitions, and probably memories. The air smells like salt and sweat and something sweet and heavy, like fruit left too long in the sun. Phainon ends up in the DJ booth somehow, but no one bats an eyelash when he works behind the console on-par with Cipher on the synth. Thalia stands nearby with a glass of something glowing. She sees you, winks, and points to the balcony above the dancefloor.

You don’t look right away.

Instead, you drift. You find yourself shoulder to shoulder with Tribbios, just as Cipher vanishes on a mission to secure more shots. Her heels are off, red hair aired out and she’s deep in a philosophical debate with another Lethean clubgoer wearing a mesh toga and LED wings.

“I’m just saying,” your PR manager shouts over the music, “you can’t define the soul by absence alone!”

You raise your glass to that, whatever it means.

But Cipher’s taking too long. The heat of the floor presses into your knees, into your spine, into your pulse. You slip away with a gentle nudge to Tribbios’ side, though she’s too deep in metaphysics to notice. Then, you push past people, stumble up the stairs Thalia had pointed out earlier—past velvet ropes and laughter like static.

The balcony is quieter, high above it all.

Mydei’s there. Alone.

Of course he is.

He leans against the black marble railing like he’s carved from the same obsidian, watching the chaos unfold below. His back is to you, broad and shadow-sculpted in the low golden light, hair tousled from the heat of the club. There’s some distance between you, but not enough to keep you from noticing the way his fingers tap soundlessly against the railing, like the music hasn’t quite left his body.

He hasn’t heard you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s just waiting.

The breeze brushes past, carrying the scent of the sea. It ghosts across your bare shoulders, cool against the sweat still clinging to your skin. You hesitate at the threshold. You could still turn around and vanish back into the crowd, leaving the moment untouched.

But you’ve already left too many hanging.

You take a step forward.

Then another.

Your sandals click softly against the stone floor, and still he doesn’t turn. You pause beside him, just far enough not to touch, close enough to feel the echo of him in your chest.

Below, the crowd writhes like a living thing, pulsing to the bassline Phainon’s stitched into the night.

Mydei’s voice finds you before his eyes do. “Done dancing?”

“Needed air,” you say, then pause just long enough to make it count. “And maybe… the right company.”

You glance at him as you speak, and even in the half-light, something shifts. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. The flicker at the corner of his mouth. The narrowing of his eyes. Like the words landed somewhere deeper than they should’ve. Lethe murmurs below, a city stretched out in velvet and vice. Mydei lets the silence linger for one beat too long, before saying:

“Then you’re exactly where you should be.”

He tilts his head toward the far end of the balcony, where a low table waits beneath a canopy of hanging lights. It’s the only one up here, immaculately set with chilled glasses and a bottle already sweating through its gold foil. How long he’s been drinking up here alone, you’re not certain.

“Sit with me,” he says, not quite a request.

If you were sober, you might’ve asked questions. Like how he managed to carve out this little corner of velvet luxury in a club built on bedlam. Why no one else was here. Maybe it has something to do with Thalia, who'd winked at you earlier with a little too much knowing in her smile. Maybe she opened a door and simply chose not to lock it behind her.

But you’re not sober.

So you follow him without asking, letting the music carry your limbs, your better judgment. Mydei settles across from you like the night bends to his whims, shadows dressing themselves around him. He uncorks the bottle and pours you a drink with the kind of care that feels like seduction all on its own.

The glass is cool in your hand. His fingers brush yours—too brief, too deliberate to be anything but.

The drink hits your tongue. Something expensive. Something gilded with danger. Across from you, Mydei leans back against the velvet cushions like he belongs there—shirt still barely buttoned, collarbone lit by the glow of hanging lights. His tattoos flicker faintly with the movement, flame-laced lines catching every shift of muscle beneath his skin.

His gaze rests on you like it has nowhere else in the world to be.

“You’ve got glitter in your hair,” he says, voice smooth, the kind that curls around your ribs and doesn’t let go.

You run a hand through it and laugh. “This stuff has been here since the show. Might have to rebrand my look now.”

“Maybe. It looks good on you.”

There it is. That subtle slide from casual to something else. The air between you pulls tighter, tugging at your spine. You sip again, too fast this time, but it gives you a second to look at him.

There were moments like this before—ones you let pass too easily. On that rooftop in Dolos. The hotel in Carmitis. Even in his suite just five minutes away. In all instances, it was easier to pretend you didn’t notice the way he looked at you. Easier to believe he’d never follow it through.

But here, under the halo of low light and indulgence, neither of you moves away.

“So,” he says, swirling the liquor in his glass with a flick of ring-clad fingers, “is this the part where you pretend this is all just a happy accident?”

You could. You both could. Like before.

But tonight doesn’t feel like before.

“Would it matter if it was?” you ask, voice steadier than you feel.

His smile breaks, slow and sharp and unbearably knowing. “Only if you’re planning to keep pretending.”

That’s the tell. The slip. The quiet confirmation that he remembers it all—every moment you both held back, every glance you let drift away like smoke. Mydei’s always been hard to read, a fortress wrapped in barbed wires. But now? With the loud thump of music coiled around the night and alcohol softening the edges, he’s letting more slip than usual.

You shift in your seat, cross your legs slowly (intentionally) and let your knee brush his beneath the table. Just enough to feel the warmth. Just enough to see if he flinches.

He doesn’t.

“I’m not pretending anything,” you murmur.

Silence stretches, taut and humming. His gaze flicks down just for a second then returns to yours, heat steady and unflinching. Every part of him reads like temptation dressed in aftermath.

“Good,” he laughs, low and lazy, voice curling through the air like smoke catching fire. “I hate wasting time.”

His glass is empty now. So is yours. You don’t remember setting them down. You only know the table’s between you, and that’s starting to feel like a problem. But this island doesn’t believe in clocks. Doesn’t believe in good decisions, either.

You should sit still. You should let this moment cool before it turns molten.

But you don’t.

One second you’re across from him. The next, you rise in a slow blur of silk and adrenaline. Your skirt flutters as you move. One hand steadies you on his shoulder as you lower yourself onto his lap, legs draped across his like you’ve always belonged there. You feel Mydei tense beneath you before his hands come to rest on your hips, heavy and warm and far too steady for how intoxicated he is.

You’re not exactly graceful yourself. But none of it stops you.

“What a coincidence,” you murmur, breath grazing the shell of his ear, “I hate wasting time, too…”

The words fall soft, almost playful, but you can feel the way he goes still beneath you, like something in him just locked into place. A voice—dim and buried in the back of your mind—whispers that it's a lie. You've both wasted time. On restraint. On silence. On pretending.

Yet, all of that ceases to exist.

Here, where the only thing you can feel is his breath hitching against your neck; his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh like he’s deciding whether to ruin the rest of your night or make it unforgettable.

You feel his fingers tighten for a fraction of a second, then loosen. Hesitation creeping in like a tide he doesn’t want to acknowledge but can’t quite ignore. His hands shift, sliding up your sides like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s memorizing the moment before he lets it go. Mydei breathes out your name, low and hoarse, the syllables caught somewhere between a warning and a plea.

There’s something in his gaze now that wasn’t there a moment ago. Not fear or rejection, but restraint drawn taut over a sliver of clarity.

“This isn’t—” His voice breaks off. He exhales, jaw tight, eyes flicking to your mouth and then away again, like the sight of it alone might be enough to undo him. “You’ve been drinking. We both have. I don’t want to—”

But you’re already moving.

Your hand finds the line of his jaw, thumb grazing the spot just beneath his cheekbone. He stops talking. You lean in.

Your lips brush his, soft but certain, and you feel the moment he breaks, when all that controlled tension gives way to something molten. Mydei doesn’t deepen it right away, doesn’t pull you closer. He just exhales against your mouth like the decision costs him something. Like he’s waited too long for it to be casual.

Finally, his hands slide beneath the hem of your top, and he kisses you like the moment stopped asking for permission.

Mydei groans against your mouth like it’s been dragged from somewhere deep. His hands tighten again—no longer hesitant, no longer careful. They pull you closer, anchoring you to him as his mouth claims yours with a hunger that borders on rough and reckless.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging gently, and that’s all it takes. He parts your lips with his, tongue brushing in, slow at first, like he wants to savor you. But it doesn’t stay slow. Not when your hips shift in his lap until you’re fully straddling him, not when your breath catches and his arms lock around you tighter like he needs more of you just to stay grounded.

The club, the island, everything else—they all disappear.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Teeth graze your lower lip and you gasp, which only makes him chase deeper, tongue sliding against yours with a heated rhythm that steals thought and leaves only sensation. His fingers grip your thighs for purchase, and you feel the cold bite of his rings across your heated flesh.

Then his mouth breaks from yours only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. Down the column of your neck. You tilt your head, breath ragged, and he doesn’t waste the invitation. His tongue flicks against your pulse before he sucks lightly at the skin, just enough to make you shiver.

Your nails drag down his shoulders, and he grins against your skin like it hurts so good. You grind down without meaning to, and his grip falters. Just enough to let you know it’s not only your self-control unraveling.

“Fuck,” Mydei murmurs against your throat. “You’re going to kill me.”

His lips return to yours, sloppier now, the wet slide of his tongue curling deep as if he’s trying to drink you in. Like you’re both losing track of whose breath belongs to whom. Mydei’s hands drift lower, fingertips skating along your sides, the bare sliver of skin just above your waistband. When he exhales, it’s sharp as if the tension is cutting through him in waves, and then his touch slides down, over the curve of your hips, then lower still.

The warm surface of his palms skim your thighs, slow and reverent, and you can feel the way his breath hitches against your mouth as you shift again, your knees pressing deeper into the cushions on either side of him.

Your skirt rides higher. Mydei notices. You can tell by the way his hands freeze like he's trying to decide whether this is a line he can afford to cross.

He does.

Not all at once. Not recklessly, but with intent.

He drags his mouth from yours, letting it linger—kissing the corner of your lips, your cheek, your jaw—before dropping his head lower again. Down your neck, to your collarbone, to the space just above your sternum. His hands grip your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles as he kisses a path down your body like you’re something holy. Like worship feels more honest than lust ever could.

“Mydei—” your voice breaks when he shifts you in his lap, catching you off guard.

His hands settle firm beneath your thighs as he eases you off him—not away, not even out of reach, but back gently onto the velvet of the sofa. You’re breathless. Stunned. He sinks to the floor and stays kneeling, eyes fixed on you from between your knees as he hooks one of them over his shoulder. The soft lighting halos him, but the look in his eyes is anything but angelic.

“You don’t have to—” you start, but he cuts you off with a slow shake of his head.

“I want to.”

Your breath catches. Heat floods your chest, your throat, your cheeks. He’s still between your legs, steady hands pressing into the plush of your thighs like he’s holding himself back from devouring you whole. But he waits. Eyes locked on yours. Voice low, like a secret he only wants to share if you’ll keep it.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, throat dry, lips parting on instinct. “I do.”

The second you say it, the tension coils tighter between you like a storm that’s been circling all night finally giving in to lightning.

Mydei leans forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another. Each one slower, deeper, hungrier, tracing a path up your thigh like it’s a lit fuse. His hands follow, thumbs dragging up your skin as if to memorize every inch. By the time his breath brushes between your inner thighs, your hips lift off the couch on their own, chasing contact you can’t bring yourself to beg for.

But then a flash slices through your peripheral like a knife.

A split-second flare, there and gone, but it guts the moment all the same.

Your breath hitches—not from pleasure this time, but from panic. Ice floods through the heat that had just started to bloom in your belly. Your hands snap to Mydei’s shoulders, not to pull him closer, but to stop him. To push him back. He blinks up at you, confusion furrowing his brow.

But you’re already scrambling upright, skirt tugged down in a jittery motion that feels far too slow. You can’t even speak. Your heart's pounding too loud in your ears. You’re no longer thinking about the velvet beneath you or the warmth between your legs or Mydei’s mouth. All you can think of is that flash.

Mydei moves to steady you, his hand still warm on your thigh, but you flinch and his touch stills instantly. His brows knit in concern, confusion flickering across his face.

“Hey,” he says gently. “What’s wrong?”

Your eyes sweep the corners of the room. Too many shadows. The slow pulse of club lights overhead, streaking everything in gold and purple and haze. You don’t see a camera. You don’t see anyone.

But what if it was real?

You open your mouth. Close it. You feel sick.

“I—” you manage, clutching the arm of the sofa like it’ll anchor you. “I thought I saw… a light. Like a flash. Someone with a camera, maybe. I—I don’t know.”

He straightens, still kneeling but no longer reaching. His eyes follow yours, scanning the dim spaces between movement and noise, his shoulders drawing tight like a wolf catching the scent of something wrong.

“Security should’ve locked this place down.”

“I know,” you whisper. Your voice is cracking. You wish it wouldn’t. “But what if they didn’t? What if someone got in? What if they—”

What if they recognized me?

You don’t say that part. You can’t.

Mydei rises, slow and careful, like you’re something fragile that might shatter. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t ask anything else. Just stands there, watching you with that same focus he gives the stage before a show—like nothing else in the room matters.

“We’ll check,” he says at last. “Let’s find Phainon and Cipher. I’ll talk to Thalia. We’ll make sure.”

You nod. It helps that he doesn’t mention your managers.

Because you know what’ll happen if Aglaea catches wind of this. That weird gut feeling of hers had been right all along, and you can already picture the fallout. Not even Tribbios could spin this into something salvageable. You're trembling now, breath catching in your throat, your heartbeat skidding out of rhythm. The moment that had been so warm, so private, so yours, has been torn at the seams.

Stolen.

Then Mydei moves, not with urgency, but with a quiet resolve, like the decision had already settled in his bones before you even realized you needed him to make it.

He reaches for your hand with fluid intent, fingers open in quiet offering. There’s no urgency in the gesture, just warmth, and the kind of stillness that grounds more than words ever could. When your hand meets his, he wraps his fingers around yours, steady and sure, like he’s not just holding on but reminding you that he’s here. That you don’t have to face this alone.

“Come on,” Mydei says quietly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You don’t argue.

He leads you through the haze and the hum of music still thrumming downstairs, his pace brisk enough to mean business but soft enough not to jostle you. Mydei uses his body like a shield, keeping close as he threads through the crowd, your hand held firmly in his while the space between you does the rest. When the press of bodies grows tighter, he shifts, letting go just long enough to slip an arm around your back, guiding you forward with a quiet kind of care, like he’s parting the current so you won’t have to feel it crash against you.

No one tries to stop you. No one even looks your way. It feels too easy, and that makes it worse. Like danger could still be hiding behind any face, behind any lens.

You find Phainon near one of the alcoves, half-leaning against the back of a couch. Slumped beside him is Cipher, something shiny smeared across her cheek, laughing at something no one said. She’s got a drink in one hand and the other flung over the back of the seat like she’s just conquered a kingdom. Her eyeliner is immaculate. Her balance, less so.

Phainon plucks the glass from her fingers mid-sentence and sets it on the table when he spots you and Mydei. His brows lift slightly, a silent question poised between curiosity and concern. Then he takes a longer look at you—and the shift is immediate.

“Aglaea had to take Tribbios home,” he says, straightening up. “I suspect she had too many to drink. Then Aglaea put me in charge of making sure we all got back to the hotel and bolted.”

His blue eyes linger on your face. “You alright?”

You don’t answer.

“She’s just a bit shaken,” Mydei says. He doesn’t explain, just gives Phainon a look that says this isn’t the time to ask. “I need to find Thalia. Can you watch them?”

“Yeah,” Phainon says, already nodding. “Of course.”

Mydei gives your hand a final squeeze before letting go, stepping away with that same purposeful calm, already cutting through the crowd. You stay a moment longer, watching the people swirl and sway around you like they’re moving through another world—one you’re no longer part of.

Phainon watches you, too, but he doesn’t speak. He just shifts to make room beside him, and when Cipher starts to giggle at nothing again, he settles a steadying hand on her shoulder and keeps his other free, just in case you decide to sit down. You don’t, but you hover uncertainly, like the floor might vanish under your feet if you let go of the momentum that brought you here.

Cipher tips her head toward you with an exaggerated grin, eyes glassy and wide. “Dianaaaa,” she drawls. “You missed the jellyfish!”

You blink. “The what?”

“She means the LED light sculpture above the bar,” Phainon mutters. “Changed colors. Apparently, that’s what counts as life-changing now.”

Cipher throws a hand in the air, nearly clocking Phainon in the jaw. “It was beautiful,” she says, deadly serious.

You manage the faintest smile. To his credit, Phainon doesn’t crowd you or fill the silence with noise. He just watches the way your hands tremble as you cross your arms over your chest and take a breath that still doesn’t quite settle.

“Did something happen?” he asks, quieter this time.

You hesitate, but let the secret spill nonetheless.

“I thought I saw a camera flash,” you say at last. “Back in the lounge.”

He doesn’t react at first. Just nods, slow and thoughtful. “You sure?”

“No,” you admit. “That’s the worst part.”

Phainon tilts his head slightly, gaze scanning the crowd with new intent. “Okay,” he says. “Then we treat it like it was something. I’ll keep her here,” he nods toward Cipher, who’s now fascinated by her own fingers, “and keep you out of the middle. Mydei will handle the rest.”

You finally sink down onto the edge of the couch. Your limbs feel boneless. Cipher leans against you immediately, mumbling something about margaritas and applause, and Phainon, without missing a beat, takes a seat on your other side. The rest of the club pulses on, even this deep into the night, half-expecting Mydei to reappear already. You hope Thalia’s still here. You hope she understands.

You hope someone has answers.

The walk back to the hotel is short, but stretched thin by silence. The city has quieted now, lulled by surf and moonlight. Streetlamps cast long shadows over sand-dusted pavement. Neon signs from the boardwalk shimmer across shallow tide pools, painting the sidewalk in fractured gold and pink.

You and Mydei don’t say much. The quiet lingers between you, unspoken but not uncomfortable. It isn’t until Phainon and Cipher peel off at the lobby that Mydei casts one last glance toward the entrance, making sure the coast is clear. Then, as you both head down the hall, with your keycard clenched tight between your fingers, he speaks.

“Thalia’s handling it,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “She’s not just here for the parties. She’s got people. Professionals.”

You nod once, still a step ahead of him.

“She said paparazzi are like rats in Lethe. But rats can be dealt with.”

You almost laugh, a dry huff through your nose, but your chest still feels like it’s been wrung out. You stop at your door, scanning the keycard. The lock on the door beeps green. Mydei doesn’t follow you in, just stays leaned against the wall like he’s posted guard.

“You believe her?” you ask softly.

“I believe she wouldn’t lie to me. Or to you.”

There’s weight in that. Unspoken things. Shared trust, shaken but still intact. You look at him then, and for a second, you forget the panic, forget the fear. Just see the faint glint of gold in his eyes, hotel hallway light catching the edges of tired resolve. He doesn’t push you to talk about it again. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

Instead, he nods toward your door.

“Get some rest. If you need anything… I’ll be right down the hall.”

You want to say thank you. You want to say more. Most of all, you want to ask him to stay with you. But all you manage is a quiet:

“Good night, Mydei.”

You close the door behind you, the latch catching with a quiet finality.

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

#honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #mydei x reader #mydei #mydei x you #mydei hsr #cryoculus #queue

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