#Metal Slitting Machine

[totheblood]

i still hear you. (prologue)

PAIRING: post tlou2!ellie williams x reader

SUMMARY: ellie stumbles upon your self-run town after her life is destroyed, except there's more to this town then what meets the eye. and it seems like there is more to you too.

WARNINGS: 18+ mentions of death, grief, related subjects; cursing, mentions of drinking/drugs, mentions of s*x

A/N: i've been working on this one for a while... i hope you enjoy! please send asks, reblog, and reply to this post <;3

WORD COUNT: 3k

"i still hear you laughing, but only for a minute"

Spring couldn’t come fast enough for Ellie. 

The cold still nipped at the exposed skin on her hands, ghosting the phantom limbs of the two fingers she was now missing. Everything was cold. The tip of her nose, her ears, and most importantly her heart. As she wandered aimlessly, unsure of where to go, she knew there was one place she couldn’t go: home. 

Jackson was no longer a place for her. Joel was gone, Tommy thought she was weak, and Dina…Well, Dina wanted nothing to do with her. Dina had a lot she could blame Ellie for before Ellie left, but she never did. She stayed. And now, on top of all of that, Ellie had left one of the few people in her life who cared enough about her to stay. Spring could come tomorrow but it would forever be winter inside her. 

She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she was going west. She couldn’t handle the harsh winters of the East Coast, and Wyoming stopped feeling like home before she left for Seattle. She thought about staying on the farm and living out whatever short life she was going to have there, but staying in that home painted with memories of “what ifs” would drive her crazy. 

So she packed enough supplies to last her a few months if she hunted her food and headed to the West Coast. The first few days were silent, she only encountered a few infected and found shelter in abandoned buildings. She lived off of expired food she found in vending machines in old universities and occasionally sang herself to sleep. 

On her tenth day, she found a car that lasted her about 2 days. Once it broke down, she just kept walking. Over abandoned highways and thick forests, she just kept walking. On day 17, she reached California and stumbled upon an eerily similar set of walls. It looked just like the gates at Jackson, except these were concrete and better built. They were much higher, and the gates almost looked… automatic. 

Ellie was hesitant. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she definitely wasn’t looking for another hometown to destroy. She approached the large walls cautiously, with her hands up and slowly. As she walked closer she was screaming, “I come in peace,” over and over again. She was almost 50 feet near the gate when she heard a girl's voice shout, “Don’t come any closer.”

She stopped in her tracks as the automatic gates began to open. Ellie expected an army of people with guns blazing, just how it was when she first arrived at Jackson, but when the gates opened there just stood you, grounded in all your glory, and a gun aimed right at her face. She wanted to laugh, but that just seemed sexist. 

Instead, you pressed forward, unwavering, with your gun aimed right at her. She didn’t step backward, or even breathe, she just stood there until you were close enough to her to make out all the freckles on her face and the slit in her eyebrow. 

“Who are you?” you spat at her.

“Ellie,” she breathed out, her hands faltering a bit. 

With your hand firmly wrapped around the cold metal of the gun, you inched forward again, pulling back the slide, a metallic click echoing in the silence. The gun was loaded, and you were letting Ellie know that you weren’t afraid to shoot. Her hands stiffened again. 

“What are you doing here?” Your tone was tough and the look on your face was enough to send Ellie running for the hills, but it also made her want to crack a smile. Your nose scrunched up as you spoke, and your lips were somehow not chapped in this weather. But Ellie didn’t smile, she was sure if she did you would put one right between her eyes. That much she was sure of.

“I-” Ellie hadn’t thought this far. What was she doing here? “I’m just looking for a place to stay.” 

Your eyebrows creased as you gave her a once over, looking for any sign she was trouble. It was in your nature to search for danger, but she wasn’t raising any red flags. Except the fact that she made it here alone and unscathed, and was missing two fingers. 

“What happened to your hand?” you asked, tipping the gun slightly to her hand. A pained expression crossed her face, it was almost like she forgot that two of her fingers were quite literally bitten off, but that fight was somewhere shoved deep inside her mind. It wasn’t something she wanted to remember.

“Lost them in a fight,” she replied simply, there was no point in telling the full story. It’s not like you had the time. 

“You can’t stay here if you’re going to be trouble,” finally you put the gun down, resting your hands on your hips, giving her a firm look. Ellie would hand it to you, you were absolutely scary. In her mind, she knew she could take you, but she also wasn’t so sure of that.  

“I’m,” she sighed, lowering her hands slowly, “I’m done with that. I won’t be trouble,” and for the first time in Ellie’s life, she meant that. She was ready to start over. She knew the fighter in her would always be there, itching to come out but she had been fighting her whole life. It was time to give up. She had already lost everything. Or so she thought. 

Your face softened slightly before firming up again, your empathy peeking through like it always did. You looked her over again, sighing, as you signaled for someone at the gate to come. A man with short blonde hair trotted over, a leash in his hand. He looked kind as he offered a smile to Ellie.

“Old girl here is just gonna check to make sure you’re not infected,” he smiled, dropping the leash. Ellie’s heart rate picked up again as she watched the German Shepherd approach her slowly, sniffing around her as it circled her. You stood behind the blonde guy with your arms crossed across your chest. The dog found nothing and returned to the man, sitting down next to him, “Looks like you’re all clear!”

“Welcome to Mono City,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you turned back towards the gate, walking in that direction. You were halfway there when you realized Ellie wasn’t moving. Turning on your heel again you stared at her, hand on your hip again. You had an attitude, Ellie thought, cute. “You coming or what?”

The small town sat on a large lake, glistening as the sun's rays bounced off the surface. Buildings were built close together, trees without leaves scattered on the walkway, and about a hundred people out on the street as she trailed behind you, earning dirty looks from half of them. Ellie scowled back. Ellie smiled when you introduced yourself to her, telling her your name and a few key details about yourself. She learned you served as some sort of mayor here, keeping everything in order, and that you were the person that people came to. She would be lying if she said that didn’t intimidate her. But all Ellie did was give you her name again and tell you that she was from Jackson, anything else she said would fall short. 

“How are you with your hands?” you asked, voice flat and simple. Ellie choked on her words, stuttering a response. 

“I’m, well,” she coughed, “I’m just okay with them now, since,” she shrugged gesturing to what she now called her ‘bad hand’, “you know.”

A wave of guilt crossed your face as you composed yourself, somehow already forgetting your previous interaction. You shook your head solemnly, cursing quietly under your breath as you stopped. 

“Shit,” you turned to her, eyes squeezed shut, “sorry, I’m so used to asking the same questions, I didn’t even think.”

“It’s fine don’t worry about it,” she gave a tight-lipped smile. Now, with the illumination of the buildings, she could see your whole face. You were pretty, that she was sure of, but it was a more down-to-earth pretty. A type of pretty that you had to take in. You had scars around your face, and a pretty big scar down the side of your neck. It almost looked like the one Ellie had on her arm. But still, scars and all, you were just nice to look at. 

“Well, just for that reason we probably won’t have you be on guard duty,” you stated, eyes flicking around her face, “do you have any other strengths?”

“Uhm,” Ellie had to think for a minute. She had never really been asked anything like this before. What were her strengths? Did she have any at all? She used to be good at guitar, but now she couldn’t play, and that probably wouldn’t be useful at all to anyone here. She was good at art still, something she couldn’t take for granted anymore. It was all she had. The scratched-out drawings of Dina, JJ, Jesse, and Joel were stuffed deep into her bag.

“I’m good at art,” she shrugged, “and writing, maybe.”

“Okay,” you smiled, showing off your teeth, making her warm a bit, “that we can work with. Maybe you can teach at the school.”

“You have a school here?” Ellie gawked. Jackson had a school but it was small and had maybe two or three teachers. 

“Yeah,” you turned to keep walking, making Ellie stumble behind you to keep up, “we have three. An elementary, middle, and high school.”

“Wow,” Ellie was in awe, “It’s not like a military school or anything?” 

“No,” you answered quickly, your voice tight, “It’s not like any of that shit. We don’t fuck with FEDRA here.”

Ellie would be lying if she said that wasn’t music to her ears.

“It’s just like a normal school except we teach a lot more practical things. Things we can use like, cooking, science, and English. Like reading or writing. Since you’re new you will probably start with the elementary school. We also have little extracurriculars and we’ve wanted to introduce art but haven’t been able to find anyone yet.”

“Oh, cool,” was all Ellie said as you both stumbled on what looked like a residential street. There were rows of houses, all that looked the same. There was a road, with cars parked on them and driveways with gates. Most of the houses looked about two stories tall, some had toys lying in the front yards and a few animals were roaming about, small cats and dogs. The porches had furniture on them, little couches and chairs, and as she walked she noticed some people outside with mugs in their hands as if they were drinking their morning coffee. The town looked like something she saw out of a movie, only something she could dream about. Her eyes were wide in awe as you rambled on about something but Ellie was honestly too entranced in everything. Here, in the middle of nowhere was a whole town of people living their lives, as if nothing had ever happened to them. 

“Ellie?” you stopped in your tracks, crossing your arms over your chest. There was your attitude again, “are you even listening?”

“Y-yeah, I am. It’s just-”

“A lot, I know,” you sighed, “but you gotta listen, there are a lot of rules here. Rules that make this place function and if you don’t follow them, you could easily be kicked out.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, genuinely meaning it, “I’m listening, promise.”

“It’s fine,” you gave her a fake smile, turning to push open a gate to a nice house, “This will be your place.”

“Uhm,” Ellie stopped, not entering the front yard, “what do you mean ‘my place’? This is far too big for me.”

“This is the only size our houses come in,” you replied matter-of-factly, “you can just say thank you.”

Ellie blinked as she looked up at the blue house, that looked like it was built yesterday. It had a wrap-around porch and two white columns right by the entrance. The door was a giant white door with a gold handle. This was nicer than any house she’s ever been in, and way too big for one girl.  

“Thank you,” Ellie replied, still awe-struck, “this is just so nice.”

“You’re welcome,” you smiled, fishing around in your bag for something. You pulled out a pair of keys, and handed them to her, “Here’s your house keys. You don’t get a car quite yet, that’s something you have to work your way up to, but there is a bike in the garage. Spring is around the corner so it will get warmer and you should have your car by next winter so don’t worry too much. My house is right across the block, but I’m usually in the City Center if you need me.”

She wrapped her right hand around the keys, tightening them in her palm. She watched as you searched through your bag again and pulled out a little device. 

“This is your walkie,” you took a deep breath, “Try to find me before using it. It’s usually only used for emergencies so just be mindful of that. I’ll be by tomorrow to take you to work, so you have time to get settled in today. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ellie smiled, her voice sounding a little bit breathless.

That night Ellie settled into her new home. Well, she tried to settle into her new home but kept shifting around in every seat and couch, like she couldn’t find something to get comfortable on. She examined every part of the house, picking the smallest room for herself and shoving her backpack in the closet. She took a bath for the first time in months, washing all the dirt and grime off of her. Left in the shower was a bar of soap that looked like it had been handmade and unused. It smelled so good she almost took a bite, but instead chose to use it how it was meant to be used.

As the sun began to set she stepped outside, watching the activity on the block and smiling to herself. Everything just seemed so normal, but with the state of this world this town was certainly abnormal. From her window she could see you in your front yard, feeding a pack of cats that slipped through your white picket fence. She smiled to herself as she watched one rub against your leg, and your gentle hand coming down to pet it. She continued to watch as kids passed your house, waving to you and running back to their homes. 

The next few days were uneventful. Ellie found herself getting used to teaching young kids, always laughing when they asked about her missing fingers. It was out of her comfort zone, but she was around JJ enough to know what kids liked. Her voice always got so high-pitched when she spoke to them, and they liked being chased around the room. On her fifth day of working, a kid ran in screaming, “Miss Ellie! Miss Ellie!” with a chicken scratch drawing of his family. He was so proud that all Ellie could say was “Good job, bud!” and ruffle his hair. He left with the biggest smile on his face.

But now, Ellie found herself at the city’s most popular bar, with the other teachers who wanted to congratulate her on her first week. Della, who invited Ellie out in the first place, made a toast to her, clinking her glass with Ellie’s and taking a long swig of her drink. Ellie took a sip of hers too and fuck, this shit was strong. 

She felt human again, laughing with people her age in a bar and old music playing. She was almost having a good time until a song came on that reminded her of Joel. It was like her whole demeanor changed and everyone could tell. She excused herself from the group finding a small corner to sit on and finish the rest of her drink, hoping maybe it would make her forget everything. But then, the bell at the front door rang making Ellie look up to see who had entered. 

There you were in all your glory, tight shirt on and hair completely loose. It almost looked as if you were wearing makeup. Ellie must’ve been staring too long because she blinked and you were standing in front of her. 

“See you got yourself a drink,” you laughed, voice making Ellie’s cheeks turn pink. She was… really drunk.

“Yeah, I could get you one too,” she slurred a bit, goofy smile spread across her face. She watched as something odd crossed your face and now she was worried she said something wrong, “I just mean, like.. you know… I mean like as a thank you.”

“Right,” you sighed.

“For my mansion, you know,” she shrugged and you giggled. You giggled and it went straight to her head. What was she doing?

“You haven’t been paid yet,” you smiled back at her, now moving to sit down, “and it’s okay, I don’t drink unless it’s a special occasion.”

“What? Meeting me is not special enough,” she teased, knocking her shoulder with yours. Her eyes scanned your face, your smile reaching your eyes as you giggled again. Her stomach sank again. She wasn’t so sure if this was just the alcohol anymore, she felt like she was 12 and crushing on Riley again. 

“No, it’s special,” you reassured, “Maybe, I’ll drink when you decide to stay.”

“Who said I’m not staying?” she questioned sitting up.

“Some people don’t,” you shrugged, smile fading. Ellie’s brain wanted to make it better, make you laugh again, or shit do anything to put the smile back on your face. 

“Well, I’m gonna,” she said gently, so only you could hear her, “I need to get my paycheck.”

You laughed and Ellie breathed a sigh of relief, laughing with you. 

“I’ll get that to you,” you smiled, “and we don’t use paychecks.”

“What’re you gonna pay me with?” she smirked, “I know some other ways you can pay me.” Then the same look from earlier crossed your face and she cursed quietly to herself, muttering an apology. 

“No, no,” you said, like you were about to let her down gently, “I just try not to get… involved with anyone since…” your voice trailed off.

“Since?” Ellie questioned, but as you opened your mouth to speak the group from earlier made their way over, noticing your arrival and screaming your name. She watched as you got up, hugged everyone and started chatting with them, leaving her with her drink and too many questions. 

There was one thing that scared her though. She knew you needed someone who could stay, and the only thing she was good at was leaving.

[vincentbriggs]

Do you need a sewing machine to start making shirts and vests? Is hand sewing an option worth considering, or should I invest in a machine, in your opinion?

That's really a matter of personal preference!

Do you need a machine? Absolutely not! Every garment ever made before the 1840's was sewn by hand, and a lot of them after that too. I've sewn many garments completely by hand, including the early 18th century tiddy-out-violinist shirt, these bright orange breeches, and this green waistcoat.

Is it nice to have a machine? I think so, but again, individual opinions vary!

One of the costumers I follow sews everything 100% by hand because she finds it meditative and isn't interested in using a machine at all. Some people hate hand sewing and prefer to do everything by machine, with maybe a bit of hand finishing if they absolutely can't avoid it.

I do about a 50/50 split overall, maybe skewing a bit more towards hand sewing. I like to do pants, shirts, and nightgowns mostly by machine with some hand finishing, but for jackets and waistcoats I usually do considerably more hand sewing than machine, because I like 18th century tailoring techniques and think they give a nicer looking result. I do most of my buttonholes by hand, or I do them by machine first and then cover them in hand stitching.

Most people who sew do at least some of it by machine, but again, I don't know which way you prefer to work, so I'd suggest trying out both to see how you feel abut them.

For hand sewing, I suspect a lot of people hate it because they're using shitty needles and/or shitty thread, and perhaps haven't found good resources for hand sewing techniques.

Here's a post of hand sewing advice that I found quite helpful a decade ago. Use good needles because the eyes of the cheap ones have jagged edges and will ruin your thread! Use nice thread because the wrong kind will be twisty and tangly and will fray more!

Thimbles are good and useful, and typically they go on the middle finger of your dominant hand, and you use them to push the needle. I prefer metal thimbles and dislike using leather ones, but some people prefer the leather ones, or rubber ones.

The metal ones come in sizes, and I don't know how to find out your size aside from trying them on in person, but I know I'm a size 11.

One very important thing is that if you're hand sewing a garment, look for hand sewing specific instructions on how to do the construction techniques you're going for. A lot of the time when someone nowadays is trying to figure out how to hand sew a thing they'll just try and copy the machine sewn version, and a lot of the time that's inefficient and more difficult and the result looks worse, because machines and hands work very differently!

This is something I'm going to briefly discuss in the outro to the very long shirt video I'm working on, because it's so very common, and I've done it too! On several of my earlier hand sewn shirts I didn't know to turn the edge in on the front slit and do a little narrow hem, so I instead sewed on a facing for the front slit and cut and turned it, just like I'd seen on machine sewn shirts. This made it about 3x more time consuming, and the result was much bulkier and looked worse.

I've got so many more things to say about sewing but it's almost bedtime and I don't want to make this post too long.

For machine sewing, again there's a lot of personal choice. Some people like newer machines, some people like vintage or antique ones. I'm one of the ones who prefers solid metal vintage machines. I grew up using an old cast iron Singer, and the newer domestic machines just feel so plasticy and insubstantial to me. I'm used to ones that just do straight stitch and can also go backwards, but some people are perfectly happy with ones that can't even backstitch.

I do think that for a beginner the vintage machines are a better deal, because if you're patient and look around for a while you can snag one for really cheap at a thrift store, yard sale, facebook marketplace, etc. Also they're mostly metal and therefore harder to break.

I recently got a Pfaff (from I think the 1960's?) at an estate sale for 25 bucks. The zig zag mechanism is stuck and needs fixing, but I cleaned & oiled it up and it works just fine for regular straight stitching.

There are SO MANY online resources for how to clean, oil, and fix vintage sewing machines, especially the more popular brands, and a lot of the time cleaning & oiling is all they need. Read the manual and get an oil bottle with a nice long pointy thing so you can reach all the parts, and get some compressed air to whoosh out the fuzz. If it's old and hasn't been used in years, turn the hand wheel and observe every single place where metal rubs against metal, and Make It Greasy There.

(If you don't have the manual, you can often find those online too. I even found the service manual for my new-old Pfaff! I have the original users manual, but this one's for the people doing repairs.)

Oh this post is getting much too long! If you don't know yet if you like machine sewing, try seeing if you can use one without owning it, perhaps at a sewing class or in a makerspace. I know some libraries can loan out machines. A sewing class would probably be a good idea actually, if there are any available where you live!

Much like how you'll have a bad time hand sewing if you've got shitty supplies and no proper instructions on good techniques, you'll have a bad time machine sewing if it's not oiled well and if the tension is uneven.

There are so so very many things to learn about sewing and I hope I'm not making it sound too overwhelming, because I promise it's not if you take it one step at a time!

Also, when someone who's been sewing for a long time says "You may think you can ignore (piece of sewing advice), but actually that's bad and you will regret it", they're usually right. Oh, how I regret not learning to use a thimble years earlier than I did...

Sorry this post is so long, I hope it's helpful!

Basically, there's no one best way to sew anything, and you should try different stuff and see what works best for you, because everyone has different preferences.

[diejager]

psst! hi! are you willing to do a scenario where (civilian or soldier (your pick)) reader tries to run away and hide from yan!Ghost/konig

Failed Escape

Pairing: Yan!König x reader & Yan!Ghost x reader

Cw: smut, DUB-CON/NON-CON, spanking, fingering, kidnapping, training/mind break??, isolation, tell me if I missed any. Cw: 0.9k

König

Yan!König was meticulous in the location of your home, it was well-thought out and planned months prior to your taking. It’s a secluded cottage in the Austrian alps, between two imposingly beautiful mountains covered in green flora and cute wildflowers. A few fawns and deers would skip around your grounds, grazing on the fires and hydrated grass of your garden. It’s miles away from civilization, unpaved roads marking the way to the closest highway and other cottages within a mile or two.  

Yan!König who doesn’t bother to install extreme measures to your home because you’re housebroken, trained into loving you house and fearing to run. It doesn’t matter if you’re a normal civilian or a trained specialist, his sheer size made it impossible to run or defend against. But if you did try to run, ignoring all the blaring, red flags that bellowed in your mind about stepping outside the white-fenced walls, you’d wish you could outrun him. 

Yan!König’s ruthless in his punishment. If he caught you before you crossed the fence, he’d be more lenient with you. He would strip you down to your panties and lay you on his lap, hand striking your ass. He’d coo when you cried, his warm thumb rubbing soothing circles over your red cheeks, fingers dipping into your leaky cunt, his large digits hitting your spongy wall while you squirmed, his elbow digging into your back to hold you down. 

“Look at how wet you are, Maus, you like this don’t you? You like being spanked, ja?” 

If he caught you outside, your short legs failing to outrun him, König would be meaner, cruel even with his punishment. He has you tied and blindfolded in the cold and humid basement, bringing his gloved hand down on your naked slit. His slaps left your cunt slick and swollen, and you a crying and overwhelmed while he bullied his hard cock into you, fucking the anger and frustrations away. 

“It hurts, Maus? This is your punishment, take it!” 

Yan!König will have to spend additional time training you, utilising the wide arrange of tools in his well-equipped basement to help him train you. From different types of whips to metal and padded hand-cuffs, and from various sizes of dildos that fit the pre-programmed machine to a manual of torturous knots and binds to hold a person. König has all and everything to ensure that you’d be reeducated in ways of living and manners. 

Yan!König doesn’t do this because he enjoyed it - perhaps a lie with the sadistic glint in his eyes - he does it because he needed you to understand how much he cared about you, how much your life with him was a blessing and how much you could be happy with him. If only your training stuck.

Ghost

Yan!Ghost wouldn’t let you catch a glance of the world outside the four walls of your prison. He has locks drilled into the front and back door, some could be unlocked by a key and others by numbered and lettered combinations. He had every wind bolted shut with the occasional sliding windows for fresh air if you needed it, but they were all too small to squeeze through and too high for you to reach with anything but on the tips of your toes.

Yan!Ghost didn’t buy a house in some remote area of the British Isle, he found a rustic house in a calm and safe neighbourhood in Manchester, a pretty two-story home with a basement and newly-painted white fences around the house. Most neighbours were quiet and kept to themselves, it was another thing he made sure of before turning this place into a safehouse for both of you. He kept the house’s layout, but reworked the basement, building a third bedroom with a small kitchenette, a hotel-like living room and an even smaller bathroom fitting a single person at a time. 

Yan!Ghost who stopped you before you can reach the door, his bone-breaking hold on your wrist, wrenching you away from the hallway before throwing you onto the couch. He was fuming, face red with rage and narrowed eyes, his tall, imposing figure seemingly bigger and damning as he loomed over you with clenched fists. He might’ve been cruel and demeaning, possessive in an erratic and sporadic way, but he’d never lift a hand against you. Simon wouldn’t stoop as low as his father did to control his life. Granted, he used degradation and intimidation, but never physical violence.

“What ‘ave I told you, love?”

Yan!Ghost would force you back into the basement, imposing all the rules and regulations he had when he first took you, his words became the law and his hands the chains. He might let you have a few freedoms in your prison, but he would always be watching, either from the numerous cameras he installed in in the basement and around the house to keep and eye on you at all times, or from his seat beside you, an arm around your waist and his face buried under your head. 

Yan!Ghost suffered just as much as you were in these moments, having to subjugate both of you to this torture he played in the early days. Listening to you cry and bemoan your life before meeting him made his heart chip away while he shushed your pains, cradling you as he carded his fingers through your locks. Watching you flinch and stuttered when he approached you, his trembling hands inches from your shaking figure, red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks staring back at him while he tried coaxing you back into his hands to sooth your cries. It hurts how much you tried to escape his love and care, he was the perfect lover: gentle and patient.

“Why can’t you love me? Aren’t I enough?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs

[korpuskat]

Metal in Flesh

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (GN, has a vagina) Rating: E WC: 4.4k Warnings: None, it's pure smut & fluff. A special thank you to @statuetochka for indulging my silly ideas & drawing his hands so much. ===

He tastes like his machine oil. Freshly cleaned, not a trace of dirt between his purple-painted joints. It’s hard not to flex your tongue against him, to explore the little creases in his plates that tease the side of your tongue.

But the hand on your jaw and the precarious placement of his fingers- two under your tongue, his thumb on top, keep you still. He’s exploring. Though it’s not your tongue itself that he’s examining. He drags his thumb down, making the object of his obsession spin- a particularly strange feeling that is still novel even after so long healed.

It’s only taken him a few months into your relationship to notice- or at least to ask about it.

“…Why?” Is the particularly succinct question he comes up with.

“Becath aylikith”

Ramattra’s gaze lifts ever so slightly, from your pinned tongue to your face. Reluctantly, he lets go. You push saliva over your tongue, wetting it before you try speaking again.

“I said, because I like it. I like how it looks.”

“Aesthetics?” Ramattra tips his head, looks down to your lips. You obligingly open your mouth again and present the jeweled rod again. This time, he just looks at it, rather than trapping the muscle for investigation. “I would think that should hurt rather badly just for aesthetics.”

“It did.” You confirm. “When I first got it, it hurt a lot, I couldn’t even eat the first day. But it’s all healed now. Doesn’t hurt at all.” To prove it, you catch the bead on your top lip and pull your tongue sideways, making the entire piercing rotate again. “Besides, you’re in no place to judge; I know you also changed stuff on yourself for how it looked.”

He scoffs, “That is hardly the same. Repainting my enamel coat isn’t remotely painful, nor did it impair such a basic, important function as eating.” He touches the purple plate at the back of one hand with the other. It’s more subconscious than anything, but you still watch his hands with that same fascination. “Besides, my modifications aren’t exclusively aesthetics.”

You grin widely. That kind of stubbornness, the mild disdain in his vocoder… It’s so easy to goad him. “Neither is mine! It has a very good use, actually.”

Ramattra’s head actually bobs as he modulates a disbelieving noise, “Really? Exactly what functional purpose does a metal rod in your mouth serve?”

Excitement washes over you and you don’t bother trying to hide it. “I can show you! I’ve kind of been meaning to for a while, actually, but you keep insisting I don’t have to.” This alone makes his head twitch to the side, perplexed, intrigued. You reach for his hand, and he happily allows you to take it and bring it back to your face, much too curious.

Here, you pause and stare up at the dark slits for his optics. His huge fingers caress over your cheek, cool and firm against your skin as you gently kiss the circular rubber pad of his palm. Ramattra hums softly- which breaks into a stuttered, staticked mess of a noise as you lick that rubber pad. He can feel it, you’re almost sure given the twitching of his fingers against your cheek. Those pads are sensitive, meant for traction and precision- you know he must feel the warmth, the softness of your tongue completely surrounding the hard point of the piercing’s ball. Even with your spit, the metal drags against rubber, catching on the textured ridges.

“You--” His voice cuts out, glitches sharply as though gasping. It’s a rare treat to see him worked up, indulging his own desires, so you bask in the roughened sound of his voice and the dull hum of his ventilation system ramping up. “I should have known it would be that...”

You grin again, then kiss his palm innocently, as though you don’t feel the warmth that’s now radiating from him. “I did want to use it sooner. You’re too selfless for your own good.” You pull on his arm and he allows you, lets you trail kisses up the smooth plate of his forearm. “Can try it now, though.”

His nod is sharp, firm enough to jostle the endcaps of his mane. “Yes, perhaps I would… enjoy that.”

You snicker, but don’t comment on the breathy tone his voice takes, already dysregulated from a single lick, don’t comment on how quickly he sits on the bed that he’d gotten for your sake nor the speed with which he releases the latches on his pelvic plate. Air rushes from his vents again, almost like a sigh as his cock bobs freely.

You might never get used to it, knowing that he made something so obscene just for you… The thrill of it- of all of him- rushes through you, makes your belly heat. But you set that aside for now, instead pushing the golden joints of his legs apart and lowering yourself down to your knees. Which only makes your growing desire ever worse.

Like this you’re so very, very aware of how big he is. Built for war, he dwarfs you in every way. Beside you, his thin, bird-like legs are almost up to your shoulder, just barely giving you enough room to comfortably lay your arms on his thighs. Looking up at him… He sits so stiffly, one hand curled into the previously pristine sheets, the other is curled across the lowest part of faceplate as though obscuring his mouth. Shy, maybe, you think. Would make sense- he doesn’t particularly enjoy receiving one-sided attention. So, you smile up at him, rub your hands soothingly across his canvas-covered thighs and hope that soothes him.

Finally, you let your eyes wander back down his body. Slowly, you ease your hands in from his legs until they brush the base of his cock, where the silicone meets his inner frame. Without any lubricant it’s a dry, sticking feeling, but it’s still enough for you to hear the hum of his fans pitch up in anticipation.

He’s been so patient, so nice to finally let you try this, so you only tease him a little more. You straighten up and stare up at his faceplace, hands moving firmly onto his cock as though you’re going to take him into your mouth immediately. He tenses, waits the sudden onslaught of your mouth around him-- and finds instead your soft lips laying against the smooth head, pressing a delicate kiss to the silicone. Ramattra’s legs twitch,, a little whiny noise coming from somewhere inside him-

And you lower your head down, dragging the tip of your tongue from the base of his cock all the way up. His ventilation kicks and a staticked gasp slips from his vocoder. With only the tip, not yet letting him feel the jewelry, you lick at him, you flick your tongue against the soft ridge at the head of his cock until you think you might break him.

Ramattra hisses your name, somewhere between a plea and a threat. Desire surges in your core again, but you think he's been patient enough. Slowly, deliberately letting him watch as you move- you open your mouth and ease his tip past your lips.

Immediately, Ramattra groans, both hands twisting into his sheets as he processes your warm, soft mouth on his cock. He's big enough that even just his tip makes your jaw twinge in annoyance, but you relax your muscles and urge him further in. His body bursts with heat, already struggling to keep up with the hot air that’s soaking his processors- but that's not quite the reaction you were expecting. So you press your tongue firmly against the underside of his tip- though you aren't sure if Ramattra's cock is particularly sensitive here too- and drag the piercing over the ridge.

A high-pitched noise spits from his vocoder, almost a yelp as his whole body flinches. You'd almost worry you hurt him, that the metal was too rough on the silicone, except for the rough, rolling gasp that comes after. For Ramattra it's a distinct feeling- your mouth all soft and inviting and one firm bead of resistance that pushes back against him, that emphasizes each stroke of your tongue along his cock. It's addicting, one tiny piece of metal in all of that plush flesh. His hand lifts- nearly burying itself in your hair unbidden, but he kills the impulse- tries desperately to be still for you.

You gently bob your head, working up to a slow rhythm. With each motion you keep your tongue moving, sweeping across the silicone. Each time you move down, you try to take in more of him, slowly inching his cock deeper until he's prodding at the back of your throat. The first touch makes you gag, your mouth tightening around him as spit floods your mouth- and Ramattra's hips jump, momentarily fucking you mouth- and he moans.

You clit throbs at the single rough thrust, at the absolutely musical noise from his speakers- his need completely betrayed with the strain on his synth, the first touches of static to his voice. A desperate whimper escapes you just knowing that you're the one making him feel like that and Ramattra sucks in air in turn, his fists curled so tightly you can hear his actuators whining.

Even just listening to his pleasure, knowing you’re the one causing it-- it's all too much. You take him in deep again, sucking his cock with purpose, but you slip one hand between your legs. Trying to keep your focus on him is nearly impossible when you can hardly think with how badly you need to be touched. You shove your pants down and the first touch on your clit is near ecstasy. Sucking his cock, hearing his appreciation alone has left you swollen and soaked, trembling with pleasure as you moan shamelessly around his cock. You circle your clit and shiver, the pace of your tongue on him stuttering-

And this time, Ramattra doesn’t stop the impulse. Ramattra's fingers curl into your hair. You expect him to push you down, that his self control is broken, that he'll fuck your throat and-

he pulls you up. Your scalp stings softly, but you can only mewl in confusion, in desire- how must you look to him? Your own spit covering his cock, eyes glazed over in lust, one hand working yourself with a desperation- and Ramattra catches your arm with his other hand. You whimper, a mindless plea of no, please don't stop- as he pulls again, draws you up, up off the floor-

And you think for a moment he's going to fuck you, to get you in his lap-

��Come here.” His voice is almost unintelligible, harsh with static. He doesn’t even let you comply, dragging your body onto the bed with him as he lays back. Your head spins, too clouded to understand what he wants- which is fine, because he moves you exactly how he's thinking. He pulls you on top of him, legs spread wide over his broad chest and then spins you around so you're looking at his cock again.

That's all the prompting you need. Still spit-slicked, you take him into your mouth again. The new angle is different, unusual- his cock arcs down towards your tongue, making it easier to take him deeper-- and making the press of your piercing into him all the more intense. Ramattra makes some noise behind you- and you would try to squeeze your hand beneath yourself to keep rubbing, but with your belly pressed to his, it’s too tight a fit. The metal of his chest would dig into your wrist too much. But your clit aches, too needy to be ignored. Desperate, you rut your hips against his chest, hoping to find any friction at all against his hard bands of armor-

And Ramattra's big hands land on your hips.

He pulls you back- back as far as he can without dislodging your mouth from his cock. You want to ask, can't seem to understand what he's doing- until each thumb slips between your legs. You moan softly, try to question what he’s doing, but if he hears you, he makes no response. Ramattra parts your folds, revealing your pussy. Warm air washes over your sex- another rush of his ventilation- and you whimper, twisting in his hands at the embarrassment of him looking at you so closely.

You don't expect the press of cool metal directly to your clit.

The temperature makes you jolt away from him, but his hands keep you still, keep your clit trapped right against his faceplate as Ramattra moans. All crackling and ruined, his voice is vibration right against your clit- and you finally understand. You bob your head again, determined to keep those noises coming from his synth.

You sink down on him, taking as much as you can. Ramattra purrs against your pussy, a low rumble that makes your hips twitch, rutting back against his face, your clit rubbing delightfully on the divot between his faceplate and jaw. It’s so primal, needy-- and Ramattra’s grasp on your hips shifts, pulling you towards him again, urging you to keep going. You’re so close already it’s hard to hold any rhythm, but he helps, pushing his mouth against you each time you come up on his cock- and each time your piercing catches the tip he moans, a bolt of static pleasure rumbling directly into your clit.

You can’t help it. You dig your nails into the coverings on his thighs, try desperately to focus on him, on making him cum- but the sound of him, the taste of his cock, and the incessant buzzing of his moans against your pussy are too much. Your rhythm breaks entirely as he pushes you over the edge. Your own noises are muffled, lost to the silicone in your throat. Metal hands keep your thighs spread as they twitch and try to close around him, forcing you to feel as he moans, praises you indistinctly through your orgasm- the words lost against the overwhelming feeling of the continued vibration of your clit.

You can’t think, the pleasure too sharp, too strong- you try to squirm away, to get any relief, but his grasp shifts, one arm now wrapped around your waist to keep you still. The other presses to the back of your head. His hips lift- and he as fucks your mouth desperately.

Ramattra moans, all static-garbled and needy, still rumbling against your pussy. And still you work your piercing against him, match his careful pace with hard licks of your tongue- and each panting, growing moan you can feel him getting closer, every Ah, ah, ah- buzzing harder into your clit as acute pain- a raw overstimulation that only builds into whimpering, twitching second wave that makes your whole body tremble in his hands-

And it’s your hips throat twitching around him again that makes him gasp- the rushed intake of air and firm press of his face against your pussy in a long, droning note as he overloads entirely. His hips thrust up into your mouth one more time before steam rushes from his vents, fills the room with hot air and every joint in his body goes lax.

For a long time you lay there, shivering and boneless. His arms are a pleasant, heavy weight across your back, a good counterpoint to the weak shudders your body gives from time to time. Your clit and throat ache, but it’s a monumental task to move yourself just enough to no longer be choking on his dick or have your over sensitive clit pressed to his firm metal. It takes three tries on your shaking arms before you can manage it.

You lay there, limp and much too tired to try to extricate yourself further from the heft of him. Instead, you close your eyes and enjoy the silence, letting your body relax and cool off until the soft harmony of Ramatta’s internals returns. First, the hum of his processors, then the fans of his ventilation resume, much quieter than they had been before- then his lights return. Positioned as you are, you don’t see his array’s lights, but you do watch as the indicator lights in his cock turn from a yellow- muddied by the purple tinting in the silicone- to green, to finally red.

Ramattra’s fingers twitch on your back, and you laugh slightly as he mimics clearing his throat. He gently lifts your hips and helps you roll off of him, but with a limp waving request of your hand, he then helps you to turn around and lean against his broad chest, half on top of him again.

If you had any energy left at all, you’d be embarrassed- or perhaps aroused again- at the sight of his faceplate; he’s soaked. Everything between his optics down to the tip of his chin is coated in your wetness.

And yet when he speaks, “I apologize I was… overly enthusiastic.” It’s all contrition. One hand touches the side of your neck, a silent voicing of fear of injury.

Instead, you press your face to his hand and he meets you halfway, stroking along your cheekbone with unspoken reverence. “But you liked it?” While his voice has been perfectly reset, yours is still rough, rasping from the strain on your throat.

“I…” He starts- and immediately his fans hum louder again. Your lips barely crack into a knowing smile before he admits it, “Yes. It was… enjoyable.”

“See, more than just aesthetics.” You say, melting onto his chest more, idly stroking at the long pistons mimicking collar bones.

“I suppose I have to agree. You can hardly see it to begin with.”

“Maybe you should give me a piercing you can see, then.” You say it offhanded, a little joke-

“What? I couldn’t.” Ramattra shoots back immediately, “I have no experience with that.”

And his rejection only makes the idea more appealing, more real. “No, wait, think about it! You could research how to do it and where. Your hands wouldn’t shake, you’d be able to center it better-- I bet you could even design it yourself…” You grin and look up at the dark slits for his optics, half pleading. “Come on, at least you’d be saving me money and a trip out.”

Ramattra’s hands on you stop moving, but he doesn’t pull away. So completely motionless, you know he’s processing it, mulling the idea over. “You… want me to pierce you?”

“Well. Yeah, I guess? I mean I like piercings and I think you’d do a good job… and…” You blush softly, finally averting your gaze from his as though this is somehow more intimate than sucking his cock until he overloaded and cumming on his face twice. “Maybe I kinda… like the idea of having jewelry that you made, that you put there…”

His design on your body. It’s not just intimate; it’s possessive. A silent, private mark of your relationship… If you weren’t not so thoroughly spent, it might bring another wave of heat between your legs. He must have come to the same conclusion, because something shudders in Ramattra’s chest.

“I see.” He says coolly, as though you don’t feel the streams of hot air that again slip from his vents. “Then, I will look into it.”

In all, it takes Ramattra three days. Three days before he’s guiding you into his workshop and lifting you up onto his desk. The thrill of how easily he picks you up- big hands cradling your rib cage as he sets you onto the metal surface- always makes you a little giddy. Even more so is the little purple velvet box that sits nearby. You reach for it-

And Ramattra snatches the box up with a tut, “No peeking.”

“Fine.” You sigh exaggeratedly, watching as he skims over the tools he’s acquired in the last half week. A bottle of antiseptic, forceps, a marker-- and your eyes wander to a small package of needles. Your stomach tightens a little just seeing them, so you look at him instead, distracting yourself as Ramattra finishes his preparations. “Where did you decide?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead gently putting one finger under your chin and turning your head away. His other hand drifts over your ear- and eventually catches the little flap in front of your ear canal between thumb and forefinger. “Here.” His hands abandon you, turning back to his tools and grabbing the marker. “It is called the tragus.”

You hum in acknowledgement, but otherwise keep still as he focuses on your ear. Carefully, methodically- Ramattra touches the tip of the marker to your skin.

He draws your chin back towards him, examining the dot he’s made from the front before retrieving and handing you a mirror. “This is… acceptable?” He prompts as you look at your reflection. You could almost laugh; the ink of the marker is perfectly centered- likely is, mathematically. You knew he’d be good at this.

“Yeah, it looks perfect.” You look at the mark a moment more, picturing jewelry in its spot. It is… a strange location. “Why’d you pick this one?”

Ramattra pauses, his turn towards his tools a little too intentional. “If you wish to remove it later, any scarring should not be too disruptive.”

Something tightens in your chest. You reach out to him, gently touch his forearm. His head only slightly turns back towards you, just enough for you to see the corner of one slit. “I’m not going anywhere.” You say it, squeeze his arm again and hope he’ll internalize it this time. His only response is a small hum, an acknowledgement of the words, if not their meaning. So, you redirect him. “Can I see the jewelry now?”

Again, Ramattra hesitates, but caves with a halting, “Yes, I suppose so.” He holds the box a second too long- so tiny in his big hands- but offering it to you.

You don’t even hide your ecstatic grin as you take it- too excited at the possibilities. His designs are always so sleek, but you don’t know what he would choose for you to wear. You crack open the box- and the first thing you recognize is the color. Purple- the exact shade as his accents, as his jaw. But it’s not just his paint- you hold the tiny box closer and squint. It’s almost an inverted teardrop shape, but not quite. There is a silver dot embedded in the lower half, the point that would be sharp is clipped, a notch taken out of the wider top… You look at it for a moment longer- and your excitement melts into something warmer, recognition.

“It’s your chest plate…” You murmur and reach for him again. Only the lower half is visible under his tan cowl, but Ramattra stands still, lets you lift the soft fabric to reveal his own inverted teardrop- the purple latch right in the center of his chest.

“There’s more…” His voice falters, rasping through a whisper, strained with the same feeling that’s twisting in your throat.

You look back to the jewelry, unsure how there could be more meaning lain into it- but you take it from the little velvet cushions that hold it in place- and understand. The back of it is green with tiny golden lines etched into it. A circuit board. You brow pinches for a moment, dragging a nail over the back- feeling the protective coating over the circuits. It’s too small, too clipped to be functional. Just decorative, symbolic?

“When I…” He starts and stops, stepping closer to you- laying one hand on the outside of your thigh. “When I installed…. that I also had to replace and redesign some chips that were in my hips for functionality. I… kept the originals.”

“This is… you?” You murmur, tracing the tiny golden threads again. An actual chip from his body… “Or, was part of you?”

Ramattra nods stiffly, watches as you examine the tiny thing. “It’s… acceptable?”

“Yeah.” You sniffle, “I love it, Rama…” then hurriedly put the jewelry back in its box and shove it back towards him. You rub at your watering eyes and force out a tight, “Hurry up and pierce me before I cry.”

Ramattra nods again, shifting easily into his practiced movements. He swaps your ear with antiseptic and dips the piercing into the bottle, laying it on a sheet to dry as he picks up his tools. You focus on his faceplate and stare up at him as he steps in front of you. He waits there a moment- soaks in your gaze before touching your chin and urging you to turn your head just as he had earlier.

You close your eyes, don’t look as he clamps the forceps down.

“Breathe.” His voice rumbles, so close to your ear. You shiver, but obey- taking in the cool air of his workspace, the scent of his oil, relax into the warm proximity of him-

And as you exhale he pierces you. Hot pain washes over the whole side of your head. You clench your teeth, try not to flinch as he moves quickly, replacing pieces with a smoothness that you should’ve expected from him.

“Good,” He praises, still low and quiet and so close to you- and finally he pushes his design into the backing.

Ramattra steps away, but you grab at him- hands landing on the silver handles at his hips. He stops, turns towards you- and the tears you’d managed to suppress before being stabbed boil over.

“Does it hurt? I-”

You’re crying before you can even wrap your arms around him.And realizing you’re crying into his cowl- your face pressed right up against the exact plate he used as a design makes you weep harder. But he steps right up against the table and shushes you, strokes your back with an affection no one else has even seen in him.

“I love you,” You manage between shoulder-racking sobs- and something inside Ramattra shudders.

So quickly he adjusts, no longer holding you to his broad chest, but near doubling over, half lifting you off the table to press his faceplate into your shoulder. He buries himself in the warmth of your body- and shudders again as your grasp scrabbles over his back, no longer cinched around his tiny waist, but sliding up under his cowl, grabbing at the long bars of armor and holding yourself up against him.

“I love you so much,” You murmur to him, half broken by sniffles- and he squeezes your ribs in turn.

[a-killer-obsession]

Q8 🦾

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I initially misunderstood what should be done.

{ A few words about you as an author. YOU ARE FUCKING WONDERFUL. I've often thought about such a thing as a collab. The arts' collab is cool, and I've had experience with it, so it's already become kind of boring. And I came up with the idea, why not make a writers' collab =∆ The thing would obviously be in demand, but it needs an approach and many, many nuances. I don't know why I'm saying this at all, because the idea is a bit damp, but I probably want to listen to someone else's opinion on this score.}

That was on me for forgetting to put it in the instructions, I've never done a request event before so I didn't event think of it. Thanks for sending the ask in, I really wanted to write this one, it got a bit intense but I hope you enjoy it 💕

Franky's Toy Room

Prompt: Quiet

Additional Tags: afab reader, she/her pronouns, forniphilic gag, impact play, fucking machine, shibari, rope suspension, butt plug, forced orgasm, vibrator, squirting, breeding bench, pre-ts franky, blow job, deep throating, praise kink, use of sir, touch of degradation, fingering, p in v sex, creampie, aftercare

WC: 2.3k

Event Masterlist

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

“Shhh baby, you're gonna wake the whole ship,” Franky tsk'd as you moaned around your gag, tongue fighting against the small silicone cock inside your mouth that was attached to it. Your body was held by soft royal blue ropes, your forearms bound together behind your back, your torso held up by a strong harness that suspended you from the ceiling, keeping your top half horizontal while your bottom half rested on your knees. The position you were in was essentially doggy style, but with the carefully tied harness supporting you instead of your arms, while a fucking machine Franky had made himself pounded into you from behind with a metalic groan and the wet squelch of silicone in your wet, abused hole. You'd already cum too many times to count, your ass red from the leather paddle he'd used earlier, accented by the large blue rhinestone at the end of the shiny silver plug in your asshole. The black leather padding of the bench underneath you was already soaked with a large puddle of your earlier releases, pooling underneath you and at your knees, dripping to the wooden floor below. He held a bright pink vibrator against your slit, your eyes rolling as you whined around the gag.

“Come on babe, give me another,” Franky hummed. You shook your head, eyes watering, relying entirely on the ropes to keep you upright as your legs turned to jelly, the vibrator against your oversensitive clit making you scream around the gag as you felt your coil somehow pulling taut again. You were sure this time you'd pass out. “Aw don't be like that, you're doing so super, I know you can cum again”

The speed of the fucking machine was increased, as was the intensity of the vibrator, and you went entirely silent as you came too hard to make sound, the air pulled from you as you shook uncontrollably and squirted again, barely anything coming out of you at this point from the sheer amount of fluids you'd already expelled. Franky's large hand supported you under your belly as your legs shook, not turning off the machine or removing the vibrator till your body went limp, hanging uselessly by the ropes. You barely registered the large dildo being removed from your gaping pussy, or the gag being removed from your mouth.

“Breathe, babe,” Franky cooed, loosening the ropes holding you gradually till you were a puddle of flesh resting in a puddle of cum on the leather bench. “Catch your breath sweetheart, we ain't done, you haven't even taken me yet”

You whined but didn't protest with a safeword as he easily picked you up and transferred you to a breeding bench, the padded leather supporting your weak torso on the higher section and your knees bent again on the lower sections either side, sore but thankfully no longer having to support any weight. Your arms were still bound behind you but it didn't matter, you were so dazed and fucked out that the whole Grandline could've come in and taken turns with you and you wouldn't have even noticed.

“So pretty,” Franky wiggled the plug in your ass, making you whine. He tutted in response, walking to your front and stretching your mouth open with a finger hooked in each cheek. “What did I say about making noise?” He tsk'd, “do I have to put the gag back in?”

“No sir,” you replied weakly, slightly slurred by the fingers in your mouth, doing your best to make half-lidded eye contact as you spoke, lest you be punished.

“Such a pretty mouth though,” he pressed his thumb down on your tongue, forcing your mouth wide open, the pad of his thumb swiping over the wet muscle. “Mmm, think I'll use it a little as well before I fuck your pretty pussy.” He pulled down his speedos and let them pool at his ankles, his thick cock springing from them, erect and red with need, as he stepped out of the fabric and kicked it away. He let his unbuttoned shirt fall from his shoulders as he pumped himself a few times.

“Open up doll,” he ordered, and you opened your mouth obediently for him as he stood at the front of the bench, lolling your tongue invitingly. He tapped the fat head of his dick against your tongue, smearing it with his precum that tasted artificial, a little like cola. It always made you wonder whether his cum was real or whether his testicles had needed to be rebuilt as well. You knew from the faint stitch lines down either side of his shaft that at least that his cock wasn't entirely natural. But hey, if you gotta replace your dick, may as well make it a monster. Franky was a big man anyway, his cock was proportional to the rest of him.

He grabbed your ponytail and pulled it hard, raising your head a little as he slipped his cock inside your mouth, the corners of your mouth stinging from the stretch. He wasted no time in making you gag, he knew you could take it. He loved the way your eyes watered as you looked up at him, his tip hitting the back of your throat and sliding down with every deep thrust he made, groaning as he pulled on your hair, his other hand supporting your chin so the pull wasn't too harsh.

“You're doing super, baby,” he purred, “just a little more of this, just wanna get warmed up before I fuck that tight little pussy of yours.” You whined around his cock, the vibrations making his eyes roll behind the sunglasses. “Good girl, doing such a good job babe. Fuck you're gonna make me bust down that whore throat of yours”

You knew him finishing in your mouth wouldn't save your pussy from further abuse, Franky could go as long as his cola reserves could, you usually gave out long before he did. Regardless, you wanted more of that strangely sweet, probably artificial cum, so you hollowed your throat and sucked hard, running your tongue against the underside of his cock the way you knew he liked.

“Fuck, [y/n]!” He shouted suddenly, groaning as ropes of sweet cum slid down your throat, his hips stuttering as he emptied inside your mouth, the last spurts spilling out over your tongue and face as he pulled out. “Bad girl,” he tsk'd, giving your face a playful slap, but you could tell as you licked your lips that you weren't really in trouble.

“Now who's loud?” You teased, earning a hard smack on the ass that made you yelp. Franky bent down so his face was at your eye level.

“Next sound and the gag goes back on,” he threatened, making you shiver. Your body was worn out but the way he spoke in that deep, dominant tone made your pussy throb with need, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” you replied, licking a little more cum from your face as it dripped down your cheek.

“Good girl,” he gave your face a light slap, before holding your chin, thumb running over your drool coated lips, “can you take me one more time?”

“Yes sir,” you wriggled a little in your restraints, pussy clenching around nothing as you anticipated how good it'd feel to have him fill you, “please sir”

“There's my good greedy girl,” he smiled, letting you suck on his thumb for a moment before pulling it out with a pop. He moved to the back of the bench, cock still solid as a rock, pulling you by your thighs so your ass was right at the end of the bench. The bench itself was taller than average, he'd made it himself to be adjustable, usually set to this height which was the most comfortable for him to fuck in a standing position, usually for fucking you or Robin. She usually joined him in on teasing you, but she was feeling unwell tonight, so the cyborg had you to himself, deep in the hold of the Thousand Sunny, in what he called his ‘Toy Room’.

Franky stuck two impossibly thick fingers inside you, the width of them combined bigger than his cock, stretching you wide. The large dildo he'd been using earlier was close to his size, making sure you were good and stretched to take him, but he loved to stretch you wider with his fingers for a moment so he could watch your pussy gape and admire your pretty pink walls before he painted them white.

He slid inside you easily, burying himself to the hilt, and you bit down on your bottom lip to stifle your moan as your pussy stretched around him. He loved to watch where his cock was buried in you, the membrane that lined the entrance of your hole catching on his thick cock with every slow pull, like your pussy refused to let go of him. It drove him wild to watch the way his cock got shiny with your slick, a creamy ring forming at this base and catching in his curly blue pubes as you came again, less intense this time, lacking the energy to squirt anymore. He praised you anyway as your pussy fluttered around him, impressed you'd managed to cum again at all without him even needing to use his special trick yet.

“Good girl, [y/n],” he praised, making you clench around him as you muffled your moans against the bench, “I'm gonna let you make sound, but only if you can cum one more time with me when I tell you too. Can you do that baby? Cum for me one more time and let me hear you scream?”

“Y-yes ssi-r,” you stuttered, struggling to not cry out as his cock began to vibrate inside you, a fun little feature he'd added while he was augmenting it. It never failed to build you back up again, no matter how fucked out you were, so he always saved it for last. It was a bit of a Pavlov effect because of it, your orgasm building quickly under the promise that it'd be the last one and you'd be able to rest soon. One day he was going to figure out that connection and it was gonna bite you in the ass, you were sure Robin knew but she wasn't a snitch. He could tell you were close as your hands balled into tight fists behind your back and your face dug into the leather below you, breathing hard while your pussy fluttered around him.

“There's my good girl, I knew you could do it,” he groaned, fucking you mercilessly as he chased his own high, pulling slightly on the plug in your ass. “Let me hear you scream baby, and I'll give you this fat load”

Your whole body shook and you saw white as you clamped down around him, letting out a scream that would probably sound pained to anyone hearing jt without context. You would have woken the whole ship if not for the fact that Franky had secretly sound proofed this room, not that you knew that. You didn't have the capacity to worry about waking anyone right now anyway as your orgasm made you tremble, Franky bruising your hips with how hard he held you as he pounded into you one last time and roared, filling you with so much sticky cum that it overflowed and dripped onto the breeding bench, pouring out like a unclogged drain as he pulled out and you made a disappointed little whine. You practically squealed as he removed the rhinestoned plug from your ass, appreciating the way your ass gaped and throbbed around nothing.

“Good girl,” he cooed, running his hand up your back, over the ropes and to your hair, scratching your scalp pleasantly as he came to stand in front of you, his cock softening as he bent down to kiss you tenderly. He quickly set about untying the ropes that bound you, your whole body laying limb like a piece of wet laundry draped over the bench the second your arms were released.

“Good girl [y/n], you did so well,” he cooed, carefully pulling you upright by your armpits, before lifting you bridal style to sit in a comfortable armchair, a prepared towel already laid on it to catch any fluids. He sat you in a way where you were slouched slightly to put less pressure on your sore rump, and he slowly lifted your legs to rest over the arms of the chair so he could carefully wipe you clean, examining you for any injury before bringing your legs back together. He kissed you on the forehead and quickly redressed himself before getting you a glass of cool water. He held it to your mouth and tilted it for you a little at a time so you could drink, your arms aching from being bound. Once he was satisfied you'd drunk enough water, he set about examining every part of your body methodically, massaging sore areas with his large hands and rubbing muscle soothing balm into them. You were half asleep before he lifted you up and sat himself in the chair, draping you on your belly over his lap and the arms of the chair so he could check your backside. Satisfied that you were entirely taken care of, he helped you into a silk dressing down and held you carefully in his lap, cooing gentle praises and rubbing your back softly. Sex with Franky was always a marathon, but you also relished the soft moments afterwards, and you knew that once you inevitably fell asleep he would carry you carefully to his bed, tuck you in, and wrap himself around you protectively.

[lieutnt]

kinktober - #4

cock warming w/ bucky barnes x top!male reader kinktober masterlist

His hands rest atop his thighs, curled into fists as he waits for your permission. When your hand cups the side of his face he melts into it, tilting to meet your palm and he’s already feeling calmer, body growing lax as you lean down to kiss into his hair. Two fingers rest under his chin, and you encourage his head to move up slightly so you can kiss him on the lips - a slow, relaxed thing that has Bucky chasing after you as you pull away. You sit back, hands planted on the arms of your chair as you widen your legs. “Whenever you’re ready sweetheart.”

Bucky nods, shifting onto his knees (he’s thankful for the pillow you’d placed between your feet in preparation) to reach for your belt, undoing it and pulling it through the loops to place it at your side before reaching for the zipper. He undoes it easily, this part well practised, and reaches in, drawing out your half hard cock. He gives it a few pumps, working you up to full hardness all the while you comb your hand through his hair, muttering praises every so often, not that Bucky can really hear them anymore, not with the way he’s focusing on your cock.

Everything had gotten too much - the sleepless nights, the nightmares that followed him through to the day, the unfamiliarity of it all, how even now he still feels out of place. He had come to you, a frown deeply settled in the lines of his face, unable to communicate what exactly was wrong, just that he wanted to not think for a while. Your suggestion had him agreeing quickly, knees sinking to the ground like a magnet being pulled to metal.

He leans in, pulling his hands away to take you in his mouth, the weight on his tongue instantly comforting - how you were completely around him, stroking him like a beloved pet, letting him take what he needed from you.

Your breath deepens the first few seconds, Bucky looking up at you with doe eyes as he bobs up and down until you’re in his throat, forcing him to breathe through his nose. His heart flutters at the way you smile down at him so genuine, your murmured “Good boy,” making him double his efforts until he feels tears building at the corners of his eyes and he can hear the wet sounds his mouth is making.

When your hand stops in his hair he stops, glassy, confused eyes meeting yours as you stare down at him. “This isn’t about me Buck, don’t push yourself.” He takes a moment before nodding, focusing on slowing down, only moving when he wants, tongue occasionally lapping at your slit when precum oozes out, your taste familiar, relaxing. His eyes slowly begin to droop as your fingers card through his hair again, thoughts melting away as your nails scratch against his scalp.

He hums deeply at your pleasured sigh, the hollowing of his cheeks stopping until he’s suckling at you, head falling against your inner thigh. You keep your voice low, calm, the rich timbre flowing through his veins. “That’s it, stay there as long as you want.” 

By the time you’re reaching over him to pull your keyboard to the edge of your desk he’s barely listening, floating in a peaceful nothing. It’s a struggle to type with only one hand, but previous attempts to remove your hand have been met with a whine echoing in the back of Bucky’s throat, so you settle back, idly typing away while like a well oiled machine your hand runs through his hair.

[outofgloom]

SHUN THIS PLACE

The Lord of Steel stood on the threshold, at long last. Behind him, the priests lay dead, splayed across the desert, along with the bodies of his soldiers. The elemental weapons of the priesthood had been as terrible as foretold, but in the end, his power had prevailed.

He scanned the midday sky briefly, but it remained mostly clear. A good omen, although it would not last. Evening would bring stormclouds—red storms, the kind which did not water the dry earth.

In fact, he was counting on it.

He stooped and crossed the threshold, moving out of the desert air and into the cool interior of the structure. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness, and he saw that the walls were covered with carvings. No surprise there: He’d encountered versions of them before, on the obelisks of the Great Jungle and the abandoned cliff-cities of the Great Frost. Even so, these were the fullest and most detailed he’d seen so far. There were full words here, in fact, alongside the usual pictograms, written in the strange script of the machines.

He was impatient, eager to take the next step, but he had not gotten this far by ignoring good intel. As odious a task as it was to him, perhaps just this once he ought to give the inscription a full read....

HERE-PLACE IS MESSAGE

...the first line parsed out, alongside a symbol which usually meant “listen” or “take heed”. This place is a message. He read on:

MESSAGE IS BIG

...No, that should be rendered something like “great”, shouldn’t it? He was rusty. “Significant”, perhaps. This message is significant.

HERE-PLACE IS NOT...something. He was unsure. “Virtue”, maybe? That was it: No virtue is here, in this place.

He paused, eyes flicked to the right, looking out at the desert. Had that been movement? A moment passed.... Ah, a thin cloud had passed across the sun. That was all. Satisfied, he returned to the text. Where had he left off? No virtue is here.... Right, and after that, he knew the words “temple” and “shrine”, in series: 

HERE-PLACE IS NOT-VIRTUE NOT-TEMPLE, NOT-SHRINE

HERE-PLACE IS NOT-TOMB NOT-TREASUREVAULT, NOT-VALUE

HERE-PLACE IS.... What was that symbol? The inscription beneath...“danger”, “destruction”?

DANGER IS.... Is what? The glyphs were faded. He squinted at them, traced them with a finger. “Individuated”? “Discrete”, maybe? That seemed right: A discrete size and shape, in a specific location.

Immediately after that, the next line was clear:

DANGER IS WHAT LIES BENEATH

Now that was more like it—

Something struck him from behind, bit into the armor of his upper back, and there was a noise shrieking in his ears and sparks were flashing in the visor of his helmet, overwhelming his senses, sparks burning into his neck. He cried out and twisted away from the stone wall, striking out blindly. 

Contact. He felt metal crumple against his fist, followed by the sound of his assailant thudding against the opposite wall. His hand went to his shoulder, felt wetness there, and sharp, throbbing pain. He gritted his teeth and shook his head, trying to focus. There!

It was one of the machine-priests—heavily damaged, but still alive. It heaved itself up on two bent legs, and the tatter of its robes whirled around it. He and his soldiers must have missed one, somehow...or it had repaired itself. How could he not have noticed its approach?

He stepped back quickly, putting distance between himself and the enemy. The mask that covered the priest’s face was cracked, likely from the blow he’d just dealt it, but the eyes still glowed bright. He realized dimly that the mask was made in the shape of the mythological Stalker Eel—a wide, round mouth, slitted forehead. It was a stealth-mask. Of course....

There was the shrill, whining noise, and he saw that the priest’s remaining arm ended in something like a buzzsaw. That explained his ringing ears and the jagged tear that had been cut into his armor...and the sparks. Surely it had been aiming for his neck. He was fortunate that it did not carry an elemental weapon, or his situation would be more dire.

The priest crouched, weapon held forward. He readied himself, trying to focus against the pain. Searching, searching with his mind....

It lunged. The sawblade shrieked in his ears once more, and he felt the vibration of it in the base of his skull.

Thud. Clatter. The whine of the spinning blade peaked and ramped down, grinding harmlessly against the stone floor as the priest’s arms and legs spasmed where they now lay, along with its body. 

The priest’s head, mask and all, floated in the air before him. He’d found what he’d sought: the small linkages of true metal that joined the creature’s skull to its torso. At this range, he’d been able to detect them amongst the lattice of false protometal and artificial flesh that made up the bulk of the creature’s body. Then, it was only a matter of...unlinking.

The eyes were wide with shock. They remained glowing for a second, then they winked off. A rasp of air escaped the disconnected throat, and the jaw went slack. It was over. 

He set the head down on the floor, well away from the still-twitching body. Then he tended to himself: He removed the damaged armor plates and drew out a spool of metal thread. In a few minutes, he’d used his powers to stitch the wound in his shoulder. It was painful, but necessary. He’d wasted enough time.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the inscriptions on the wall once more. They were undamaged, it seemed, but he didn’t have much patience left. He hated reading, especially this kind. Too much ambiguity. And after all, the attack had made him lose his place. He almost left it there, turned to his true goal in the back of the structure, where the walls narrowed down...but the next series of inscriptions drew his attention back. These he had never seen before. He sighed:

DANGER IS TO.... An odd phrasing here. “To anatomy”? Or was it “to geography”? He’d never thought about it, but in the language of the machines, the words were almost the same.

DANGER IS TO THE BODY DANGER IS TO THE LAND TO KILL OR TO CHANGE

His heart beat faster. Ah, this was worthwhile. A confirmation of sorts. Surely he had found the right place. His shoulder ached, but he shrugged it off.

DANGER TAKES A CERTAIN FORM...The same word as above. A certain body?

FORM OF DANGER IS AN OBJECT

OBJECT IS.... He blinked, re-read the word. That did not conform to his research. He read back over the lines again, making sure that he had not missed anything. No, it was clear.

The danger takes a certain form.  The form of the danger is an object. The object is a Mask.

He frowned. A mask? How could that be the fabled weapon of the Ancients? The masks that the machines had worn were so fragile, so easily crushed, as he had just demonstrated. He glanced down at the disconnected head of the priest. Could a simple mask be the same as the weapon that had burned off the surface of the planet in ancient times, dissolving and remaking life into its current form? The Age of Shattering had been ended that way, it was said.... It seemed impossible, but perhaps this too was a distorted myth. There was no way to know, in the end, and it didn’t really matter. He would find out the truth soon enough.

Except...his eyes returned to the head of the priest where it sat on the floor. Yes, it could work.

Click. The cable he had scavenged from one of the other bodies outside jumped with energy from the still-functioning core of the priest’s torso, and after a moment, the eyes sparked on, began to glow, faintly at first, then stronger. 

The limbs did not move this time. He had removed them all, even the connection to the waist, little more than a torso-shaped power source now. The jaw shifted, and a hiss of air went up into the throat as the voicebox engaged. The eyes flicked back and forth, took him in where he crouched, then glanced toward the remains of the body...and quickly away.

What was that expression? Revulsion? Could the machines experience something like this? He had never asked.

“Why...?” the priest said in a raspy voice. 

“For information,” he replied.

“You are...monster. My...my body—”

“May be yours again, once I have what I need.”

The priest did not respond.

“What does this indicate, this word here?” he continued, pointing to the last part of the inscription that he had translated. “Tell me what you know.”

“Mask,” the priest said plainly after a moment.

“Does it have any other meaning?”

“Mask...no. No other.”

“Are you sure? I’ve found that the memories of your priesthood are not always reliable. The Ancients made you badly, I think.”

“No other. Just ‘mask’.”

“And what mask does it refer to? Surely you still know this.”

“I cannot.”

“I’m going down, either way. But if there was, say, some additional warning you wished to add, some further piece of knowledge that might deter me or improve the outcome.... Well, this is your last chance.”

The priest’s eyes frowned—or as close to a frown as a machine could muster. After a moment, it seemed to decide:

“The mask,” it said, “life to the world, it once gave. After an age of shattering, of disjointing.” The wording was strange, as if the priest were repeating some litany.

“Life, you say? That sounds good to me. Have you looked at the state of the world lately? There are few left since the Plague and the petty wars it engendered. Few who remain whole in mind, that is. Even the Tetrate is crumbling, and the Red Storms worsen every day.”

“Beware,” the priest continued, “for life with death comes also.”

“Ah, yes, of course. But that is the Great Cycle, isn’t it? The world has not changed so much that we’ve all forgotten.”

“Life and death.... You are recent, comprehend not.”

“Recent.... You mean young? Hah! I am the Lord of Steel, first of the elements, the true metal, which cannot corrode, spawn of the metal-star Exsidia, which issued unmade from the Void—”

“Life and death and life...” the priest intoned, ignoring him.

“Why do you babble? You’re just a broken machine, I think. Another of Their useless clockworks.”

“I am not machine,” the priest spat back.

“Then speak like it. What more can you tell me?”

“I remember in the Time Before,” the priest said, with the same odd phrasing, “For the world, we were made, to build and to maintain. Nothing more....”

“You were made for such. Not I.”

“...And when the world failed,” it continued, “sacrifice was needed. Always sacrifice. Life was given to us, so that it might be given unto the world. Cores made to burn.”

“You speak of how the Age of Shattering ended, I think.”

The priest hesitated. Its mouth trembled, then:

“Not one age...not one, but many.”

“What? What do you mean by that?”

“The world failed...has failed, over and over. And when the world failed, there was sacrifice. Burning to sustain, to kindle life and light. Over and again.”

“That...makes no sense. The Age of Shattering is—”

“Ended now, and never again.”

“So you say, but—”

“No more sacrifice.” The priest’s voice dropped to a whisper, and its eyes wandered back and forth. “No more, to start the world anew. That destiny is over. No more will our cores burn, to kindle the stars and to light the lamps of the universe. It is enough.”

“What is this sacrifice?”

“Life with death comes also. That is the challenge of the Mask, to remake the world. Beware.”

“So...the mask is not simply a weapon to be wielded for my ends? That’s disappointing, given the enemy that I contend with.”

“A tool may be used for many tasks: to build or to destroy. The potential is in the core of each of us.”

“I have no core. Unlike you, I am flesh, blood, and true metal. But if a sacrifice is needed...perhaps your core will be useful to me after all.”

The priest’s eyes closed behind its mask.

“Any more to say? I confess you have not convinced me of—”

A force took hold of him, wrapping invisible fingers around his throat, and he saw with a shock that the mask on the priest’s face had changed form somehow, becoming smaller, more angular. The air shivered with telekinetic energy, and he was choking, hands clawing at his throat, eyes bulging, but there was nothing there to grasp. He staggered back against the wall as the crushing force increased, and he felt something give way in his chest. Pain shivered up and down his spine. His vision was going dark.

No other choice. With the last desperate vestiges of his power, he struck out, found the linkings of true metal once more, and wrenched the priest’s head to pieces. 

The pressure on his throat and torso released, and he fell to his knees, gasping and retching. His heart pounded in his ears, and his head throbbed, but he was alive. After a few moments, he tried to sit back against the wall, but sharp agony broke out in the right side of his torso. He ground his teeth, breathing in short gasps, eyes clenched shut. He was pretty sure he’d popped a stitch in his shoulder as well. The wound burned.

He held himself still, trying to stay conscious and control his breathing, trying to endure through the surge of pain. It hurt, but after a few moments, he was able to get hold of his panic and focus. He searched within his chest cavity, feeling his power ping off the metallic bones. There: one rib was cracked, another dislocated. Nothing for it. He held the image in his mind, gulped air through his bruised throat, and did what had to be done.

The fusion of the cracked rib was white-hot iron near his heart, and the sound of the other rib popping back into place was audible in the small space. He screamed, writhed, and slumped over into unconsciousness.

Minutes passed, maybe more. He flitted from a dreamless nothing to wakefulness...and then back again. At last, in a half-aware moment, his mind managed to grasp a scrap of reality. His eyes fluttered, and images flickered in his thoughts: A flash of the low stone ceiling above. A glimpse of the lower part of the wall. The last three lines of the inscription were visible from where he lay, and even in his near-senseless state, they were familiar to him. He had seen them before:

HERE-PLACE, DO NOT REMAIN BELOW-DANGER, DO NOT APPROACH HERE-PLACE, SHUN

His mind offered the translation:

Do not inhabit this place. Do not approach the danger below. Shun this place.

He moaned, felt the hard floor on the back of his skull. The world was expanding again, finally, beyond the margins of his pain-wracked body. He was lying on his back, and his injured shoulder was spasming against the stone. He shifted to take the pressure off, and found that the pain in his side was substantially less now. That was good. He blinked, wiped moisture from his eyes, then carefully, he tested the movement of his limbs. No new pain greeted him. Also good.

His vision was clearing up, and he turned his head leftward, took in his surroundings.

The wreckage of the priest’s head was scattered across the floor around him. A fragment of the upper part lay nearby, with a single, empty eye, staring.

Shun this place.

A shame. The machine had been cunning, speaking its riddles and warnings, same as the Ancients. Had any of it been true, or had the priest simply been buying the time it needed to summon a new mask? No way to know for sure. He sighed and swallowed painfully, raising a hand to massage his sore throat. It wouldn’t deter him, and anyways, he still had the priest’s intact core, if some sacrifice was really required.

With effort, he shifted up onto one elbow, glanced over at the limbless body.

Shock. He squinted, shook his head, looked again: The same as before. How? The torso was smashed, torn open from inside. Had he...?! No...no, it must have been the priest. He cursed—the machine had tricked him even as it attacked. But why? Did that mean that it had been telling the truth after all?

No more sacrifice.... No more will our cores burn....

He sat up, breathing gingerly. The wind was rising outside the structure, and he shivered as he looked out: A line of red clouds now limned the horizon, off to the east. How long had he lain here? Too long—It was coming soon now, and he had wasted much time. No more delays. He heaved himself to a kneeling position, raised his head, and there was the inscription again, staring him in the face.

Do not inhabit.... Do not approach.... Shun this place!

He straightened shakily, dusted off his hands. The Protodermic Priesthood had done its work well, to uphold the ancient dictates, to instill fear, and to keep the vaults of deep time sealed. To the very last, it had done its work, and it had nearly been the end of him. But it had failed.

The Lord of Steel breathed in and centered himself, drawing upon his power. He slid a hand along the metal-stone hybrid of the structure around him, feeling its alien composition. It had taken him many years to acquire enough of it, secreted away on underground markets, and more years after that to study the substance, to understand it, and to modify his own power to affect it.

He advanced slowly, leaving the inscriptions behind. The tunnel stretched into cool darkness and ended in a blunt wall. But he knew better. He focused his mind, felt the stone-metal shiver downward, a solid shaft extending deep into the surface of the planet. Not entirely solid, however. He could sense the seams and joints, where the material had been fixed together. Now at his command, the shaft opened in segments, one seal releasing after another, and he shaped it into a stairway, leading down, down....

The danger is to the body, to the land. To kill or to change. 

He turned the words over in his mind for a moment. This world could use some change, that was for sure. He’d always thought so. He moved to the edge of the newly-formed staircase and smelled the dry, sterile air of a previous age.

When the world failed, sacrifice was needed. Always sacrifice. 

If it was true, then the priest had not been willing to make such a sacrifice, going so far as to take himself out of the equation...permanently.

No more will our cores burn, to kindle the stars and to light the lamps of the universe. It is enough.

Was that the reason for all of this, the burying of the past? Those who had been made by the Ancients to sustain the world...whose lives had been used to keep it going, however many times...at last, they’d gotten fed up?

I am not machine, the priest had said. If it was true, then who could blame them? 

Doubt pricked at him. Whatever was to come—sacrifice or not—he himself, the Lord of Steel, would have to face it alone. Was he prepared for that? Surely after all his planning and labors, all the sacrifices he had made since taking up the mantle of Element Lord, this could be no worse. The challenge of the Mask, to remake the world. Beware....

Maybe it was fitting. The legends said that the world began with metal: a great silver sea, hanging in the void.

Perhaps the world to come would begin the same.

He glanced one more time at the carnage that had been the body of the priest, then out at the desert, at the corpses in the sand, at the pale sky. The clouds were piling up now. Stormclouds, shimmering with red light that was not lightning. Ever since the second Dreaming Plague, it had been this way, when the Eater had reemerged—hungry, and hungrier now.

He scowled, allowing himself a moment of the old hatred, for that color and what it represented—ancient enemy of the Children of Iron. Only a moment. In the end, such anger was futile.

His dreams had already been eaten, after all.

Faint thunder reached his ears. The light outside was growing redder by the minute. It would be here soon, just as he had planned, and he would be ready for it.

Ready to risk danger to the body, to the land. Ready to kill or to change.

Ready to remake the world.

He turned back to the staircase and blinked to align the retroflective layers of metallic crystal behind his eyes, enhancing his night vision as he peered down into the dark. Down to where life was hidden....

Do not inhabit this place.

Life with death, whatever that meant.

Do not approach the danger below.

Red light approached, flickering hungrily across the dunes. Could it read the inscriptions, understand the warnings?

Shun this place.

He began the descent.

[gaysindistress]

Связи (n.) connections - two

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on google/Pinterest

pairings: mob!bucky x reader

Summary: “Did you think you could hide from us? That’s adorable, little one. There’s no where on this planet where you could hide from the Shostakov Bratva and even if you did manage to evade us, the Barnes Bratva would find you. Your связи, your connections, will always come back to haunt you, Y/N.”

Warnings: Cursing, guns

Word count: 2.6k

part one | series masterlist

taglist: @unaxv @identity2212

“Don’t even think about it,” the hand squeezes my arm as I try to look up to confirm what I know to be true.  “Walk.”

“Let go of me,” I mumble and try to pull my arm away but it’s useless. He has an iron grip and I know there will be bruises by the morning from how hard he is grabbing me. 

Good. it’ll give me a reason to slit his throat. I find myself thinking and a horror fills me at my own thoughts. Not even five minutes in my father’s presence and I’m already slipping back into that way of thinking. 

“You think you’ll survive if I did that?” my captor grumbles, jerking me along towards the edge of the room. “Look around, Oksana. How many of your father’s men do you see? Hm? How about my men?” 

On cue, the crowd erupts in a frenzy of cheers and chants when we reach the edge of the room and he pulls me fully into the shadows. I let out a groan of pain as my back hits a wall and the heavy sound of hands slamming next to my head catches me off guard. A looming figure cages me against the cold stone and blocks my view from the party…the fucking party that’s started in honor of my sister’s death. 

“Tell me what you see,” the figure demands and my eyes are straining to make out any features. 

“All I see is a fucking dick head who grabbed me and threw me against a wall.”

A chuckle. 

A familiar chuckle. 

James Barnes is the figure that all but dragged me to this hallway and slammed me against the wall. The Pakhan of the Barnes Bratva is the one who’s leaning over me and demanding things from me like I’m one of his side pieces. Bucky, the man my sister loved more than her own family and probably died protecting, found me in a matter of minutes and fear floods my veins as the realization hits me. 

He takes notice of my sudden silence and smirks, “What do you see now?”

“A. Dick. Head.”

His smirk never fades but grows and he yanks me away and down the hall with both of my hands in one of his massive ones. During our little “detour” the party has turned into something from the movies and my father’s men have come to line the hallway walls instead of the main room. Protecting their sweet Pakhan as if he isn’t a Soviet breed killing machine. 

They bow their heads and avert their eyes when we walk past and I wish just one of them would look at me instead of acting like a coward. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that they know who I am from the way they do everything to avoid making eye contact. They most certainly know who Bucky is and it ignites my infernal hatred for him and my father again. 

At the end of the hall is a set of black metal doors; a contrast against the red decor and white marble of the house but a menacing sight no less. An older man I don’t recognize nods to Bucky before he opens the doors and steps aside to let us in. I throw a pitiful look in his direction but he’s closing the doors and disappearing into the hall. Another set of doors halts us but this time it’s opened when Bucky types in a code into a small keypad off to the side. 

And what awaits us is my worst nightmare. 

My father is sitting in a disgustingly large and overwhelming red chair at the back of the room with my mother and remaining sister sitting on the matching couch. Yelena is staring up at the ceiling with her arms crossed while Melina is reading a book as if this isn’t the world's worst family reunion. 

“Ах, моя милая Оксана! Я так рада, что ты смогла приехать. Мы скучали по тебе,” Alexei says with his fake smile that never reaches his eyes. 

Ah my sweet Oksana! I’m so glad you could make it. We’ve missed you.

I say nothing. I can’t. It’s sludge in my stomach and molten lava in my tongue. 

“Приходите. Садись. Давай догоним.”

Come. Sit. Let us catch up. 

Bucky hauls me towards them when I don’t move on my own and I stumble, falling into him. He catches me with a grunt and stumbles backwards himself before shoving me to the couch. Yelena makes no attempt to acknowledge me and Melina raises an eyebrow at the bounce of the couch but nothing else. 

Typical. 

“My darling Oksana,” Alexei starts and my voice finds itself again. 

“That’s not my name,” I blurt out and now all eyes are on me. “Not anymore. I go by Y/N now.”

“Y/N,” he says as he draws out the letters. “The name your mother called you. I remember how you got it, don’t you, Melina?”

She sighs and nods. 

“Alexei,” Bucky says harshly from where he’s been leaning against the wall, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. 

“I know, I know,” my father grumbles and pins me with a sudden serious stare. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I imagine it’s because Nat…” I stop. I can’t say it. 

“Yes, sweet Natasha is dead but not to worry, Y/N. Your life isn’t in danger or at least it won’t be soon.”

I narrow my eyes at him, confused and his next words so nothing to clear it up. 

“Antonia has decided that she needs to enact revenge and has been making our lives difficult as of late. She’s already made an attempt on Yelena and well as you can probably guess, made a successful one on Natasha’s. I fear that the unseen protection I once offered you isn’t enough anymore and we both know that your agent Danvers will do nothing if it means she can get close to Antonia or me for that matter.”

“Antonia as in Dreykov’s daughter?” 

“Who the fuck else would it be?” Bucky snaps and we exchange a nasty glare. 

Alexei huffs but continues, “But being the amazing father and businessman that I am, I was able to broker a peace treaty so to speak.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably and I study the way he’s drumming his fingers on his arm although he’s trying to hide it. 

“What kind of treaty?” I ask while still watching Bucky. 

“A beneficial one.”

I roll my eyes and give my father a blank stare, “for you. It’s always only beneficial for you.”

“Would you rather me let you die?”

“You haven’t had an issue doing just that for the last ten years.”

His eyes harden and he leans forward as he speaks to me, “I didn’t know where you went. I only found you three years ago.”

I lean forward too, “I wish you hadn’t.”

Melina finally speaks up and says my name in a way only a mother could. 

We both return to semi comfortable positions and stare at each other. 

“You’re marrying Bucky,” Yelena casually states. Her eyes have closed but she’s still leaning her back back against the couch with her blonde waves hanging over the back. 

“What?” Is all I can think to say. I look to my father and then to Bucky for anything. Denial, confirmation, laughter, fucking anything at all but I’m met with blank stares and the severe anxiety building in my stomach. 

“We need the numbers and resources. Antonia isn’t…”

The words sound fuzzy and I know I’m missing important information. 

“…Natasha was the first choice and I think we all can agree that Yelena is not an option so that leaves you, my youngest daughter and out last hope.”

“No.”

The word slipped so easily from my lips I didn’t even realize it was me who said it. 

Bucky makes a noise that I assume is meant to be a chuckle but being the devil reincarnated means he never does such a thing and it’s a strangled sound instead. 

“Y/N,” Alexei warns, “Antonia has made threats against our lives already. I’ve done what I can to protect you and let you live your life. I cannot do that anymore so i have no other choice but to do this. You have no other choice but to do this and if you can’t find it in your heart to do it for us then think of Natasha. Her death will not be in vain.”

“I think you missed explaining the part where a marriage will keep me any safer than leaving me the fuck alone.”

“He can offer you more protection than I can.”

“Stop this,” I tell Bucky and he only glares at me. “Stop this. We can find another way.”

“Уже сделано.”

It’s already done.

“Так ты говоришь, что ты бессилен,” I sneer back and smile when Bucky flinches ever so slightly. 

So you're saying that you're powerless.

The older man who had opened the door for us comes in with a large white envelope and hands it to Bucky. The Barnes Pakhan takes it with a roll of his eyes and takes out a packet of papers. Melina has finally stopped reading and Yelena is still pretending to sleep as my fate is being sealed. A pen scratches on paper and then the packet is dangling in front of my face with Bucky’s name messily scrolled next to a blank spot where I can only assume mine is meant to go. 

“I’m not signing that,” I tell Bucky and he only stares blankly at me. 

“Y/N,” Melina tries but I cut her off with a triate about how this is illegal and stupid and seflish and no one can make me do this. During my efforts to get someone to change their mind and call this all off, Bucky signs my name for me before tossing the packet to Alexei. 

“Did you just forge my signature?”

“No,” he deadpans and watches my parents sign the witness section of the marriage license. 

“Yes you did! I saw you!”

“But did you?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that? I literally just watched you sign my name on a legal document. That makes it void,” I snap at him and I swear I see the anger start to roll in. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, “And who here is going to back you up? Alexei? Melina? Yelena?”

When I don’t answer, he mutters something in Russian under his breath and tells my father that we will be leaving immediately. A man I hadn’t seen before comes up behind me and pulls me off of the couch by my arm causing me to swing at him. My fist lands with a satisfying crack on his cheek and he tumbles backwards, cradling his face as blood leaks from between his fingers. He curses under his breath and I spin around at the familiar voice. 

It was the voice of one of the man who kidnapped me that night. 

That’s when it hits me; Bucky and this man had been the ones to kidnap Yelena and me. 

“YOU,” I hiss and grab him by the face with one hand while the other pulls the small gun tucked into his waist. Pressing it against his temple, we stare at each other and after a few agonizing moments pass, the man looks down with defeat. 

“You were there,” I whisper to him, “Why?”

He looks over my shoulder at Bucky and that’s when I remember Bucky was there too. Still gripping the first man, I turn the gun to his boss and the entire room takes in a sharp breath. 

“Why?” I ask him knowing that’ll I never get an answer. His expression is a frozen image of boredom and based on what little information I have gotten in the last few minutes, it’s not likely that he’ll decide that this question deserves a response. 

“Let him go and give him his gun back,” is all Bucky says before snatching up the packet and stalking towards the door. My hand slips and the man quickly grabs his gun before dragging me along with him. 

Alexei moves to stand and Melina stops him by holding out her hand. She mutters something to him in Russian and he rolls his shoulders in response, no doubt having been told to act like a Pakhan and not a loving father. Yelena has lifted her head and is staring daggers at me but she still doesn’t say anything to me. The little girl in me begs to call out for my older sister and craves the comfort that her hug once brought me but all hope of that relationship is dashed with the murderous look she’s giving me. 

Once again my family has left me for dead without a good reason. 

Sam, as I heard Bucky call him, dabs a black handkerchief on his cheek as he inspects the small cut in the car’s tiny visor mirror. He keeps muttering under his breath and occasionally Bucky throws in a sarcastic comment to which Sam threatens to hurt in him some way. 

“Please tell me why you couldn’t have just walked up to her and played nice,” Sam says after he’s finished fussing over the truly minimal cut on his cheekbone.

Bucky looks at me in the rearview mirror, “Does she look like someone who plays nice?”

“I’m literally right here.”

Sam glances over his shoulder, “Oh I’m well aware that you’re right there. I can feel you plotting my demise.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be thinking of the most creative way to kill you if you didn’t kidnap.”

“I didn’t kidnap you. That was Bucky.”

The man in question gives his partner the most offended look possible, “Wow. Remind me to never trust you with anything ever again.”

“Don’t act you wouldn’t give me up just as quickly,” Sam mumbles as he settles into his seat. 

“I wouldn’t and that’s why I’m Pakhan.”

“Oh you want to play that way? Okay, okay,” he perks up and leans over towards Bucky. “We had a plan walking into that fake ass funeral and it didn’t involve either of us getting punched or you getting married. Want to explain how your plan to get in and get out epically failed, Pakhan?”

Bucky’s jaw clentches and his hands grip the steering wheel tighter, “Look, let me walk you through a hypothetical. Can I walk you through a hypothetical?”

“If it involves telling me how you managed to royally fuck this entire thing then yes but otherwise, no.”

“I didn't...do anything. That’s on Alexei. I almost had him…”

Sam lets out a loud and dramatic sigh, “You did not almost have him. He was never going to agree to your terms and you know it.”

“Someone want to fill me in?” I pipe up and both men say no loudly at the same time. I raise my eyebrows in surprise and again they both sigh before Bucky starts talking. 

“Alexei is an idiot.” 

“You’re not wrong,” I mumble and I swear I see him smirk. 

“He got lazy with cleaning up the mess Dreykov made and now he’s too weak and stupid to handle the consequences. He’s more concerned about his reputation than he is actually running his bratva and he somehow managed to rope me into his bullshit.”

“What does that say about you?”

“You’re the daughter who escaped, how do you think it looks that you’re also part of this?”

I don’t answer. I’m well aware of how stupid and naive this whole situation makes me look. I did escape whether or not thanks to Bucky kidnapping me all of those years ago, but I escaped and yet I still wound up being entangled in my father’s mess. I was free but now I’m both legally and morally bound to Bucky. 

The rest of the car ride is silent. Only when we pull up in front of Carol’s apartment building do I say something. 

“What the fuck is going on?”

[buckyarchives]

Metal Arms and Short Skirts | Bucky Barnes [2.]

summary: waltzing in as the new head of the Avenger's medical division, impressing everyone, and... scaring Bucky with your incredibly short skirts. while bucky's having a hard time looking at his arm as anything other than a deadly weapon, you're more than happy to help him.

words: 4.3K

warnings; creepy men (+bucky fending them off) slight body dysphoria on buckys end

author note : HI I KNOW THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE UP LIKE & DAYS AGO... aib came out and ive been hyperfixaed on that and my brother got frostbite so wump wump was at the hospital on chrimis. i have mixed feelings on this chapter, but i hope you enjoy. and im still taking request.

READ ON AO3 | masterlist

Bucky wasn't going to pretend to be completely oblivious and say he wasn't finding every and any excuse to visit you. Whether it be a tear in his muscle or the sound of the metal whizzing sounding off, something bucky would have ignored with absolutely no thought. Bucky maintained a comfortable distance between you two, physically and emotionally, staying at arm's length. But something about today seemed to be different. 

Bucky shifted nervously in his seat, he watched your stride around your lab. You finally got your own area after 2 weeks of staying at the compound. It almost put Tony's lab to shame, it was huge and decked out with technology far too advanced for bucky to even understand. 

Today, You wore a black bustier that seemed to shape your form, thick and sturdy paneling sewn into the shirt, if that is what you can even call it. The neck hung low, low enough to leave very little to the imagination. Bucky practically had to tear his eyes away from your neckline when he first walked into the lab.

Bucky's excuse today was a deep cut on the side of Bucky's flesh bicep. Coming back from a quick and easy mission, but Clint needed to watch his arrows since one slit past bucky’s arm on the way to the actual enemy behind him. Bucky had a sneaky guess it was on purpose. 

You gathered the plaster and made your way back to bucky, footsteps echoing as you walked. A sigh escaped your lips, but bucky only caught a small smile. “You know, bucky. You can't come in here every time you have a small cut.”

“Isn't that what you're being paid for?” bucky snarked back, watching your hands as they gently grabbed at his lower arm. Your touch was always so delicate, like you were going to break him rather than heal. 

“Ha, ha.” you mocked. “I could have been making some ground-breaking discovery or invention before you walked in.”

Bucky's eyebrow quirked up eagerly. “Were you?”

A closed-mouthed hum escaped your lips. Your all too perfect pedicured hand wrapped the white bandage around bucky's arm, he was just watching your face as you worked. Couldn’t– wouldn't tear his eyes away. 

“Not really, just researching some stuff about scarring and skin stuff,” you spoke, dumbing it down for bucky. 

During bucky's visit, he’d always ask about everything, trying to catch up with the technology of the 21st century, or maybe just to hear your voice. He didn't understand half the things you spoke about, though he never mentioned it, but you figured it out soon enough and started to simplify it the best you could.

“Scarring?”

“Helen has some idea about how to better rid of scars.” your hand smoothed against his bicep as you finished, and your touch sent a good burn through him. Giving him a warm smile like you always did when you finished.

Bucky's eyes glanced down to his left shoulder for a moment, the ugly scarring that single-handedly destroyed most of his bodily confidence. The permanent mark of what Hydra did to him as they chopped it off and made him part machine. Bucky scoffed to cover up the obvious self-depreciation in his voice, “need a test subject?”

You flinched at his words, surprised, being taken aback by his response. Only then when you looked him up and down, settling on his clothes shoulder, your face fell and a sympathetic look flashed. It was covered by his tanktop but you knew what was under there, you'd seen the photos, you'd seen him. 

You sat back down on your little rolly stool. “I'm surprised you’d suggest that, based on your history, I'd expect you to not be so keen on being poked and prodded.”

Memories flashed Hydra's methods at tearing his humanity, mind, and body apart, all those experiments. But they quickly subdued, how could bucky think of something so cruel when you stat right in front of him, which in bucky's opinion, is perfection. 

“I think I'd be okay with it if it was you.” bucky said quietly, honestly– a confession even. 

A fond smile rose to your face, one you quickly bit back. Narrow eyes met him when you tilted your head slightly, shying away. “Good to know you trust me.”

“Always.”

“But–” you sighed, “I'm going to have to decline, Bucky. For now, you'll have to live with what your shoulder looks like. Sorry.”

Bucky dramatically groaned, trying to mask the obvious pain and disappointment he actually felt. “You're killing me, doll.”

Your ears warmed at the nickname. Averting your eyes for a moment from shyness. You knew bucky despised the scarring that painted his left shoulder, the one that connected the man to metal. You could only lend him some comfort in the situation, no amount of medical technology right now could completely ease his worries.

“Bucky?”

His head perked up, a hum escaped his lips as he put all his attention on you.

“You wanna see something really cool?” you smirked.

Bucky noticed the slight smirk tugging at your lips, he could only react by biting back a smile of his own. “Sure, doll.”

You leaned down to the hem of your right pant leg, slowly hiking up the baggy jeans that hung low on your waist. Slowly revealing a large and messy scar on your kneecap, nothing as bad as bucky's many scars that littered his body. But something definitely bad happened for you to have that, even fully healed now.

“When I was a kid, I used to skate a lot.” you started, bucky's eyes bouched back up to your face. “I got on a gravel road and fell down and my knee landed right on a huge sharp rock and just logged itself right into my knee.”

You laughed looking back on the memory. “Hurt like hell for 14-year-old me and I had to get so many stitched, it was the worst.” a cheeky smile grew as you spoke through a laugh. “Especially for my dream of becoming a knee model.”

Bucky laughed with you as you dropped your pant leg, sitting back up to look at bucky. Bucky didn't say anything and hung his head low when a silence grew in the lab, only the sound of lab tech whizzing in the background. Bucky mostly just wanted to bask at this moment with you, letting himself enjoy the light-hearted nature of your conversations. The way you and he feel warm inside, lighter than ever.

You smacked your lips as you rose from your seat. Bucky's eyes begrudgingly followed you, “you have to learn to love every part of yourself, despite the bad memories. Because it makes you…”

Stopping in your place, turning to him as your eyes traveled up and down his body, the gesture weirdly didn’t make bucky cringe and crawl into himself the way most gazes did. 

“... you.” you smiled again and bucky felt dizzy. “And I think you're pretty cool.”

You turned away to continue whatever you were doing. Bucky muttered your statement under his breath, loud enough for him to hear it again but quiet enough so you wouldn't.

Bucky rose from his place on the workbench, after many visits he practically claimed this spot. As it sat right in the middle of your lab. Despite everything inside of him wanting to stay near you and soak up your presence. He headed for the door.

“Thanks, doc,” Bucky called out.

“Anytime, bucky. I'll be here when you come in with another excuse to see me,” you spoke coyly. Bucky's eyes widened and warmth crept up to his face. 

He sputters for words to save his pride, stumbling over his poor excuse of an explanation. “Maybe I just wanna see your cool outfits.” bucky's face scrunched up, cringing at his own pathetic words. He wondered what the 40s version of himself would say now, probably something sly and confident that’d knock you off your feet.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Barnes.”

“Bucky.” he corrected, again. But maybe it was just an excuse to linger longer at your door.

You smiled at him and repeated, “bucky.”

“You're going on a date with her.” 

Bucky's eyes widened, his head snapping towards Natasha. “I’m what?”

A frustrated groan leaves Natasha's lips as she shifts in her uncomfy office seat. Half of the Avengers team sat in an office going over a mission coming up, but - like most things - it turned into them talking about anything but that, and successfully annoying the hell out of Steve. 

“I set you up on a date with her.” Natasha spoke, referring to you. “I cannot keep watching you get beat up during missions just so you can see her, so you're going on a date.”

Bucky was dumbfounded, to say the least, lost for words as he stared at the woman in front of him. “Why would I go on a date with her?”

Over the past week or two, Bucky began to deny his fondness towards you when you interrupted a meeting to talk to Tony, or popped into the common rooms to talk about new tech, or how you practically strutted through the compound like you own the place. 

or when you slowly build up bucky’s confidence without either or you realizing it. 

Always in short skirts, or colorful and dramatic tops, and in heels or boots that echo loudly throughout the halls. Bucky denies the way his eyes drag along your figure, always lingering on your face longer than he needs to, the way if you look close enough, Bucky's eyes light up a little when you enter the room. Bucky denies it, but he can't fake it.

And Natasha clocked that quickly. 

“the way you look at her tells me you want to,” Natasha spoke coyly. She always read bucky better than anyone else in the room— similar background and all. a defeated groan comes from bucky in return, followed by a slightly pouted lip. Natasha gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder

A scoff was heard from the other side of the table. “Is the cyborg cable of feelings?” Tony snarked, his head down looking at a sheet of paper. Chewing slightly at a pen. 

“Ha. ha. Very funny.” Bucky mocked. “How do you even know she wants to go on a date with me? I can’t imagine she agreed to this?”

self-consciousness slowly crept up bucky's spine, he can’t face rejection if he denies, denies, and denies.

Natasha went to speak but Tony Stark does what he does best and interrupts her. With a hefty laugh coming up from his chest, he dropped the pen and papers down on the table. Leaning forward to face bucky. “Are you kidding me? You’re like a wet dream to her, always injured and part robot. Hits all of her boxes''

“I'm surprised she hasn’t mounted yo-”

“Okay Tony, I think that's enough talking.” Steve interrupted before he could finish his sentence. Tony’s comment earned a choked laugh from both Natasha and Sam.

“Anyways.” Natasha continued. “I know because she already agreed to it. Everything is already set up.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, hoping his hair covers his growing red ears. Steve spoke up, “Just give it a chance buck. You might enjoy it.” oh steve, hopeful as ever.

“I’m sure you'll enjoy it, it’s very much your style,” Natasha spoke, her infamous smirk growing on her face. 

“That scares me.” 

*****

Turns out Natasha was right, it is very much Bucky's style. Natasha had planned (with the help of Steve, because of-fucking-course) a date at a fancy, old-style diner, and every Saturday night they clear the floor and play some old music for some swing dancing. Just bucky’s style, he knows this was Steve’s idea. more than sure after years of watching plenty of girls swoon over Bucky with just one twirl and one short dance, Steve would think this is right up his alley. And it was.

Now Bucky stands outside a busy and bustling diner, upbeat 40s music echoing to the streets. Flowers in hand and a nice black collared shirt under a vintage jacket (it was from the museum and Steve name-dropped at least 12 times to get it back), waiting patiently for you to arrive. Bucky fiddled with his hands a little, his eyes kept darting to his watch— is he too early? When are you arriving? Bucky’s now convinced you wouldn’t show up. Because who would honestly want to go on a date with h–

“James!” a cheery voice broke through his very self-deprecating thoughts. Bucky turned around and swore his heart stopped beating, just for it to speed up even faster when his sights landed on you.

You wore the same boots that caught Wanda's eyes in the common room that quiet day. His eyes followed up your legs, past your thighs as he saw the dress you wore. It was stripped and sparkly, bucky would see the shine from down the street. It felt like you wore the entire rainbow and more as every stripe was painted differently. It was sleeveless and high-necked. And of course, very short.

An excited smile greeted him as you waved your hand. Your pace sped up as Bucky met you, he wondered how you didn't trip in those high heels constantly.

 “Hi,” Bucky said, wanting to hit himself for how awkward he sounded. 

“Sorry for being late, I didn't mean to make you wait.” you stood before him, and he noticed your makeup. You painted your lips with a darker shade than usual and you had little shiny gems glued around your eyes. 

“Don’t worry about it, I just got here too,” Bucky spoke softly, bringing the flowers up to you. “For you.”

Your eyes instantly lit up at the sight, taking the bouquet from him “thank you! you didn't need to get these for me, James.”

 Bucky's heart fluttered slightly at the name, it was rare for people to use his first name nowadays. You brought the flowers to your nose, smelling them with a blissful look on your face. Laughing to yourself.

“What's so funny?” the super-soldier asked.

“Oh no, it’s nothing.” you looked back down at the flower. “I don’t think anyone has ever gotten me flowers before.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed, “really?”

“Mhmm.” you rocked back and forth on your heels, “thank you for being the first.”

You smiled warmly up at Bucky as you did so often, but the aura of everything made it so much more this time.

“Let's head in?” Bucky cocked his head towards the diner. 

Nodding, “yes, please.” you threaded along, catching Bucky off guard when you swiftly grabbed ahold of his hand. Your fingers wrapped around his flesh hand, the warmth made Bucky feel funny in his stomach. Yeah, Bucky might have a crush on you.

You lead him into the diner, confident in your walk like usual. Your eyes spotted an empty seat and the both of you settled yourselves in a booth. You make quick eye contact and Bucky's mouth gaped like he's going to say something but is stopped when the waiter comes up. The waiter looks like she blends in with the scenery, with pinned-up hair and a bright red lip. She asks for your order and you both get water, and a milkshake. 

“I can imagine why Natasha picked this place out of everything,” you say, eyes off into the distance, Bucky follows your gaze and sees the dance floor of people together with large smiles. “Though, I don't know how to dance.”

Bucky's lip quirks up slightly, “I can teach you.”

“Perfect, let’s go then.” your smile widely, and your already getting up, standing next to bucky's seat and holding a hand out. Bucky’s surprised by your sudden willingness but despite the nervousness in his stomach - he takes your hand. 

Bucky may have been nervous standing outside the diner. May have been nervous as he greeted and met you outside. May have been nervous as you led him inside and watched you from across the table. But once he stepped out onto the swing floor, the soft sound of 40s music playing in the background. The sweet-talking James Buchanan – that seemed to flirt with every girl that met him – came back from the dead, and he had his arm around your waist in no time.

You noticed the sudden confidence and glint in his eyes suddenly, reaching up to grab his neck. Bucky held you at your waist, then he noticed the gold chain hung around your hips. His fingers grazed over them for a moment before they rested at the smallest part of your waist.

Your wide eyes met his and bucky swore for a moment, he couldn't breathe. “How was the mission?”

A groan escaped Bucky's mouth, playfully he rolled his eyes. Trying to sound annoyed, but his smile said otherwise. “Oh god, I don't wanna talk about work.”

Bucky’s hands stayed planted on your waist. You smiled as you continued to sway together along to the soft jazz in the background. You tugged nervously at your lip, “you know, I was getting worried when I heard you guys weren’t getting back on time.”

“You worry about me?” Bucky was stunned, an unfamiliar warmth shot through him as you averted your gaze. He took one hand to pull at your chin, so you were looking at him. Your mouth gaped open for a moment and your brain studdered before you just shrugged in response, a slight nod.

The familiar sound of the music speeding up, the upbeat sound of Harry James filled Bucky’s ears and for a moment Bucky was in the 40s again with a girl in his arms ready to be shipped out to war. A sentimental smile grew on his face.

“You ready to learn how to dance.” Bucky beamed down at you and before you could even respond, Bucky pushed your body away from him abruptly. Just to grab your hand before you could fall, twirling you around and back close to his chest. 

It all happened so fast and you yelped once your back hit his chest. His arm wrapped across your body and held your hand. You breathed and smiled widely. “I might step on your toes.

“I can handle it, doll.”

******

A few songs later and a couple of toes crushed, followed by a slew of apologies from you. You and Bucky ended up breathing heavily and slightly sweaty from dancing. Bucky swung you around like you weighed nothing - which to him - you probably did. Lots of music ranging from the 40s to 60s played throughout the diner, to which Bucky snarks at the fact he didn’t recognize the songs, always followed by light laughter.

The dancing came to a slow, but you two remained on the floor still. It was getting late and you hadn’t even eaten yet and most couples and groups of friends had gone back to their seats. You swayed comfortably in Bucky's arms still, your head laid on his chest listening to the soft beat of his heartbeat. 

Bucky Barnes is a more than qualified trained assassin with heightened senses. He's very aware of his surroundings at all times, so when he notices the man peering at your thighs and ass, his eyes narrow toward the man. A glimpse of the winter soldier showed, but the creep didn't seem to pay any attention to Bucky's gaze.

Every so politely, Bucky attempted to tug at your dress without it seeming like he was trying to grope you. Also, swiftly and smoothly twirling you around so the man's gaze would be fixed on bucky's broad shoulders. Effectively protecting you from perverted stares as his body towards over you.

You noticed the way Bucky's body stiffened when he spun you, looking up at him once again. “You okay?”

Bucky nodded and gave you a reassuring squeeze around your waist. “Let’s head back? I'm hungry.”

You agreed quickly and grabbed Bucky's hand, pulling him off the dance floor and guiding him back to the table where your two drinks sat warm now. You slid into the booth with a large exhale, sitting across from Bucky. The waiter decked out in 40s apparel and took your orders, your food coming in no time. It was a poor excuse for dinner per se, only ordering fries and cheese curds to simply snack on. 

“You make a good dance partner.” Bucky mutters, mouth muffled with fries. 

“Chew.” 

Buckys recoils in embarrassment and covers his mouth, face tinted red from dancing. He swallows and lowers his hand. “sorry.”

“Thank you.” you sigh, pushing your food away from you. “You did most of the work, but I'd like to keep practicing.”

Bucky stopped, and looked at you as you stared intently into him. Bucky flustered mix. 

“Are you gonna keep blushing or accept my offer on a second date.” you shoot back and Bucky feels the air leave his lungs. His ears are definitely burning red.

“I'm not bushing? What are you talking about? This is me worn out from all the dancing.`` Bucky plays dumb, throwing a fry into the basket between the two of you. Slowly pulling out his billfold from his jeans.

Your eyes roll dramatically, as a scoff escapes your lips. “Yeah, okay. Super soldier.” 

Bucky narrows his eye’s toward you, a grin plastered on his face. “I'd love to go on a second date.”

You bite back a grin. “Ready?” you asked, bucky puts down the money to pay and nodded. Bucky gives you a boyish smile that you'd only recognized from old war photos. It warms you to the core, leaving you flustered. He grabs at your hand as you let him drag you out of the diner, a secure arm around your waist.

The light breeze of new york hit both of you, your hands instantly going up to your arms to warm yourself. Bucky notices all too quickly and instantly wraps his jacket around you. 

“Oh, thank you. Are you cold?” you ask, seemingly genuinely worried.

“Doll.” he stares down at you, and bucky speaks like the answer is obvious, which– it kinda is. “I hiked through Siberia in less.” 

“Whatever.” you scoff and roll your eyes, tugging the jacket closer around your body. the corners of your mouth slowly creeping up.

The faint scent of bucky comes off of it, sandalwood and pine mostly. You're used to the smell when he's not coming into your lab sweaty or bloody from missions and workouts. A comfortable silence falls between the two of you, filtered out by the busy city around you.

“So… I’ll see you tomorrow?” you speak awkwardly, unsure of where to go from here.

“Yep, tomorrow.” Bucky strings on the word, are also awkward. 

You could cut the tension with a knife.

“Or…” your voice raises a few octaves as you turn on your heels to face him, barely a foot between the two of you.  

Bucky's eyebrow quirks up, “Or?” 

“Or you could come back to my very, very nice and cozy apartment that isn't full of agents and superhumans.”

You flashed your best and greatest grin toward Bucky, and the way you were looking at him made Bucky want to crumble beneath his knees. You shouldn't have this effect on him, his heart tugged towards you in a weird, mysterious way that Bucky wasn't familiar with yet. He wasn't going to lie and say it didn’t stress him out a tiny bit.

Bucky let out a heavy, pained exhale and stepped a little closer to you. “Not tonight, doll. sorry.”

“It's okay.” your face dropped slightly, but then you looked up at him and a flash of something came across your feature and soon a smirk was replaced. “Then let me have this.”

“What–?”

Bucky was cut off by your warm hands cupping his face and lips as he received the most gentle kiss he's ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Initial shock ran through his body at the suddenness, and just as he accepted the feeling and went to melt into the kiss— you pulled away. Bucky felt so cold without you against him, he hated feeling cold.

“Wait, no.” he eagerly grabbed your face to pull you back in. Bucky didn't care if he sounded needy, because he did need this. noticing a glimpse of your more than satisfied grin before he shut his eyes and let himself feel your touch.

It was like you were meant for bucky, the perfect puzzle piece as your lips molded against each other. Slow and passionate, his hand ghosted above your waist before he pulled you full against his body. If it wasn't for your wedged heels, Bucky wasn't sure if you'd even reach his lips with the way you stood on your toes. 

Pulling away, Bucky felt dizzy, like he was drunk off of you. He swears he saw stars in your eyes, the street lights reflecting off your irises. Soft laughter came from you, you bowed your head as bucky stared at you. Practically mesmerized. 

To you, Bucky looked like he was in some sort of shock. Which wouldn’t be too far from the truth, which scared you slightly.

“Everything okay? Did I do something wrong?” you asked innocently, a pang of worry laced your tone.

Bucky frantically shook his head, “no, no– god no. just not used to that.”

“That?” 

“I mean.” Bucky thought for a moment, collecting his mind. “Being kissed. I've always been the one to initiate.”

You smiled sweetly, seeing hints of a flustered, young boyish version of Bucky. One that he, and everyone else swore was long gone. You had always thought otherwise, and tonight proves you right.

“I hope it wasn’t too jarring for you.” you nervously chuckled. 

“It was perfect.”

_

tag list;@matchat3a @sebsgirl71479 @heavenswrld @ivywasmaroon

[skylarsblue]

»zenless zone zero«

Details of Belle's room, because I like her a lot and she deserves more attention.

[Desc: Belle's wooden desk. Featuring an industrial style lamp, a metal lock box under a standard black file box. There's a pair of white headphones with green detailing, and a clear plus(+) and minus(-) symbol for volume. A pencil holder that looks a bit like film, though it has numbers & letters. It holds a pair of scissors, a graphite pencil, an exacto blade/box cutter, a marker, and a mechanical pencils/pen. There's a scrap/sketch book in the center, brown and seemingly leather. There's a latch and band to keep it closed and it's covered in stamps, most notably one with a four leaf clover. On the wall are two post it notes, both with little doodles. This hints that she's creative. Either collecting stamps and stickers, which would align with the stickers all over her room and her pension for memory keeping (see the memory board the player can edit), and that she at least does small doodles, if not draw as a hobby.]

[Desc: Beside her orange box tv; which is inspired by vintage 70s/80s tube televisions with knobs/dials; is a game console on top of a VHS player. It's seemingly inspired by the Super Nintendo Entertainment System, based on it's shape. There are three game cartridges, one in the machine. The one in the console is half visible, but what we can see has a blue smiley face. The second cartridge with a visible sticker seems to be either a horror or "biohazard" type shooter game. Though that's my interpretation.]

[Desc: Beside her desk is a wall with pipes. On the lower pipe there are more post it notes with more small doodles, stuck to the pipe with small magnets. One features a small yellow star and three big question marks. Two features a figure running with their hands over their head, carrying a heart. Three has some illegible writing and an emoticon face. On the pipe above this one are VHS tape boxes. Most are in kanji I cannot read, but the ones I can are- (1) The Silence of the Butterflies (2) I'M NOT A BANGBOO (3) The Sixteenth Split. I like to imagine the first movie is maybe a reference to Silence of the Lambs, based on the title alone. Which, if it is, might mean Belle likes horror/psychological horror movies.]

[Desc: On the table beside her mini fridge is a hybrid music player. It plays records via a slit in the front, almost like a CD player. And there's a space for walkman tapes above that. The volume knob is notably loud, there are tiny numbers and Belle's set it to the second-to-last setting. There's a box of records beside it with two semi visible packages. The first one is in kanji I, again, cannot read. But my guess, based on the art, is some kind of alt style music. The one behind it has a barely visible animal mascot with vibrant blues & greens, and the sharp art style makes me think of electric rock or pop. Behind this is her night stand. On the nightstand is a blue "GameBoy" and a yellow mug that says 'LENMAN', which is also seen on a soda can in her room. Lemon soda, I would guess.]

[Desc: The wall beside Belle's (unmade) bed. There are five posters. One features art of a woman's face above the movie title; 'REVERSAL'. There is some silhouette art that vaguely looks like some ethereal monsters, followed by the movie tag line underneathe - "Night of the Ethereal Reversal". Might be a Night of the Living Dead reference. Which further makes me believe Belle likes horror movies. The second poster is covered by One & Three, which makes it pretty hard to know what it shows. What I can see is an unfinished title - "---- Slayer". There's eyes on some of the visible artwork and it looks vaguely like a record with scenes on it. The third poster features various Bangboos climbing away from a large, glowing, orange, Bangboo that seems to be "exploding" with energy, exposing its skeleton & heart. There's kanji I can't read, but under the kanji title is the word "THUNDER". And the words "BANGBOO POWER" are behind the artwork at the top. The fourth poster is one also seen downstairs in the Random Play store. The title is 'Coffee Mate'. Based on the style & energy of the artwork, my personal guess is that it's a romantic, slow paced anime film. The fifth & last poster is titles Ports Peak. The art is blue with a red chainsaw blade shape cutting through the middle, in the blade shape is the vague image of a man's side profile. Based on the blood splatter pattern & the chainsaw, this is likely a horror movie. The art makes me think of Evil Dead & Texas Chainsaw Massacre, personally.]

{Desc: Beside Belle's leather couch is a red electric guitar & an orange amp. On the couch is also one of her console controllers...which has no joy sticks, only a d pad, buttons, and bumpers. Also, she has stickers on her leather couch, clearly showing she gives no fucks.]

[Desc: On the floor, in a divot in the wall beside the small stairs that go up to her bed's raised platform is a skateboard & a framed poster. The skateboard features a green dinosaur/monster with it's mouth open. The bottom says FATE, likely the brand. The framed poster features two smiling tigers on the top & bottom of a logo, on a red & black striped background. Since she also has snowboard goggles in her room, I'm guessing she uses the skateboard when the weather is too warm for snow.]

[Desc: Next to Eous's charging station is a yellow dresser. On top of it is a boombox radio that has two mixtape spots. There's a small display with random colors that currently displays a pause symbol. It also has an antenna, which means it could be used as a standard FM/AM radio. Beside the boombox is a rabbit statue that Belle is using to hold a pair of black, green & blue snowboarding goggles. Small note, on Eous' coat is the words "Random Play - Staff", and his scarf has their name in small text.]

[Desc: At the end of Belle's bed is a pair of red shelves, and a pair of industrial metal & wood shelves. On the red shelves are three record sleeves. The small text on the albums is gibberish, but they're all made by 5AM Studios. The first and top one is black with white graffiti-bubble letters that say "3Z". R'n'B maybe? I've seen art like this for some R'N'B albums. Below it, the second album features some art of a Bangboo riding a cat through a ring of fire. Above the art is the word ZENLESS. The font & style give me, personally, some rock vibes. What subgenre of rock, I'm not sure. The last album is a art of a spider on a black & red ombre background, contrasting the spider, which features the same gradient in the opposite direction. The spider seems to feature the name of the band or album, but I can't tell what it says. I do know that this shit has to be a metal album. I'm like, 90% sure. On the industrial style shelves are some VHS tapes & a box. These tapes look like the type you buy for your own recordings, rather than ones with movies. Underneath that level is a technicolor piece of artwork in a frame. There's an illegible signature in the right bottom corner, meaning it's an autograph.]

[astrum99]

Fighting against V1 felt like motion – unstoppable, ungovernable, uncontrollable. Sensations tore out of the consistent static that stained millennia with silence.

With isolation, sitting still on the throne of hell. As ordered.

And the shattering of it was nothing short of spectacular.

This machine, small and agile. A magnificent creature manufactured in the image of mankind –soulless and lifeless. (He thought it was lifeless, he thinks he might be wrong – like many times before). It moved with mastery across mountains of squirming, writhing flesh. Ever moving, ever fighting. Hell is its stage, and it proudly presents itself with grace, elegance, and perfect violence. It delivered what was sought with pure, instinctual, exceptional savagery.

It drew blood from him. And along with blood, ecstasy.

There’s poetry to it. Sinful, sacrilegious poetry.

To be etched by this thing so easily. Bullets hot and scorching, piercing through armour until they burn and burrow deep under his skin. To be trading blows. Bow low to evade another swing before the release of twin swords slicing through the scene. To leap into flight only to be grappled and slammed back into the ground. Pinned, dazed, tethered. It demanded submission.

He should feel fury, yet that had faded long ago.

Crimson looked rosy under the cathedral lights. The iron on his lips tasted like metal.

When its whiplash wrapped around his wrist again, it felt like a snare. The pull of the welcoming mirage of closeness. Perhaps salvation if he dared to entertain.

Hatred, anger, violence. Love, passion, devotion. Both burn bright until all-consuming. And in the heat of the moment, he recognized the blurring of the lines.

He thought of them. Untethered angel and machine. So wildly contradictory and identical all the same. Two sides of the Mobius strip – seemingly separate, until their paths merge seamlessly into one. Intimately intertwined, indistinguishable from one to the next.

To push each other into the slit between life and death. Until the fine sparks from clashing metal ignited the flicker of flames into ferocious roaring. Until nothing mattered except here, now, them. Until the light from the fire painted their shadows into one.

The universe could not tell where one began and the other ended.

[lipglossanon]

I know we've gotten that good stuck fic with subby stepbro!Leon, but I need to know the reactions he and stepbro!Leon would react if you were stuck in the washing machine

Like, it's literally impossible to get stuck in there, but I for some reason need to know 😭

And reminder to take care of yourself love!!! (is it okay I call you that?)

The cat pic! ASDSFDL 🤭

And seriously I love stuckage but why is the washing machine the trope 😭 but I’ll try my best friend, reader will be magically stuck in there somehow haha 🫡

Aww thank you 🥹 I’m doing that now! Taking it easy and trying to stay offline a little more, writing whatever I feel like and posting what I want haha. And it’s perfectly fine to call me that! I’m chill 🥶 😝 (18+ under the cut pls and thx 🙏)

Stepbro Leon:

Hears some weird noise as he’s walking into the kitchen and so follows it til he comes to the laundry room. And sees you, lower half dangling over the washing machine

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your voice echoes weirdly since it’s coming out of the machine itself, “I got stuck, help pull me out.”

You just hear him snicker to himself and then feel him press up against your body.

“You’ve gotta say it, this is too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

“What the hell are you talking about, get me out of here!” You try to kick your legs but it’s too awkward.

His voice goes falsetto, “Please help me stepbro, I’m stuck.”

“Fuck off,” you snap at him, feeling frustrated, “if you won’t help me go find someone else, asshole.”

He clicks his tongue, “That’s no way to ask nicely.”

“Please, big brother,” your voice drones sardonically, sounding even dryer with the metallic echo, “I need your help.”

He sighs, “You’re no fun, seriously. But…”

He doesn’t say anything but you feel him tugging your shorts down your legs, “Maybe this might help you out.”

His fingers slide under the band of your panties and start to softly circle your clit. You whine and clamp your legs shut but it only makes him laugh and tease your slit, fingers dipping into your hole.

“Fuck, you’re already wet,” he groans, slipping two fingers into your pussy easily finding the spongy spot along the front of your cunt to rub against.

You moan as he slides his fingers out and you feel the hot tip of his cock pressing into your hole in their place. Both of you groan as he sinks his dick into your pussy, quickly pulling out to slowly fuck back into your fluttering walls.

“Slutty fucking pussy,” his big hands wrap around your hips as he snaps his hips into your ass, “so fucking good.”

“Leon,” you mewl, crying out when his slick covered fingers find your clit again and start to slowly circle the sensitive bud.

“Yeah, cum on my cock and I’ll help you out, little sis,” he laughs.

It feels like he keeps you on the cusp of orgasm for forever, every time your cunt clamps around his dick he eases off from teasing your clit until you’re whining and gasping, pleading with him to cum.

“Ready to get all filled up, baby sis? Want big brother to cream your hot fucking cunt? Yeah y’do,” he grunts, hips thrusting into your squelching hole as he rubs your clit in harsh circles.

“Please, wanna cum, please big brother, please,” you gasp out, a low keening whine spilling out of your mouth to echo around you as Leon rubs across your clit just right, making your orgasm overtake your body.

Leon curses under his breath as your body shakes and tightens up around his cock until it feels like he’s fucking into a vice grip. A few more thrusts and he’s burying himself deep into your spasming walls, cock spurting hot cum into your pussy as it milks him. Once he’s soft enough, he pulls out with a low hiss, quickly snapping your panties and shorts over your ass so nothing drips out of you. He reaches around your shoulders and maneuvers your arms and shoulders until you’re stumbling back into his chest.

He slaps your ass as he heads out of the room, smirking at you, “Next time just say you want fucked, don’t gotta get stuck for me.”

Subby stepbro:

Is already actually looking around the house trying to find you. So imagine his surprise to see your ass hanging out of the washing machine as soon as he goes into the laundry room.

“Uhh, do you need help?”

You laugh but it sounds strained, “Yes, I’ve been trying to get out of here for longer than I’d like to admit.”

He bites his lip as he actually looks at you. You’re only wearing skimpy panties and a baggy shirt (makes sense to him that you’d be doing laundry then). But he can see the outline of your fat pussy lips and it’s making him stupid. Walking up to you, his hand skates up your thighs until his thumbs are spreading open your pussy until your underwear barely cover your hole.

“Leon,” your shaky voice makes him groan.

“Let me just—“ he stops talking to dip down and lick your cunt through the thin panties.

“Leon!” You gasp out, “fuck, this is so, ngh!”

He’s yanking your panties off, mouth going right back to licking into your cunt. Moaning, he licks and mouths along your pussy lips, sucking them into his mouth as he moves up to your clit. He sucks the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, running his tongue over the hood before flicking across your clit. You can hear clothes shuffling and then Leon’s pulling away only to push the fat head of his cock into your soaked hole. You squeal as he buries his thick cock into your pussy, feeling overly stretched out and full.

“Fuck, just needed to feel your pussy, big sis,” he grunts, rocking his hips deeper into you, “so sexy, bent over with your hot little cunt just there for me to take, fuck.”

He groans and starts a quick and hard tempo, humping against your ass as his cock bullies into your pussy over and over. You’re only able to whine and moan as your stuck taking Leon’s fat cock deep into your cunt. His hand slips to the front of your hips and he teases across your slippery clit.

“Big sis,” he pants, drooling against your back as he thrusts harder, “gonna cum in you, god, want you to cum all over my cock so I can creampie your pretty pussy.”

“God, yes,” you gasp, “right there, keep fucking me like that—‘m gonna cum.”

Leon whines and bites your shirt as his cock knocks against your cervix and rubs across your g-spot. He hammers against the spongy spot in your cunt until your toes are curling as you cum hard around his dick, walls spasming and milking him rhythmically.

“Feel s’good,” he moans, thrusting so hard to bury his cock deep into your pussy it shifts the washing machine dislodging you.

He only grabs your upper body and presses you down as he rails your pussy, finally pressing tight against your body as he spurts hot ropes of sticky cum all in your stuffed hole.

He pulls out with a groan, quickly pulls his sweats up, and grabs you up in a bridal carry.

“Gotta get you to a bed,” he murmurs as he presses a sloppy kiss against your cheek, “need you so bad.”

[yourlocalmechanism-dr-carmilla]

“Care for a tea with your executioner?”

A new creation for the war, thats what I, King cole, adore!

Make me a beastly warrior out of the finest silver and strongest steel, unrelenting and deadly as death itself!

The rebels shall recoil in terror and fright when they see their executioner- the jabberwocky! [king cole obv]

Born from war, made for war, you shall never know anything else

You only feel pain, but you cant be beat, you dont have a soul, youre just a weapon

You cant talk right, so why bother? Just obey your orders, paint the sky red with blood, that is your life!

They soon found out that the collar that makes me obey, my chain on which i am held, can be hacked, soon i was fighting for the rebels, unknowingly

Ruby eyes turned white, as i burnt hundreds of rose reds and tore them apart

It was over as soon as it started, but they deceided that i should be the only one

So i was taken control of back and forth from the queen of hearts to the rebels [jabberwocky]

Born from war, made for war, you shall never know anything else

You only feel pain, but you cant be beat, you dont have a soul, youre just a weapon

You cant talk right, so why bother? Just obey your orders, paint the sky red with blood, that is your life!

The jabberwocky was useful in the war to the rebels, everyone feared it, but then, it went all so wrong. A glint of sentinence had been growing inside of the Jabberwocky, as it took over. And it turned against everyone, tired of being treated as just A weapon, it wrecked havoc, before it was shot down- it didnt stop it. I stabbed out its eye, to distract it. But then, it was gone. [Alice]

Born from war, made for war, you shall never know anything else

You only feel pain, but you cant be beat, you dont have a soul, youre just a weapon

You cant talk right, so why bother? Just obey your orders, paint the sky red with blood, that is your life!

I stalk the lands, seeking out new victims to satisfy my hunger for blood, picking them apart to see whats inside. I get driven mad woth the turmoil inside of me, oil spills from my eye- tears perhaps?

When i see tea, i stop for awhile, and thrn, there seens to be sonething reminiscent of peace

When i get taken control of- which never lasts too long-, i get chained up- whether queen of hearts or rebels, it doesent matter. I cant speak, its gibberish, a rhyme whine, Speech a Confusion, Askul frm or my true language- the one of machines that no one speaks anymore. When shall this terror end? I receive other broadcasts, maybe the war is over, i dont know? I hide and fight, i am a legend now, just another spook take to tell, as i was never a person to begin with.. [jabberwocky]

Born from war, made for war, you shall never know anything else

You only feel pain, but you cant be beat, you dont have a soul, youre just a weapon

You cant talk right, so why bother? Just obey your orders, paint the sky red with blood, that is your life!

A NEW OC!! ITS FOR THE MECHANISMS Ä!

Heres the description:

Name: Jabberwocky

-they/it or just its name

-a humanoid robot dragon essentially; it has dragon wings, its gasmask/helmet looks like a dragons, its pupils are slits, its hands have claws and its unnatural lanky and tall, its feet have claws too, and it has a dragon tail..its made from shining silver metal, its teeth are steel. It can breathe fire, has enorm strength, a thirst for blood, poisonous teeth and bizarrely, a love for tea. Its wings are the colour of oxidized copper, its eyes are essentially rubies w slit , their short hair a mix of blood red and moss green, their scales that litter their arms, legs, meck and sides of its body are a.metallic green. it is clad in a red military band jacket and a pair of white pants with buttons on the side. Its dangerous as it can move so swiftly and makes no sound- until its too late. Their teeth are too big for their mouth, thats why their mouth is always contorted into an odd grin (not as wide as chesires tho). Often perches somewhere on kts fours, looking for its next victim

-an experiment by King Cole; the only one of its kind as after it was finished and deployed, it was discovered that anyone could use it for its purposes- The collar that it wears makes it follow orders through a series of electric impulses- Unfortunately, that collar can be hacked and it didnt took for the rebels long to notice, so it turned into a back and forth between the two sides. Until…a glint of sentinence had started to develop inside of it- and it had enough of being just another weapon. So it went rogue. Turning onto everyone, it lit the battlefield ablaze with its fiery breath. It took awhile to even shoot it down, but it srivived and it also survived gettign its eyes stabbed out by none other than Alice Liddell, to protect the others, especially the white knight and queen. It did escaped tho, stalking the land

-due to its one eye being broken, its collar inly works half way- on occasion, it gets hacjed and then iti fights for one side but the effect wears off and it goes rogue, berserk-like as it slaughters the masses- but as soon as it sees tes, it takes a tea break. And when it gets brought under control, its always chained up and secured, no matter if rebel or queen of hearts- its treated like a beast.

-And inside of its head, irs full of doubts- what us it ecavtly, is it a person? Does the oil that leak from its eye symbolize tears? Can it feel mental pain? What are these sequenves (dreams) that it sees when.it rests? Why does it want to run or to stop?? It is confused. What doesent help is that it cant communicate properly, usually speaking in odd rhymes that make no sense, gibberish or just repeats a few words with no connection. And no one on this palnet speaks its true languagey the language of machine. So its left alone, confused, scared, full of hatred and bloodlust..soemtiems it picks its victims apart to see whats on the inside.

-It also picks up broadcasts and signals from all over and it can hack into computer system…but the message that the war was over..was deemed dentrimental to the war effort and was scrambled and it didnt udnerstood it. And even if-it coudlnt have stopped. It was born from war. it is their nature, their programming

-depending on which side theyre on, their eye changes from red to white. It doesent ubderstand feelings, has the names but not the meaning. It laighs but it sounds fake, robotic.

-it yearns for another machine to understand it..and to love it. It saw lovr in war it wabts to understand it, feel it. But it doesent have a heart, just a processor.

-they get picked up by the mechanisms abd taken in, due to theur destructive nature and wings. They deceide to keep their lost eye…

[thesilliestrovingalive]

Updated: November 22, 2024

Reworked Character #2: Tarma Roving

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to underage drinking, crime, an unhealthy romance, death, and torture.

Real name: Tarmicle Ignacio Roving III

Alias: Mister Nice Buddy

Occupation: Captain of the P.F. Squad

Retirement plans: Open a motorcycle shop, develop reliable cybernetic prosthetics for hospital use, and start a family

Special skills: Proficiency in Slugs, heavy duty firearms, and resource management, robotic engineering, weaponsmithing, mechanics, and bivouacking

Hobbies: Customising motorcycles while listening to rock music, drawing detailed blueprints for weaponry and vehicles, collecting action figures and scale models of military machines, looking for cool bugs and rocks, and camping

Likes: Beautiful women and men, hugging people he cares about, solitary journeys on his motorcycle, spending time in the great outdoors, and the toy version of SV-001 that Marco gifted him on his 22nd birthday

Dislikes: Social isolation, his frequent nosebleeds, shallow and rude people (such as Gimlet), feeling powerless when preventing his friends from getting injured, and insults that feed into his insecurities about his academic intelligence

Favourite food: Rice prepared with fermented soybeans, mustard, boiled eggs, and scallions

Sexuality: Sex-favourable, straight-leaning bisexual

Gender: Male

Age: 17 (in 2022), 23 (in 2028), 25 (in 2030), 27 (in 2032), 29 (in 2034), 36 (in 2041), 38 (in 2043), 39 (in 2044), and 42 (in 2047)

Blood type: AB+

Weight: 227 lbs. (102 kg)

Design: He’s a 5’ 11” (180.34 cm) Japanese endomorph of American and Mexican descent with a partial beer belly, rigid muscles, broad shoulders, and sienna skin. He has sunburst green-hazel eyes and fingernails that are painted a dull gold. He has maroon hair with medium-length parted bangs, featuring two distinctive ahoge cowlicks in the centre, alongside sideburns, a neatly trimmed goatee, and subtle curls. Like Marco, he bears nasty battle scars: badly burned flesh from the right side of his neck to the left deltoid; multiple lacerations crisscrossing his back, forearms, and thighs; his left ring finger is partially severed; a couple of bullet wounds are visible just below his left lumbar region; and a scar snakes down from the right side of his forehead to the middle of his left cheek. He has a horizontal scar in the centre of his neck, a result of a sleepwalking incident involving Marco, who nearly slit his throat with a kitchen knife.

His right forearm was replaced by a cybernetic prosthetic, crafted from ultra-durable, lightweight metal plated and reinforced with tungsten nanotubes. Vein-like fibres of superconducting nanowire mesh enable seamless integration with his nervous system. The prosthetic features a retractable plasma cannon that fires two types of projectiles: yellowish-white ionised energy blasts that deliver intense electrical discharges; and metallic purple-green goo, a highly corrosive and acidic substance capable of burning through virtually any material. Beneath the plasma cannon, a nanotech-enhanced, razor-sharp blade retracts seamlessly into the cutting-edge prosthetic. Forged from a nearly indestructible alloy, the gilded blade is micro-serrated for optimal tissue and armour penetration.

His military gear consists of red-tinted sunglasses, a metal dog tag necklace with his name, a walnut brown T-shirt with ripped sleeves, a rusty orange fingerless glove on his left hand, and a burgundy leather belt with a snap-on gold buckle. He wears a saffron-yellow vest with four pockets, featuring an embroidered logo of the P.F. Squad on the back. He also wears citron army cargo pants tucked under burgundy paratrooper boots, a sheath for his combat knife, and a gun holster for a handgun he rarely uses. He once ripped the right knee of his cargo pants, but Fio mended it with a patch of butterscotch-hued fabric. The pockets of Tarma’s vest carry around an old cigarette box, a silver lighter, the key to his first customisable motorcycle, and a toy version of SV-001.

Over his T-shirt, he dons a Soldier Plate Carrier System (SPCS) with a MultiCam pattern, which carries around his walkie-talkie and ammo for other firearms. His forearms are wrapped in dirty gauze, and he wears two dark brown bandoliers: one drapes over his left shoulder, holding sticks of dynamite, while the other wraps above his belt, holding bullets for his handgun. Tarma carries around a citron load-bearing backpack that contains camping equipment, tactical explosives, portable ammo boxes, a canteen full of water, mechanic tools, a flame shot, two machine guns, an enemy chaser, and a laser gun. He has three piercings: a gilded septum as well as a silvery vertical curved barbell and a ring adorning his left eyebrow.

Tarma acquired a stolen katana called Murasame, renowned for its unique ability to self-cleanse its blackened steel blade, allowing it to remain razor-sharp. The katana features a distinctive wave-shaped hamon, a tangerine-hued handle wrapped in gilded cord, and a hexagonal silvery guard. The katana's crimson hardwood sheath features a golden straightened carp design, while the blade itself bears the Japanese inscription “血液洗浄” (Ketsueki Senjō), meaning "blood washing" in English, elegantly written on the right side.

His beloved motorcycle, built at just 15 years old, is a custom black and flame-coloured Harley-Davidson 42WLA. The bike's gas tank showcases a stunning design: an azure Japanese dragon wrapping around a bronze eagle with outstretched wings. He extensively modified his first motorcycle, integrating a missile-firing launcher between the handlebars and installing two 12.6mm calibre Vulcan cannons (similar to those found on the SV-001) towards the front. Additionally, he fitted a bulletproof carrier at the rear, coated in a durable silvery dark grey paint, which houses a shotgun and thirty corresponding shell holders.

Character summary: He often pokes fun at the overly serious Marco, much to his annoyance, yet still holds him in the highest esteem as a heroic soldier. Whenever he's away from Marco and can't contact him, he starts to worry about his safety. But when Marco returns safe and sound, he's instantly relieved and overjoyed to see that he's okay. The idea of Marco going missing or dying an untimely death would leave him feeling deeply melancholic, empty, and lonely. Tarma is fiercely loyal to Marco, willing to put his life on the line for him and offer comfort during his darkest moments. They share a remarkably harmonious relationship, rarely engaging in conflict or brotherly banter, as Marco is thoughtful of his emotional sensitivity.

As a flirtatious and affectionate individual, he frequently tries his luck with women and men who catch his eye, regardless of their faction affiliation. Although his advances often end in rejection, he doesn't let it discourage him and won't pursue them aggressively, viewing them as minor setbacks. Although his advances are rarely reciprocated, when they are, the encounters tend to be brief and sexually intimate, and he’s comfortable with that.

He has very strong romantic feelings for Fio, but struggles to express them. He enjoys spending time with her, sharing stories about his day and telling jokes. However, he occasionally comes across as a bit awkward in her presence. Once he and Fio enter into a romantic relationship, he exudes greater confidence in his feelings for her, leading to a deepening of their emotional connection and a profound level of intimacy and supportiveness. He adores it when Fio showers him with kisses, praise, and loving compliments, and he happily returns the affection. He sometimes gets into debates with Fio over what they should or shouldn’t do, but he always remains calm and tries to find a mutually beneficial solution that they can both agree on. He holds Marco dear as his queerplatonic partner, a bond that strengthens when Marco joins him and Fio in a polyamorous relationship. He feels at ease sharing his dorky side and vulnerable emotions with Fio and Marco, finding comfort and acceptance in their presence.

He genuinely cares about Eri and strives to treat her with kindness and respect. However, her tendency to socially withdraw from him, coupled with her constant belittling and physical confrontations, makes it challenging for him. Fortunately, Marco and Eri's team of Ptolemaic defectors frequently intervene to stop these confrontations. Due to Eri's animosity towards him, he harbours a deep-seated fear of her and tends to distance himself from her, particularly when she's intoxicated or near Fio. He wants to tell her that he ended their relationship years ago because she was using him as a distraction from her own problems and to fulfill her own self-centred needs, but he's hesitant to express his feelings, fearing it might escalate her hatred of him.

He's a loyal, clumsy, and fun-loving hothead with an adventurous spirit and a readiness to put up a good fight when necessary. He has a breezy and slightly sarcastic attitude, paired with a great imagination that shines when designing innovative weapons and vehicles. He has a clever talent for stirring up distractions and sparking moral self-reflection in those around him. He’s emotionally intelligent, going to great lengths to ensure the happiness of his friends, comrades, and loved ones. Tarma has a great sense of humour, often cracking jokes that span various comedy genres to diffuse tension in most situations, but it can become annoying at times. He has a hearty appetite, which becomes particularly evident after completing gruelling missions involving intense combat. Due to his strong sense of justice, he’s a vigilante at heart with protective instincts. If someone he loves is harmed, he will stop at nothing to ensure they receive the justice they deserve, showing no mercy to those responsible.

He has mild ADHD, which sometimes leads to spontaneous and curious thoughts and questions that he openly shares with those he trusts most. He feels deeply hurt and frustrated by Gimlet's mocking comments about his neurodiversity and physical differences, which escalate into intense confrontations. The mere mention of the Great Morden War triggers severe anxiety, culminating in violent panic attacks, vivid flashbacks, and haunting night terrors that disrupt his sleep. However, beneath his nonchalant and optimistic facade, he struggles with insecurities about his intelligence and mental slowness. Despite his enjoyment of being lively and a tad mischievous, he can't shake the feeling that he's a nuisance. Whenever he feels like he's about to cry, he quickly runs off to find a hiding place, fearing that others will mock him for his sensitivity. Tarma will only cry in front of others when he's feeling completely overwhelmed and people are aggressively yelling at him.

He's very patient, but sometimes his patience wears thin, and he snaps when he's feeling reasonably irritated. Although he isn't hesitant to assert himself respectfully when misunderstood, threatened or emotionally hurt, there are times when his approach comes across as rude and crass, leaving him feeling remorseful. He's incredibly passionate about vehicles, weaponry, and cybernetic prosthetics, often enthusiastically sharing his knowledge when asked. However, he's also fiercely protective of his interests and can take offence when someone criticises or disrespects them, particularly if they're models he's personally built or repaired.

He’s fiercely protective of his friends and comrades, willing to stand up to bullies and threats with a serious and intimidating demeanour. However, his strong sense of loyalty can sometimes lead to physical confrontations when pushed beyond his limits. He's generally humble and becomes slightly flustered when praised for his work and being a good friend, but occasionally exhibits overconfidence in his tactical abilities and creative projects. He can be quite reckless on the battlefield and during stealth-oriented missions, which occasionally puts his friends in potentially perilous situations, yet he always manages to keep them safe and unharmed. He strongly opposes racism, fat shaming, and the stigma surrounding mental health issues, viewing them as dehumanising obstacles to equity and healthy relationships.

He's surprisingly gentle and exceptionally kind to children, going to great lengths to rescue them from harm, ensure their emotional well-being, and provide companionship. When sleeping, he snores loudly and often talks in his sleep, uttering fragmented sentences during his most terrifying nightmares and pleasant dreams. He likes to drink with his friends after a long mission, but he often gets wasted and becomes silly, jovial, overly affectionate, and short-tempered.

He holds that morality is shaped by a combination of factors, including parental guidance, cultural influences, universal moral laws, and the capacity to establish ethical principles. He believes that everyone has inherent dignity that encourages them to follow ethical rules that are morally sound and logical. He thinks it's best to avoid contradictions and hypocritical behaviour by not following rules that are irrational and morally wrong. In his view, the morality of an action is determined by the action itself, rather than its consequences. Interestingly, despite being a soldier, he's a pacifist who believes that individuals can confront threats to peace in any way they deem necessary, even if it means compromising their personal morals. Furthermore, he sees life and death as fundamental opposites that are perpetually in conflict with each other.

Backstory: Tarmicle Ignacio Roving III was born on May 1, 2005 in Hokkaido, Japan. He was born into a large, diverse family. His father, Fabriclus Cristóbal Roving, is a distinguished Mexican-American military man. His mother, Koharu Nakabayashi, is a Japanese miniature painter and a retired army nurse who formerly served in the Regular Army. He has several siblings: Ildefonso, a firefighter and his older half-brother; Milagrosa, the lead singer of an alternative rock band and his older half-sister; twins Daisuke, a biochemist, and Ryōsuke, a medical engineer, who are his older brothers; and Calpurne, a fighter jet pilot who serves in the Regular Army and his younger sister. Fabriclus named him after his great-great-great-grandfather, Tarmicle Ignacio Roving Jr., to keep his legacy alive.

He often tells Tarma stories about the heroic actions of his namesake, who saved the lives of millions of innocent people from corrupt regimes and criminal exploitation. He also likes to tell Tarma stories about his experiences in the military, often mentioning a man named Alessandro Germi and describing the wars he had fought in. He taught his children to speak both Spanish and English and imparted valuable life lessons that they all embraced, including embracing failure and cultivating optimism. Tarma vaguely remembers Fabriclus sharing that he considered retiring after his first wife passed away from breast cancer complications. However, it wasn't until he met his second wife, Koharu, while she treated his injuries he sustained during a battle against high-risk criminals seeking to spark global anarchy, that he officially retired and started a new family with her.

He has a cousin named Achilles, who lives in Missouri, United States and owns a motorcycle shop. Achilles is notable for his habit of constantly combing his light orange pompadour and for sparking Tarma's strong passion for motorcycles. In contrast, his father fostered his interest in tanks, fighter planes, and the great outdoors, while Milagrosa ignited his love for rock music. He thoroughly enjoyed playing, exploring, and causing mischief with Calpurne, who matched his lively energy and vibrant imagination. However, their playtime wasn't without its challenges as she would occasionally take his toys without permission—though this rarely seemed to bother him.

At the age of 3, he met his childhood friend Tabomba when Tabomba's Filipino family moved in next door. Surprisingly, Tabomba sparked Tarma's interest in trains as well as cool bugs and rocks. Although they rarely see each other nowadays due to Tabomba's work as a marine biologist, they make an effort to meet up whenever they're both off work and on vacation.

His family frequently travelled across Japan, the United States, and Mexico, especially during summer and winter breaks, to visit relatives, enjoy the outdoors, and have fun. During a trip to Hiroshima at the age of 7, he met a girl named Chizuko, who was wearing an olive green bandanna. They quickly became friends after building a sand castle and finding worms under a large rock at a local park near the orphanage where Chizuko was staying. Sadly, they couldn't spend much time together because Tarma's family had planned to stay in Hiroshima for only two weeks and wanted to explore every attraction the city had to offer. Fortunately for the two, his family returned to Hiroshima a few times, once during a summer break and again to care for a sick relative.

At the playground and in elementary school, he faced bullying, responding in one of two ways: either he would remain oblivious to the taunts or burst into tears and rush to the safety of his parents or seek the teacher's intervention. He was bullied a lot at school because of his mental slowness, hyperactivity, and perceived "annoying" nature, and for not fitting traditional Japanese physical standards. Like him, Tabomba faced both racial and size-based discrimination, but found unwavering support in Tarma, who cherished their friendship. To combat Tabomba's isolation, Tarma would often keep him company, whether completing homework and assignments together or spending time together after school. Their favourite activities included playing video games, visiting the park, and watching action and comedy movies.

He had a couple of girlfriends and boyfriends in high school, but they didn't last very long. In high school, he started fighting back, engaging in fistfights and enduring street beatings as he struggled to cope with the constant bullying. He also began experimenting with building custom-made motorcycles as a way to initially impress those he was romantically interested in, and later found that it helped to calm his nerves.

Tragically, the bullying escalated to the point where Tarma felt overwhelmed and feared that reporting it to his teachers or parents would only create more problems and burden them further. So, he made the desperate decision to run away from home on his motorcycle, heading towards Hiroshima. Once there, he encountered Chizuko again, but she was different from the last time he met her. She was now the leader of a notorious street gang. Chizuko coaxed him into hanging out with her at their rundown hideout, where they drank beer and vodka stolen from a local alcohol shop. Tarma reluctantly agreed, but was thrilled to reunite with Chizuko after 8 years.

At the hideout, they caught up on each other's lives as Tarma had a couple of beers and Chizuko drank vodka from a bottle. Things took an unexpected turn when Chizuko got physically close to him, complimenting his appearance in a seductive manner. Their friendship evolved into a sexual relationship, which was Tarma's first. They spent many nights together, and he even participated in a few crimes with her, including theft and drug sales. Tarma would also start to develop a nicotine habit and, more positively, learn effective coping mechanisms and assertiveness skills to manage stress and stand up for himself.

However, their relationship was short-lived. Tarma ended things and returned home after discovering that Chizuko had been using him to fulfill her physical desires and distract herself from her trauma, while also advancing the interests of her gang. He would later reunite with Chizuko, now going by the name Eri, but she had become bitter, socially withdrawn, and aggressive, pushing him away.

After graduating from junior high school and enjoying the first week of his summer break, Tarma immediately enrolled in the Officers Academy of Special Tactics and Battle. In addition to his impressive engineering and mechanical skills, he achieved a notable feat at the age of 20 by rescuing President Marx, the CEO of a prominent defence contractor that supplies the Regular Army with weaponry, tanks, and other essential equipment. The Peregrine Falcons Squad took notice of this achievement and invited him to join the team, which he happily accepted.

Here, he met and befriended a lonely Marco after discussing their interests, reminiscing about their childhoods, and enjoying a couple of beers together. He would slowly develop a queerplatonic relationship with Marco, built on a deep appreciation for his company, a genuine desire to ensure his happiness and well-being, and a strong attraction to his physical beauty and intellect. He would also befriend Tequila, who imparted valuable mechanic skills to him and taught him specialised painting techniques for sheet metal, ensuring a durable finish that wouldn't chip, a lesson Tarma would always treasure. During the Great Morden War, he learned that Marco, alongside Tequila, was selected for the counteroffensive against Morden and quickly volunteered to join him, wanting to support his best friend.

During the Great Morden War, Tarma, Marco, and other members of the P.F. Squad, S.P.A.R.R.O.W.S., and Regular Army were ambushed by General Morden and his soldiers. They subjected everyone to rigorous torture, leaving them with lasting mental and physical scars. The Rebel soldiers and Allen O'Neil mercilessly taunted him, exploiting his sensitivity during the torture. Like Marco, Tarma was forced to witness the brutal slaughter and torture of his comrades and friends, which was emotionally painful to watch. However, he devised a clever escape plan by distracting the guards holding the key to his prison and appealing to their conscience. This unexpectedly worked, allowing him to overpower them, rescue Marco, and help his best friend thwart Morden's plans for world domination.

During his escape, Tarma received an unexpected gift from a Rebel soldier known as Guil, designed to aid him in future battles: the mysterious katana Murasame, renowned for its self-cleansing properties, which the Rebel Army had seized during their invasion of Japan. Touched by Guil's kindness, Tarma expressed his gratitude, and this brief encounter challenged his assumption that all Rebel Infantrymen were ruthless and loyal only to Morden's ideology. Rumours suggest that the cleansing properties of Murasame may be attributed to the Martians or the advanced technology of the Tuatha Dé Danann. However, Tarma remains skeptical and dismisses such claims as mere speculation.

After the end of the fearsome battle against General Morden and the Rebel Army, he rose through the ranks to become Captain of the P.F. Squad. He played a key role in the suppression of the second coup, getting a chance to fight alongside Fio and Eri. Notably, he saved Marco from a laser blast by the Hozmi that could have been fatal, earning himself a reputation as a hero and the true linchpin of the P.F. Squad. During the conflict with the Arabian Infantry, Tarma bravely rescued a baby and several children who had been orphaned by Rebel soldiers. He subsequently facilitated their adoption, providing them with an opportunity for a safe and nurturing upbringing. He lost his right forearm during a fight against Allen O'Neil, which was later replaced with a cybernetic prosthetic that he designed and built with the help of Regular Army scientists and Pupipi.

Tarma's exceptional talent for building motorcycles, rivalling that of professionals, had led him to consider retirement. However, these plans have been put on hold due to the persistent and desperate pleas of his spineless superiors to continue his service in the military.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

!Important!

Hi lovlies! I regret to inform you all that the Twilight Fic for the 200 follower challenge is fighting me tooth and nail, so I'll be focusing on all the emergency works and other requests until a coherent plot can be reached.

ALSO. I've hit a spot of inspiration for another, longer-term project of mine exploring an alternate version of botw. I'm debating posting it to this blog, and I'd like some help deciding.

An excerpt for you lovely people (Under the cut):

The sky was dark, shadowed with magenta-streaked hate that formed a swirling vortex above the barely visible castle. Peals of thunder rumbled in the distance, flashes of lightning illuminating the smoldering landscape in terrifying bursts. An armored figure atop a dappled white and black horse erupted from the neighboring treeline, racing into the field. They yanked the reigns back, and the horse reared with an impressive neigh, skidding to a stop amongst the lonely ruins. Small clouds of breath puffed from the vertical slit in their helmet, dented in more places than the eye could count. The figure dismounted and unsheathed their sword with unusual grace, the polished metal gleaming softly in the faint light. The Hylean crest adorned the pommel, painted a soft gold that seemed to glow with its own light. 

The battle started in an instant. In a flash, a blinking laser focused on the figure’s breastplate, followed by two more on their hip and shin. A whirling sound started as the Guardians primed to fire, rising from their earthy prisons onto creaking joints in desperate need of oiling. Skillfully, the figure reached for their shield, deflecting the first strike with great ease, then somersaulting behind a large section of ruins to avoid the second and third. Two more blasts rang out, the paltry stone walls shuddering on impact, and the figure rolled left, slashing at the approaching guardian’s legs. With a metallic groan, the machine tumbled, leaving space for them to deflect the next strike back into another guardian. A fierce explosion shook the clearing, undoubtedly attracting more foes. The figure turned tail, whistling for their horse, which had bolted when the battle began. 

A neigh sounded, and the figure hopped back on their horse, nudging it into a full gallop as more guardians closed in, aiming their lasers at the retreating figure. Several more explosions rang out, but quickly dissipated with each stride the horse took. 

The figure traveled for an unidentifiable amount of time, skillfully guiding their steed back to the safety of the forest, still headed in the direction of the castle. The night began to close in, a terrible crimson moon blotting out the very sun, filling the remaining sky in putrid burgundy light. Yet the figure rode on, only stopping to slash at the group of Lizalfos in their path, born of the blood moon itself. It was pitch black by the time they reached the first friendly light of the Wetland Stable. 

“Traveler!” an exhausted Lawden, owner of the stable, called as the figure approached, dismounting just outside the main entrance. They padded to the desk, producing a red rupee from the small pouch on their belt, dropping it on the table with their horse’s reins. “Ah– enjoy your rest!”

There was no response, and the figure disappeared into the stable, taking the first available room. Only when the door was closed did a drawn-out sigh leave their lips. With shaking hands, the figure removed their helmet, revealing what appeared to be a nest of hair, two weary eyes, and a stern, cracked mouth. The rest of the armor was next to go, falling to the ground as it was removed rather unceremoniously. Dressed in only their dark undershirt and black trousers, the figure waddled to the bed, flopping down as sleep consumed them. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You awoke an hour after dawn. 

While the sky was no less angry–magenta clouds still obscuring the once cerulean atmosphere–it was a far cry from the state it had been a day ago, practically bursting with malice. You cringed at the memory, forcing yourself to the edge of the bed, legs hanging limply as you smacked your cheeks in an attempt to regain some feeling. Your eye twitched when you caught sight of your armor strewn across the floor, cursing yourself for being so careless. There was a distinct ache in your head as you bent to gather the scattered items, gently placing them on the bed before migrating to your traveling pack, practically smushed into the corner in what you could only assume had been a delirious bid for sleep. 

There was a mirror on the same wall, though you dared not look at it until you had run a comb through your hair at least once. Not that you were embarrassed by your appearance, but it was still jarring when you remembered your life before the calamity. Growing up in Lurelin Village had taught you many things–fishing, astronomy, knot work, gambling–though you never expected to use them quite as frequently as you did now. Up until a year ago, you had been an ordinary fisherman’s kid, spending your days on the beach with friends, the boat with your father, or the stable greeting weary travelers. Until a squadron of Guardians swept in from the West, desecrating your village beyond repair. Despite never handling a sword before, you took a stand against the monsters, only to take a laser to the chest in the final moment of the battle as the screams of your family and friends rang out, forever branded to your brain. It was a miracle you hadn’t shot up in the night, scarred breast heaving with stolen life. 

The sun crept up in the sky as you redressed. First, a chainmail shift that once belonged to your father, a forest green surcoat, and your trusty breastplate, followed by the pauldrons, forearm guards, and gauntlets. The boots came last, the polished metal extending to your knees. You flexed your arms, testing for any unwanted tightness, and adjusted the scabbard belt around your waist, pulling it close. Only your helmet remained on the bed, though you left it off–it was too good a morning for that.

The stable was practically buzzing with activity–at least ten travelers mulling around–when you exited the room, b-lining straight for the nearby cooking pot for breakfast. You had enough fish stored to last at least a fortnight, but life on the road left little opportunity to cook your spoils. Plopping down on a nearby log, you tossed a mighty porgy and Hylian rice into the already steaming pot, waiting patiently as it sizzled. Until a cheery voice sounded behind you. 

“Hello there! Do you mind if I sit?”

You shook your head. The log creaked as a burgundy-haired woman took the seat beside you, a large map in her hands. She pulled at it lightly to fluff out the creases. “First time in the Faron Woods? I can’t recall seeing you around before.”

“It isn’t,” you intoned, watching the meat and rice crackle away in the pot. A light breeze blew into the clearing, ruffling your hair like a rowdy sibling. You tipped your head to the map. “It’s good to be prepared.”

“Isn’t it?” The woman laughed, extending a hand for you to shake. “I’m Meeshy, adventurer and fashionista!”

You took her hand, introducing yourself in turn. Meeshy nodded along before sighing. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Misko’s Treasure?”

It felt almost surreal to have a normal conversation with the raging sky, but you weren’t one to rebuke small mercies. “I haven’t.”

“Well, there was a bandit with unparalleled fashion sense named Misko,” you hummed in acknowledgment despite having never heard of such a person. “Legend has it that he collected legendary outfits from all over the world and hid their pieces throughout Hyrule.”

“You seek them?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Well, she had you there. You turned your attention back to the pot, skillfully forming the fish and rice into large balls, packing them closed with stripes of dried seaweed from your village. The smell was divine, and you had to hold yourself back from stuffing the entire thing into your mouth at once. Sure, you had lived like a soldier for the better part of the last year, but it was no excuse to behave like a barbarian. Glancing at Meeshy, you held out the remaining rice ball, though it pained you to potentially part with such a delicious item. Fortunately, she held up her hands, thanking you for the company. You watched her departure with a mouthful of rice and fish, turning back to the fire to examine the burning embers, not unlike the smoldering remains of Lurelin as you crawled through the wreckage, stained in more blood than you could stand. 

In Hyrule, ignorance was bliss. Even Meeshy, a traveler, hadn’t said a peep about the mass in the sky, nor had anyone on your journey. You supposed it was a side effect of living with a two-hundred-year calamity; people became used to misfortune, accepting it into their lives like one would bad weather. Never mind the fact that the supposed Hero of Hyrule hadn’t been seen since the calamity struck, and had all but been pronounced dead. Even stranger, the malice surrounding the castle was stagnant, neither expanding nor contracting in the years you’d observed it. 

The longer you stared at the embers, the angrier you became. Your father had died in flames, barely able to breathe when you managed to pull him from the wreckage. His last words were uttered in your blood-stained lap, a whispered plea for vengeance that continued to haunt your dreams. What could you do but comply with his wishes, which is why you dragged yourself to the smoldering armory, stumbling upon a suit of armor lying on the dirt? Your path was clearer than the Lurelin waters when you donned the scratched metal, blood pouring from the wound on your chest to soak the silver of the breastplate, staining it in the fires of your ire. Pain became secondary to the burden placed upon your shoulders. You would find the Hero, and you would destroy Calamity Ganon, or die trying. 

[labselkie]

hi. as usual. something happened

i said this earlier but i’m worried this could count as suggestive. so. whoops. altho on second thought probably not

i mainly just wrote it because i really like liv’s doc ock suit and i wanted to incorporate how it’s built into something. so if you can piece that together in this, yay!

“Can I help with that?” Lucielle’s voice cut through the silence like a sunbeam through the canopy. She stepped into her bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed, heels perched on the side rail. Her small tail shifted over the waistband of her pajama shorts. A small lamp with a stained glass shade is somehow able to illuminate the whole room, casting the women in a gold, faintly amber glow.

Olivia had been pacing around for just less than a minute, that latex and silicone suit practically plastered to her lithe form. She was out of most of it, the leggings, shorts, and long gloves were easy enough, and she replaced the former for loose mint sweatpants. The two largest straps have also been removed, hanging down over her back. Her hands were on her upper back, elbows up as she tinkered with a small blue wire that laid right beside the base of her neck. She turned her head, brows furrowed as her hair tumbles past her arm.

“What?” She questioned instinctively, the little wire popping out with a click. “No, no, I’ve done this myself for years.” Her hands shift to the back of her left shoulder, brushing along cool metal in search of another wire.

Lucielle rose from the bed, cautiously stepping up. She doesn’t reach forward right away, just fidgeting with her nails. “You sure? You’ve been out all day in that, and it’d be best if you just, well, let me help.” She rounds the other woman, eyeing the lower parts of where the harness meets the corset. Olivia just watched her after plucking out the second wire. Her face softened, and she smiled.

“Go ahead, but only if you let me tell you how to do it,” Olivia shrugs and moves the rest of her hair over her shoulder. “And please, be careful?”

Lucielle lit up, peeking around Olivia’s shoulder with a sweet grin. “Yes, doctor,” She snickers before standing back and keeping her hands on Olivia’s shoulders. The doctor never let other people tinker with her machines, let alone the very one connected to her brain. She disconnects one last small wire on the back of the corset, before holding her hands closer to wait for instructions.

Olivia just stared at the bed, hands frozen at her sides as she just traced the faint folds of their favorite grey blanket. She just couldn’t help her gaze from drifting to the fuzzy octopus plush lying on the other side of the bed. “Now, the corset first..” She swallows, and pulls her right arm over her chest, “There’s a slit in the metal right below the harness, it goes all the way around and hooks into itself.”

“Mhm..”

As Olivia spoke, her words kept calm and articulate as to not concern Lucielle, the selkie went to work. She’s just barely able to fit the tip of her claw into the slit, and slide it down to fit a few more in. With her thumb pressed, she’s able to press down and push the metal forward, unlatching it with a small sound. No matter how many times she’d helped, Lucielle still couldn’t tell if that small sound was from the metal, or from Olivia taking a soft breath of relief.

The doctor doesn’t dare to turn her head as she smiles at the ground. “There, now it should just open at the other side.”

With how the corset dipped to sit somewhat above her tailbone, Olivia wasn’t able to fully pull up her pajama pants yet. So, when Lucielle accidentally brushed the skin of her hip as she removed the light metal corset, the doctor couldn’t help but tense up. She had no clue what this girl has done to her.

When she’s finished with the corset, Lucielle keeps both halves separated, moving to gently lay it on a dresser they have beside the door. With the mutant’s back turned, even when there was a mirror just above the dresser, Olivia is quick to fix her pants and pull the drawstring tight, her heart just about fluttering.

“You’re lucky I did most of the work for you,” Olivia remarked, finally beginning to slide off the remaining silicone piece of the suit, “It’s mainly just the wires… But trust me, a lot of that isn’t just for looks.”

Lucielle glance down to the corset, specifically at a few curved stripes of deactivated lights. Definitely for functionality. She’s quick to look back, though, smiling like usual as she reaches out to assist. Without the corset, the dark gray straps around Liv’s shoulders could finally be removed as well.

“You made it, I trust you there,” Lucielle adds, tossing the thick fabric to the dresser. She steps into Olivia’s view, the top of her head meeting right at her forehead. Although, she is looking down, face a bit harder than the usual sweet smile that’s plastered there. As Olivia slides off the second plasticky sleeve, she looks down as well.

“The whole chest plate is loose, hun, you can do the honors.”

Lucielle’s dark eyes snapped up, wide as a wild animal’s. She can only stare for a second, even as her hands creep forward to hold under the main silicone layer. But a smile from the doctor melts that worry, and her face softens.

“Will do…” Lucielle mumbled, her fingers finally hooking under the shirt of silicone. It comes off Olivia’s undergarments with the faintest sound of suction, but she’s able to slide it up with little issue. Olivia fumbles some with removing the sleeves, but the flexibility of the material makes it easier. The mutant steps around, and Liv lifts her freed arms to accommodate the shirt sliding up all the way around her neck. Lucielle was nervous, she knows she’s the one who suggested this, and she’s happy to help, but the last thing she wanted was to breach her lover’s privacy.

Thankfully, under the suit, Olivia was able to wear undergarments. They were oddly modified to fit around the machine attached to her back, but when Lucielle noticed the small white straps of fabric around the back of her neck and below the harness, she couldn’t help but light back up.

“Do you need help with your hair?” She chimes in, her voice nervous. Olivia looks over her shoulder before turning around to sit on the edge of the bed.

“No, no.. I’m used to this part,” She answers with a smile, removing her glasses and placing them on the bed. Her hair, while already up, had begun to come loose from its bun. So, with a clearly practiced deftness, and a slightly uncomfortable sound of plastic, Olivia hoists the last piece of the suit over her head to let it drop behind her.

Lucielle was barely paying attention, curiosity painted on her features. At first she looked at the “shirt” Liv wore, what used to be a simple white tank top with a sizable hole in its back that stretched around her arms and took the entire size of the harness. It did cover her well, but with a trained eye for the woman she loved Lucielle was able to pick out the faint slope of her chest and the curve of her sides. Then, she looked to the glasses, and lastly to the doctor’s face just at the end. At how her hair messed up from the suit’s removal, almost puffing up entirely as deep brown and violet strands curl this way and that, how the stress of the day that seemed to be etched into her features just washed away.

The mutant is torn out of her thoughts when Olivia stretches her neck and sighs. She gently rubbed above the inhibitor attached to her spine, before smiling as well.

“That was much easier.” Is all she states as she puts her glasses back on.

Lucielle is already in the middle of putting all the pieces of the suit in one spot, on the dresser with the corset, and Olivia can’t get a word in before she’s done.

“I’m glad I could help..” The mutant added, still turned as she organized the pieces. Olivia frowned faintly, standing and stepping forward to try and get Lucielle’s attention.

“Thank you, really, that thing gets insufferable.” Olivia said, rolling her eyes at the last word. Her hands drift to Lucielle’s shoulders, before she tenses and puts them at either side of her on the edge of the dresser. They almost immediately made eye contact in the mirror, deep blue meeting striking hazel as they smile.

“Do I get to do that whenever you come home now?”

Olivia lowers her head to answer, thick bundles of loose hair cascading down when she looks to the woman in front of her. “Of course you can.. I trust you there.”

Lucielle just stared straight into the mirror, right at the smile on Olivia’s face, and right at the faint flush rising to her own. Before she can get too nervous, she quickly leans back, turns her head, and kisses the doctor right on the side of her mouth. Olivia can’t react much, especially not when the mutant swiftly turns herself around all the way to wrap her in a hug with her hands just below the harness.