#pinch raccoon

[pinchraccoon]

Pinch Reviews: Castlevania: Nocturne

I watched the new 8 episode series from Netflix and Powerhouse Animation, Castlevania: Nocturne. Nocturne serves as a stand-alone sequel to 2017's 4 season "Castlevania" from the same production hands.

While this Tumblr blog is to keep my followers up to date on the games that I've played lately, I have been slacking on my reviews and I am hilariously behind. This is to say, since my initial playthroughs of Rondo of Blood and Symphony of the Night, I've engrossed myself in the Castlevania series wholly, having played a total of 8 games in the series this year, and watched the initial series as well.

This review will come from someone who holds the games in very high regard, and *particularly* the stories and characters of Rondo of Blood and Symphony of the Night.

I'll be starting with a largely "spoiler-less" review of the series for those who would like to watch it, and it'll consist of about 1 paragraph of text.

Castlevania Nocturne is absolutely unrelated to Castlevania at large, with only tangential thematic or plot themes that connect it to the series' larger identity. While some might point to the presence of Vampires, Belmonts, and magic and say "well what else do you need?" I find many aspects of the series' identity in campy fun, but interesting and thoughtful instances of character writing the likes of which are seen in games such as Lament of Innocence and Aria of Sorrow, as well as the immense colorful, high-contrast visual style present in Castlevania media since the *very* beginning as elements that I lament the lack of presence of. At numerous points in the show, I thought "Why is this Castlevania? None of this is related to anything Castlevania? Why not just make an original property?" Which I personally find to be a damning sentiment, but I cannot fault the show for that which it doesn't do. To longtime Castlevania fans, you may find the show somewhat underwhelming. However, on a more general term, the show features more instances than not of choppy, flat animation, flat character writing, an irritating dialogue style, and underwhelming gore elements. However, they do *some* good things! There are a few characters who I could see viewers latching onto, and there's occasionally something cool that happens.

With that out of the way, I'll now be entering my *Very Spoilery Review*

First and foremost, Castlevania Nocturne's premise, while not completely and inherently distasteful, nor impossible to do in a way that's interesting, is done incredibly distastefully and uninterestingly. I am referring specifically to Nocturne's insistence on hilariously, absolutely wildly evil Vampires who "run the planet" essentially, who are motivated to put down the French Revolution because the existence of Democracy threatens the ease of the Vampire elite to control the Royalty of the world. I expressly don't think that this is a dumb, uninteresting, or distasteful idea inherently, HOWEVER, due to the nature of Vampires existence in their original literature and folk lore implications, it's incredibly easy to see the anti-Semitic, anti-immigrant inherent themes of Bram Stoker's "Dracula" all over it.

Again, I'd LOVE to see an idea such as this executed properly, however that isn't present here. Here's why. Nocturne features a cast of characters whose motivations are all in some way or another related to incredibly flat vampire characters who do nothing but kill for their entertainment and pleasure. I'm not calling for a reason to not kill the bourgeoise in the French Revolution, I just want a reason to latch onto the motivations of the characters in a way that isn't just "they're a different species than me and are also doing like, slavery and taxation and stuff and they killed someone close to me." Genuinely, EVERY SINGLE main cast member has someone who was killed by one vampire or another in the past, and while that works somewhat to unite the heroes emotional issues such that they can support one another (theoretically) it serves to illustrate the entire, sentient, living, vampire "species" as comically evil, wildly uninteresting, and most damning, caricatures of marginalized people being blamed for controlling all of human civilization. Which, to spell it out more blatantly to avoid the lack of nuance present on the internet, becomes uncomfortably synonymous with long-running theories of jews, or "lizard people" controlling government institutions.

I want to compare to Castlevania's own interpretation of Dracula as a way of demonstrating a "controlling vampire" done Right. Dracula has *very specific* *very pointed* origins and motivations that make him a far more compelling, and more than that, HUMAN, character who has a degree of feeling, despite the evil that he performs. Dracula does what he does because he's hurting, and he feels as though the world has turned and left all it's goodness behind, which, in his eyes, is the truth! It's not that he wants to control all of humanity, it's not that he wants to be worshipped as a god, it's that he just has beef, like people do.

Few to none of the vampires hold that same quality of "beef" in Nocturne. Most of the vampires don't speak, save for a few main heads of their movement, however, even these heads hold hilariously overblown, stupid, uninteresting, unsympathetic motivations that JUST serve to make me hate them on the notion that they're Objectively evil. Like, OF COURSE, I hate the Caribbean slave-owner vampire, and OF COURSE I side with Annette on hating him. He was a slave owner? Duh? You don't need to provide a thousand other scenes of the man being just flat out cruel in the interest of making me hate this man More. Half of his lines are belittling Annette, the other half is justifying slavery, and I'm not exaggerating.

Or, perhaps, consider the "main villain" of the show, Bathory. She's built up as "The Vampire Messiah" for FOUR EPISODES before we actually see her, and then when we do, FINALLY, get to see who this OVERWHELMING threat is, she just laments about, get this, HATING THE SUN. Of course she hates the sun, she's a vampire! That's the actual lamest conceivable motivation. Not to mention, she's insufferably annoying and isn't remotely entertaining to watch, nor are we ever sold on her power to any degree whatsoever other than a bunch of side characters saying "ah, well, she drank the blood of the Egyptian Goddess Sekhmet, so she's pretty strong, we would die for her." When your allegory for the ruling class is this comically evil in the "killing and maiming people" way as opposed to the "capitalist allegory" way, it reads as really wildly uncomfortable.

To summarize the last point, because of the commitment to making each and every vampire character comically evil, and the premise combined, it easily reads far too similarly to monster literature of the past which would seek to conflate the evils of the monsters in question with a specific demographic of people, which is uncomfortable to watch, and rather distasteful to write.

But my distaste for this show doesn't end there!

I'd like to discuss Annette. A lot of people are getting mad regarding "race swapping" or "omission of character in the interest of wokeness" which I think is a load of shit that I couldn't begin to entertain. I am not perturbed by the same things that those people are. Instead, I feel that the explanation of Annette and Edouard's backstory is incredibly poorly paced, and above all, gratuitous in their depiction of black generational trauma.

Annette in this series is an escaped slave who comes to France in search of a Belmont in order to hopefully be able to kill the Vampire Messiah who was foretold to increase the scale of the institutions of slavery that Annette had been fighting against for her entire life. I actually really like her motivation and how it reflects very real attitudes of Caribbean revolutionaries regarding how they felt about the French Revolution. But my main issues with the communication of her motives comes in the gratuitous depiction of a slightly dramatized form of the *very very real* trauma of slavery. This isn't like Toni Morrison's Beloved, or even something like Django Unchained, both of which don't shy away from detailing slavery in as gruesome of detail as possible for the purpose of demonstrating character as well as history. Nocturne demonstrates slavery comically, as it attempts to roll it's own fantasy elements in the same breath as their real-world slavery depiction. For example, the reason that Annette's mother is killed isn't related to the injustices of the notion of slavery in general, it's instead because her mother was practicing magic. I find that these elements in conjunction with one another create a dissonance that puts a bad taste in my mouth, all for the only real payoff to be such that Annette is knowledgeable of, and holds hatred to, the institution of slavery as well as magic.

It isn't a BAD thing to discuss, depict, or have subject matter related to slavery, that's absolutely not what I'm trying to say. What I feel that the issue here is is that a significant amount of the information and cruelty shown could have been omitted and the viewer would have the same understanding of Annette's character. Because they committed far more to demonstrating than was necessary for what elements they were attempting to explore, the incredible commitment to demonstration of black generational trauma feels gratuitous and somewhat cruel. Sorta like the writer is holding it over your head like "hey! you! did you know that slavery is ALSO bad when vampires do it? let me show you some just TERRIBLE subject matter to let you know!" Like, yes, I knew this already, slavery IS evil and is perhaps THE MOST evil, so we were already on the same page here.

This concludes my largest issues with the show from a standpoint of legitimate mishandling of social issues and sensitive subject matter, the rest is more about the show in general.

I don't entirely dislike the way that Richter is written on the macro scale in Nocturne, I feel that his very real connection to the Belmont Clan and the depictions of his mother Julia Belmont, as well as his grandfather, Juste Belmont (who I felt happy to see), was very interesting and worked to the themes. BUT: On the individual, what the character says level, I find Richter SO annoying. This is related to a larger dialogue writing issue with the show in general, which is the inclination to curse like a third grader who has just learned of what swearing is. The number of times that a character uses the term "fuck" or "fucking" purely to provide unnecessary emphasis to their sentence that was perfectly good without swearing comes of as flat out cringey. Now, I swear a lot! I'm not *against* swearing! But the way that Richter and every other character is written makes them all feel unbelievably annoying. Heroes, villains, everyone says "fucking" like it's going out of style! So much so that I might propose a drinking game where you take a shot every time there's an unnecessary use of the word "fuck" in a scene. Granted, I can guarantee you'll be wildly hungover the next day, so I can't recommend doing that.

One particularly damning scene is Richter's moment of personal growth this season, realizing that he has to fight with the whole of him to protect those who he loves, and has a cool fight scene with a bunch of vampires, in which he then says This:

GENUINE COP OUT. I cannot stress enough how every single character's childish inclination toward being edgy by swearing undermines every single character.

I'm beginning to ramble somewhat though, so let's touch on a few things that I think were good and bad, but don't have a ton to say about before we wrap up.

-Drolta is a cool character, and genuinely should have been the only main villain of the show. I also adore her character design.

-The action scenes lack interesting gore, which I felt was a overwhelming positive of the 2017 Castlevania series.

-The monster designs (and show in general) lack color, and it feels like a deliberate attempt to push against the legacy of the source material.

-The animation is excellent when characters are using whips, but very jarring in scenes of standing and speaking, or even in the use of magic.

-Tera is an awful mother figure character and I felt nothing when she was turned in the finale. It doesn't help that they only drew her face twice and copypasted it between scenes it feels.

-The romance plot between Richter and Annette appearing at the end of the show is the Most Forced shit I have ever seen, almost like the writers forgot that they were love interests in the original and decided that of All of the things they had to include that that was INDISPENSABLE.

-Richter, Annette, and Maria's dynamic as a group barely exists beyond each of them calling eachother "Wankers" "bastards" and other terms of endearment. It's a hollow and ineffective means of emulating the good writing that Trevor, Sypha and Alucard had in the 2017 series, and was that show's highlight.

-I like Edouard's arc of being a monster with a soul, and it DOES help to begin to demonstrate the theme of "the lack of absolutes in good and evil", which I'll discuss later.

-Olrox is excellent. He's written well, his motivations are kept close to the chest, and he's genuinely intriguing as a character. I quite like his motivation, I like his design, I like his voice, no he's great. Best part of the show, honestly. (and the only evidence thus provided [save for alucard] of a "not completely evil" vampire)

-again, the commitment to every character exaggerating their sentences by cursing like a child is unbelievably grating.

My final point is one related to whether or not I think that in it's current state the show is worth watching. Generally, with shows, I prefer that the show have some sort of thematic relevance that reflects the progress of the story, and while I can somewhat see elements of that being shown in the "absolutes of good and evil" theme explored by the Abbot, Olrox, and Edouard, nothing is actually done with this theme, and it only comes into contact with our main cast in the finale. As such, these themes are only seen in the same way that dramatic irony is set up, but not executed on. Because of the half-execution of this theme, I feel that the show feels hollow thematically, and feels as though absolutely nothing happens or changes for a single character throughout it's runtime.

In some ways, this show being 8 episodes is really fitting, as it feels like in any other anime when you watch a show to episode 8 and then stop watching, but in this case they didn't release or make the rest of the season, which will likely be released later on in a "season 2" that does literally anything at all to provide the themes or story elements any merit.

Personally, I think I would confidently call this show "unfinished." There is no "win" to match the characters growth, the little that they did, and I felt that I was left on a lazy cliffhanger because of arbitrary fail-states.

As a fan of Castlevania, this could not be further from its source material, as a fan of shows that are good, Nocturne also manages to fail.

It pains me to say that I don't think it's worth your time, as I really want people to get into Castlevania, but I really cannot stress enough that this show is not even close to a good demonstration of what the series is about, or what the series' themes are. Genuinely, I don't care if you don't care about the games, they are better than this show, which is hard to measure, because they're different mediums, but I'm confident in this assessment.

[sweetpeauserboxes]

[id: a light blue userbox with a pastel blue border and pastel blue text that reads "this user’s comfort character is pinch raccoon." on the left is an image of pinch raccoon from pb&j otter./end id]

[ur-fav-is-a-killjoy]

Pinch Raccoon from PB&J Otter is a Killjoy!!

Requested by: Anonymous

[bryan360]

Here’s my note before I’ll get started….

(NO COPYING OR PLAGIARIZING FROM ME AND ONE OF MY CLOSEST FRIEND’S WORK! THAT INCLUDES OUR CHARACTERS, DESIGNS, STUFF, ETC. IMPOSTERS AND SEXBOTS ARE NOT WELCOME TO FOLLOW MY BLOG WHATSOEVER! 😡 That will be all….I mean it.)

On This Day - April. 2nd, 2017

Just a fun throwback where I did my “PB&J Otter” fanart; featuring the kids of Lake Hoohaw playing in their Nintendo Switch system.

Very fitting as they used to race before; especially back in the soap box derby episode in Season 1. Do hope they’re never get into any fights; same goes to break their controllers.

BTW in a unrelated note, just the reminder for “The Super Mario Bros Movie“ will be coming in 3 days away. I asked my mom if we have much time to get there at the movie theaters. So she asked me that we’re going on Thursday instead. I hope that the case or else I have to go through avoid for a long time….unless getting the dvd copy. 🫤

Tagged: @murumokirby360 @carmenramcat @alexander1301 @rafacaz4lisam2k4

[frogtablestudios]

Bowless Pinch Raccoon

[keeganjeannotte23]

What a great summer trip for you guys!

[nevesceramics]

a peek at one of my favorites from this little pottery batch... droppin' @ 1 PM CT this friday! 🦝💤 (shop link)

[lilacthebooklover]

my friend and I angsted Bossman Hero during a shitpost RP so hard that now when we derail a shitpost RP to angst we go "oh fuck we have another Bossman Hero moment on our hands"

AS YOU SHOULD, LEGENDS

look at this scrunkly little guy and tell me you don't want to whump him. see? you can't. he's too whumpable <3

[violetncee]

today, i am thinking abt some of yuri’s poems, and feeling soft abt ‘em, so!–

GHOST UNDER THE LIGHT PT. 2

the tendrils of my hair illuminate beneath the amber glow. bathing. in the distance, a blue-green light flickers. a lone figure crosses its path– a silhouette obstructing the eerie glow. my heart pounds. the silhouette grows. closer, closer, i open my umbrella, casting a shadow to shield me from visibility. but i am too late. he steps into the streetlight. i gasp and drop my umbrella. the light flickers. my heart pounds. he raises his arm.

time stops. the only indication of movement is the amber light flicker -ing against his outstretched arm. the flickering light is in rhythm with the pounding of my heart. teasing me for succumbing to this forbidd -en emotion. have you ever heard of a ghost feeling warmth before? giving up on understanding, i laugh. understanding is overrated. i touch his hand. the flickering stops. ghosts are blue-green, my heart is amber.

[thebarneschronicles]

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.” 

— 

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

[dravidious]

You're the most amazing

creature!

I also filled the other 5 color pairs with various frogs

[pinchraccoon]

Pinch complains about Castlevania art direction

how the fuck did konami go from this excellent Ayami Kojima classic box art

to THIS.

They did my boy so fuckin dirty, Soma and every character from Aria deserved to look better.

"oh, ayami didn't work on the DS games, she was working on the consle ones!" THERE WERE TWO OF THEM!!!!! Granted, yes! Those games *did* require character design work, and took a lot of time, but I feel like at MINIMUM, Dawn could have had A COVER produced by her?

What's worse, is that it's not like they flattened out the entirety of Dawn, in fact that game, whenever you don't see one of those "would be dubbed by 4kids" ass fuckin character sprites, looks GREAT!

Ayami Kojima (and Masaki Hirooka)'s style(s) best represent the sense of adventure and the poetry of the series' larger narrative. The intricate character designs, androgyny, and intense rendering style all served to really capture that feeling of "vampires and tragedy!"

I would even go so far as to argue that some of the traits from the more "Frazetta-esque" early games ARE reflected naturally in the progression from Rondo of Blood forward. A similar type of high contrast, gender celebratory, art that highlights that sense of Adventure.

And, to touch on Rondo of Blood, which is FAMOUSLY known for being far more "anime" in it's aesthetics than ANY other game in the series until four years later in symphony. THIS GAME plays it straight! It has charming, limited cutscenes that use the assets wisely.

It comes off as far more natural due to this game's incredible attention to detail in it's pixel art everywhere else. Because of the fact that this game's aesthetics are *rooted* where they're meant to be, and are trying to honestly convey events in greater detail it manages to be much more favorable in it's anime aesthetic.

Returning to Dawn of Sorrow, the only explanation, and the one that's been admitted to, is marketability. This aesthetic was selected because the Mid-00s saw the rise of a much flatter style of anime that could be more easily replicated, and the aim for quantity of art over quality of that art was clearly placed in high regard. It's anime slop because at the time, anime slop sold well, regardless of how it would age.

anyway, I'm streaming this game tonight

[nosyrobin]

RACCOON!READER X PLATONIC!ROBINS AU BATBOYS HEADCANONS/IMAGINES

Damian has once took you to school with him. You had a hoodie with your tail wrapped around your waist. Imagine a 14 years old holding hands with a kid that looks no younger than at least 8-7, hissing at kids. Damian almost got caught til you hide in his bag.. which you oddly fit in well.

Jason who holds you like a newborn baby, you munch off the crackers with a wide smile. Jason felt his heart melt a lot, feeling his big brother instincts come in and tickle your chubby belly. You giggle with small little chirps and boy did Jason not let anyone hold you for hours.

Tim who got accused of looking up weird things, getting a lecture about his search history as Tim was bewildered and yells out “I didn’t search that!” “Then who did?” Bruce says as Tim looks around. That’s when he sees you upstairs grabbing the railings as a sneaky look riddles on your face. “You.” He mouths with anger as you run off. Jason had to take the blame so you wouldn’t be found.

Dick who does a small fashion show with you, making you dress in clothes you may like or not like despite Damian being the one who mostly gives you clothes. Dick rubs his cheek against your chubby one. “So cute!” He took multiple photos, getting all the angles as you stood there thinking about salty crackers. You did this for the crackers.

Tim and Damian educating you in their favorite cartoons, games, movies, and comic books. Your speech started to get a little better, only a little. But it’s worth it!

Dick and Jason teaching you how to cook incase one of them or all have to go on patrol and leave you. But when you burnt yourself, globs of tears falling off of your face, ears flatten. The two older brothers felt their heart crack and immediately banned you from cooking. Forget cooking, you get all the crackers and pizza you can dream off. Dick was about to cry at how you were crying as Jason patched up your hand.

The robins who play peek-a-boo with you, you have the mental capacity of a young toddler. So they’re glad you can at least be entertained easily.

At the Titans towers, The team is gushing at how you cling to the robin of the team. Robin smirks proudly as he shows you off as if you are simba. Praise the raccoon!

Jason who reads you bedtime stories, but shhh don’t tell the guys that he’s becoming soft around you.

Damian who has told Jon about you, Jon once seen you and wanted to pinch your chubby cheeks! As he flew at you at max speed with bright eyes, he got stopped by Damian’s glare and him holding out kryptonite. Yeah Jon had to hold back his cute aggression as he just pets you. Your fluffy raccoon tail wagging around with soft chirps.

You always climb onto Dick, always using your small nail like claws. Clawing him like a cat as dick yelps before he smiled despite the pain. At least you place your head onto his shoulder.

The robins love you dearly! How could they ever leave you back into the cruel streets of Gotham.

And the only people who don’t know is Bruce. Alfred has already known about you when you snuck last night into the kitchen to find tea and biscuits. It was a trap! You swore it was, but the tea was so lovely made by this elder guy who smiles at your new manners when eating.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

A hand grips your shoulder. "We'll take care of them. Keep low and find a place for all of you to hide. Do not come out until we say."

His words blur together, but you manage to act accordingly, ignoring the pit in your stomach when he disappears around the truck. The concrete is covered in glass and rusted debris, so you keep low without letting your knees touch the ground and motion for the others to follow.

The closest place is an old café, the door closed with chains but the glass window shattered enough for you to crawl through. You pull the knife from your ankle as you move everyone behind the cash register, gripping the handle tight once you lean your back against it. The café is quiet. Still. No one else is here. You steady your breath. Staring at you are the double doors to the kitchen in the back, a thick waft of mold radiating, and behind you are tipped-over chairs and tables.

The noise outside has drifted. When you take a quick peek, you don't see anyone near the truck anymore. It is as if the three of them have followed whoever was shooting.

"Twix, I—"

You look back. Blue is holding her hand out, a shard of glass thrust in her palm.

Blood oozes.

You have no supplies on you, but you carefully pinch the glass between your thumb and forefinger. She bites her lip as it wriggles free, releasing another gush of blood. As if on cue, the kitchen doors burst open with ear-splintering screeches, and three Greys surge toward you.

Blue's bloodied hand reaches for her ankle knife as one tackles you, grinding your spine into the counter's edge. Two gunshots ring out over the snarling in your face. You thrust your arm against its throat, keeping the chomping jaws at bay, and with your other hand, stab the knife into its skull three times, until it whines like a dying animal.

When you shove the corpse to the tile floor, you see the two others on the ground. Blue is pulling her knife from one skull, and Ari has a gun in his hand.

"I only have one more bullet," he pants, double-checking the barrel.

"Someone could've heard the gunshots," Nereida whispers frantically.

"Then we find somewhere else to hide. Come on." Your eyes land on a graffitied door on the side wall. It leads into an alleyway that smells putrid. You motion for Ari to give you the gun as you lead the way, sandwiched between brick walls. You can still hear rounds firing from the street. They stutter in sync with your heartbeat.

You shove a rusted crate that blocks the path. You catch sight of movement, and something scurries between your boots. Blue squeaks and grips Ari's arm, your hand tightening on the gun—but it's only a raccoon.

"There."

You spot a sizable dumpster around the corner, where the narrow alley widens enough for cars to pass behind the buildings. Nereida helps you shove off the debris on top and heave open the lid. A thick waft of rot rises, along with a buzz of fruit flies. The dumpster is half-filled with blackened garbage and charred bones, but no Greys. You don't have time to find another spot as two male voices echo from down the alley.

"I heard it over here!"

"Let's check, come on."

Shit.

You lace your fingers for Blue to step on them. "Quick, get in."

Once the kids are inside, Nereida grabs the edge and hoists herself up. You glance back, stomach coiling as two shadows approach the corner. Quickly, you close the lid after her, scatter the debris back on top, and scurry behind a nearby crate, palm sweaty around the gun.

A fevered study of the shadows reveals two healthy, fit men. One bullet. Something in the second one's gait seems slightly off. You make a split-second decision, peek over the crate, and aim for the first man's chest, doubting your ability to land a headshot.

He falls dead with a thud and then you are launching blindly at the second man with your knife, but you fail to pierce flesh when a strong grip snatches your wrist. The man's rifle skids across the ground and your back is slammed against the wall, your skull colliding with the brick hard enough to make stars dance across your vision. A muscled forearm presses into your neck, effectively cutting off your air.

"Fucking bitch."

Even through the blood rushing between your ears, the growl in your face is—familiar.

You blink up at a man swallowed by a massive burn scar.

The tip of his nose is gone, with eyelashes and scalp burnt away, revealing poorly healed ripples of flesh.

One eyelid fails to open properly, the skin too scarred.

The recognition unfurls your eyes.

He presses harder. "I know you, don't I?" Anger cuts through his gaze. "Ah. That's right—a thief and a killer. You're full of surprises, sweetheart." The curl on his burnt lips makes you flinch, but there is nowhere to go. "I guess you found new friends."

"I guess—I guess you did... too..." Short gasps leave your mouth.

"Shut up," he growls. "I don't want to hear a word from a stuck-up bitch like you who thinks her tits and her cunt are worth more than my goddam face." He is yelling now, spit flying in your eyes. "Don't you dare look away from it! What, not proud of your handiwork?" He breathes hard and looks you over with a snigger. "Finding you is just my luck. I was going to go easy the first time, but now I think I'll kill you then enjoy you. How's that sound? Your corpse being passed around? Hope your cunt is as good when you're dead—"

White-hot anger ripples through your veins and you snarl before hurling a wad of saliva in his face, using the brief distraction to drive your knee into his groin. He staggers back enough for you to escape his hold and push away from the wall.

Gulps of air feel painful down your throat. You back away, readjusting the hold on your knife while he rubs his eyes furiously. 

"You're sick," you growl, voice hoarse and low. 

"And you're not, princess?"

"I'm not a goddamn rapist."

"You ruined my fucking face," he retorts, stalking you down the alley. At least you are drawing him away from their hiding place—you make an unnoticed glance at the dumpster to ensure no one else has approached, relieved to see the lid unmoved. When your eyes flick back to him, a sick curl twitches on his lips. "You're not innocent here. You're damned like everyone else. That ride of yours now has a shot tire, and that boat—" he chuckles, "—what? Thought you were gonna get out of this hell? We made sure to put a hole in that, too."

His words sink in. 

For a moment, horror grips you.

But you channel it through your veins as something useful—rage—and launch at him without abandon. He anticipates an attempt to stab his side again, so he blocks there, but instead, you reach for his marred face and claw the unhealed wounds, reopening them. He howls like an animal, stumbling back and cradling his cheek as blood seeps between his fingers. 

"I'm going to kill you, bitch—"

He blindly reaches for the rifle on the ground but you are quick to kick it away. You jump on him, this time bringing him to the concrete, which scrapes against your exposed skin as you wrestle to come out on top. But he is stronger. Heavier. For the second time you become pinned, he tries to dig his hands into your throat. The lack of oxygen threatens to turn the world black, but you slap a hand back on his face and rip off his scarred eyelid before it can.

He roars.

You spit in his face.

Your knife—you lost it in the midst.

As blood pours from his eye, you outstretch an arm and feel for the handle.

The leather is in your palm.

You stab his side.

You shove at his shoulder to get him off.

Then you pin him down, and plunge the knife over and over into every piece of him you find. Neck, chest, cheek, shoulder.

Again and again.

A slashed jugular. Ripped arteries.

Your vision is consumed by blood. You let yourself drown in it. Hot, thick—

Arms grab you by the waist and lift you into the air.

You attempt to wriggle free and dig your knife in them, but the person is quick to disarm you.

"Twix." 

A skull face stares down at you. Your bloodied fingers wrap around Ghost's shirt as you pant heavily. It's him. He's here. 

"Where are they?" he shouts over the ringing in your ears.

He sets you down, gripping your shoulders to steady you. It takes a moment to gather your senses, to comprehend his words. Your hands, shirt, and face are drenched in blood. Your head throbs with weight. Slowly, the world snaps back into focus. You glance around, spotting Kyle and Price standing behind him.

"There," you finally breathe out. "The dumpster. They're...they're in there. Safe. They're safe."

His eyes flick over the length of you, perhaps to ensure all of the blood is not yours, before the three of them thrash off the debris and lift the lid to the dumpster around the corner. They help out Nereida, Ari, and Blue. 

"Ghost." You try to swallow, but the pain hums with each attempt. His eyes snap to yours just as he checks over Blue. "He... They've shot a tire."

"I know. I've got a spare."

"The kayak, too. How are we—"

"We figure that out later. We need to leave." Price slings the rifle over his shoulder and grabs his wife by the arm. "Those fucks are going to be drawn straight to us now."

Blood. Right. 

You push through the ache in your head and run after them back to the truck. The absence of gunfire signifies everyone else has been taken care of, but just as predicted, a chorus of moans begins to filter through the buildings. From windows, underneath cars, and benches—Greys begin to crawl out. The faster ones are quickly shot by either Kyle's handgun or Ghost's rifle. Price helps everyone into the car and slams the door shut as Ghost and Kyle continue firing.

"Wipe yourself, quick. And change inside." Price throws a rag at you. Your backpack.

You get into the passenger seat, wiping your face and hair with a splash of water from Blue's canteen, then toss the stained rag out onto the street.

You don't care if anyone can see as you slip off your shirt, throwing it out the window, and slipping on a clean one.

Outside, Price and Kyle shoot away any Greys that approach as you suspect Ghost is changing the blown out tire, because you can't see him even in the side mirror. 

Within ten minutes, he flings open the door and takes seat behind the wheel. This time Price and Kyle hop in the truck bed with their guns as Ghost starts the ignition with a loud rumble, veering sharply back onto the road. 

Time has been stolen. It is high afternoon, the sky a clear blue even though the streets you leave behind in Halstead are tainted red.

Now the map is in your hands, but Ghost seems to know the way from here.

"How long can the spare go for?"

"Long enough." His words are clipped. "But the kayak we need to figure out."

"It can't be fixed, can it?"

His silence is your response.

Your mind races.

Minutes blur. Behind you, Nereida quietly helps wrap Blue's hand.

Colchester whirls by without obstructions, but you keep looking out the window and squinting, paranoid. You make it to the coast within an hour. The buildings turn into colorful, seafaring cottages and the streets turn to uneven cobblestone. Seashell chimes dance in store fronts that are plastered with old signs reading KEEP OUT IF INFECTED. Ghost makes a sharp right down a narrow street and parks the truck in front of a lone, blue cottage that seems remote enough to be safe. Even if the kayak was fine, you'd have to stop for the night in order to get out on the water at the start of morning.

A flock of oystercatchers scatters as the truck doors slam open and close. The air, thick with salt and spume, is cooler here, the breeze tugging at your tangled hair, where bits of dried blood still clings. The view of the sandy shore and rocky pier would be beautiful, if your mind weren't elsewhere, if the day hadn't been marked by panic.

Ghost circles around to look at the kayak. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Price mutters.

He helps him pull it out. 

Blue and Ari sit on the steps to of the cottage's porch and listen in silence. 

Nereida watches from beside you, tucking a sweater on against the chill.

Ghost flips the kayak, revealing a bullet hole that goes through one end and out the other. Anger radiates from his tense shoulders. "Christ."

"We can't patch it like we did the raft, can we?" Kyle asks, bending on his knees to look at the damage.

Price raps his knuckles against the hollow sides. "No, it's hard plastic. It would need welding to fix holes like that."

The understanding lingers in the air as you cross arms over your chest. "I'll stay behind, then," you speak up. Nails cutting your palms. You're damned like everyone else. Nereida looks at you with wide eyes, touching your arm. "If we can't fix it, then all we have is the raft and it only fits six. You guys take it in the morning and I will stay behind here—"

"No one is staying behind," Ghost grits fiercely. He gestures at the truck bed. "It doesn't even matter if we got rid of a person. The supplies have to fit, too. Even if we make it across, we're dead without the ammo and food."

Price trails his thumb over the hole in the plastic. "Two would have to stay behind in order for us to fit all the supplies." Your breath hitches as you watch him calmly stand up. "Or... two would have to swim."

"Swim?" you repeat. "You can't just swim it. I mean—it's open water."

"Nothing we haven't swam in before." Kyle leans against the side of the truck, crossing his arms. "But it's further across than the strait. Jesus, what is it? A 40, 50 kilometer swim?"

"Then we take turns," Price says. "Two of us at a time."

"I can take a turn," Nereida offers. "I used to swim in college. I mean, it can't be so bad if we go in intervals, and hold onto the raft."

You breathe deep, looking at the water that crashes upon the shore in the distance and then at Ghost, who is already staring at you. "I can take a turn, too."

"The three of us will start it off. If we need you two to cover, then you'll be ready to go. The kids stay in the raft."

You swallow. "It's not just about getting tired, we need plenty of water to drink. You can still get quickly dehydrated, and the temperature of the water—I mean, hypothermia can set in fast even it is warm."

"We load up on clean water tonight and have blankets and towels ready to go," Kyle says.

You glance back at Ghost. The rise and fall of his chest turns more steady as he nods his head in resignation.

"That's our only choice, then."

The evening is thick with silence.

No one has the energy for conversation, only exchanging brief requests or simple instructions. Starting a fire is risky even here, but you need clean water. A freshwater creek lies a few kilometers back, so Price and Ghost take the truck while the rest of you work on inflating the raft for tomorrow. Whatever happened between you and Kyle goes unspoken, both of you focused on the task at hand, taking turns pumping and checking the seams for anymore holes. When the two return, you help boil the water over a small wood-burning stove in the cottage, praying the smoke rising from the chimney isn’t too noticeable in the growing breeze as the sun sets.

The cottage is mostly bare, with only a dining table, a knocked-over chair, and a stripped bed frame in one of the rooms. The bathroom is quaint, its sea star wallpaper faded, and a warped mirror hangs above the sink. You stare at your reflection while the others lay out sleeping bags on the dusty floor, turning in early to conserve energy for the new plan to cross the channel. Ghost has taken first watch, sitting out on the porch with a rifle.

You listen to their soft murmurs outside the bathroom door as you work on getting out the rest of the blood in your hair. There is a red mark on your throat that is sore to the touch, and the back of your head still feels like someone has taken a hammer to it. Your eyes seem darker than the last time you saw them. You take another rag, wet it, and wipe it all over your skin. Then, you pad back out where the last lamp has been turned off and only moonlight through the boarded windows is left.

You slip into the empty sleeping bag next to Blue and stare at the ceiling. It is impossible to sleep—to even close your eyes for longer than a few seconds. Your heart refuses to even its pace, furiously pumping blood through your veins.

After an hour of lying still, the itch becomes intolerable. You slip silently from the sleeping bag, grab your backpack, and creep to the back door by the kitchen. It opens to a patch of overgrown grass. The cold air raises gooseflesh on your arms, but after emptying your bag, saving only the clothes, and tying it up on a branch, your blood runs hotter. Teeth gritted, you pound your fists into the makeshift punching bag, breathing hard through your nose to keep the noise to a minimum. 

You hit it until your lungs burn cold, and take a pause only to grab the backpack, close your eyes, and lean your forehead against it while breathing deeply. 

"I would say you can't sleep because you're excited for a swim tomorrow, but I know better."

His voice is just behind you, a rough murmur over the distant lapping sea.

You don't turn around. "I'm thrilled for it, actually."

A pause. Then, "Quite heroic of you. Offering to stay behind."

"I wasn't trying to be a hero. It just made the most sense."

You let out one last huff and then settle back into your stance, reopening your eyes to take another swing, but a hand on your wrist wretches you away. You glare up at him as he holds both of your closed fists, peering down at the raw, reddened knuckles.

You’re ready to argue—to tell him to leave you alone and let you hurt your own hands if you want to—but instead, he surprises you by letting go and stepping back. He chucks off his jacket and tosses it to the ground, unrivaled strength evident in the width of his bare, inked biceps. His feet widen, and his fists rise, silently beckoning you.

It’s been over a week since your last sparring session, but as soon as your fists are raised, the familiar rhythm takes over. He doesn’t hold back—not here, not ever. You abandon strategy, driven by the primal satisfaction of ramming your knuckles into his ribs. The adrenaline surge becomes the perfect distraction, each punch feeding your hunger for more. Your breath quickens, harsh and ragged, as you throw punch after punch. Most of your hits are deflected with effortless grace. He mirrors your every step, matching your intensity with his own.

He sweeps his leg out, sending you to your hands and knees. A growl escapes your lips as you spring back up.

He circles you like a vulture.

"I saw his face."

Cold sweat trickles down your bruised neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It was burned. Well, what was left of it. You fucked him up more than necessary." He lowers his fists, eyes locking onto yours with an intense scrutiny. Your nostrils flare as you aim a swipe at his jaw, but he catches your forearm, yanking you close until your chest is pressed against his. With a firm grip on your chin, he tilts your face upward, forcing your narrowed gaze to meet his."You can't hide, Twix. Not from me."

"He was the one who almost raped me, is that what you want to hear?" You dig your free hand into his chest. "And I killed him."

The shade of his irises darkens. "You did what you had to do—what I knew you could do when I left you. You protected yourself and the others."

"I enjoyed it. I wanted to kill him, and I have never wanted that before." You swallow through your sore throat and feel a subtle tremor up your spine as the fresh images brandish your mind. "I wanted to feel his blood on my hands, and if you hadn't stopped me, I would've kept going."

"He deserved it ten times over. I would've done the same."

"And what do I deserve?"

His voice is harsh. "You deserve to cross the channel tomorrow, and keep going. It was life or death. He got death, and you got life."

"And how much longer do I get it? Until the next time people start attacking us? The next horde of Greys? Even if we make it there alive, it will never be a normal life. I can never be a normal person again. Never. I feel like...like there is something broken and rotten inside of me, a-and maybe it was always there, like you said. But only now can I truly feel it."

By the last word, your voice has quieted to a harsh whisper. You avoid the stare bearing down at you by turning your chin. You failed to realize how close your faces have become. Your gaze drifts to the arm still holding you, prominent veins trailing beneath the inked skin, and you swear you can see a pulse in them as fast as your own. Heated breaths pass between your bodies in silence before you look back up at him.

"You murdered someone, didn't you?" you breathe out. "Before shit happened. Outside of the military. Actual murder."

His jaw ticks. "Yes. I did."

The blunt admission doesn't surprise you, nor does it frighten you.

He lowers his face a bit, enough for his exhalation to leave gooseflesh across your cheeks. "Ask me if I enjoyed it. Go on."

"Did you?"

"Very much so."

You swallow hard. "I guess you haven't been normal for a long time."

"No. I guess not," he murmurs.

The air feels thick between you. He studies you intently, fingers uncomfortably tight around your wrist, when the tip of his masked nose nudges tentatively—experimentally—against yours. Your breath hitches at the top of your throat. Your fingers absentmindedly slip under the hem of his mask on their own accord, peeling it up his neck to reveal a stubbled, scarred chin and full, pink mouth.

He doesn't move to stop you.  

You study the sight before you—one you didn't see so close up even when he broke his nose.

Then—the last thin thread of sanity within you snaps. With a surge of abandon, you firmly close your lips over his.

Heat instantly spreads through your mouth, through your limbs, and down to your socked toes. It is enough to flood you with the raw need to taste more of it. Your hands lower to twist tightly in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer, and for a moment, those warm lips move slowly against yours. Then, he firmly presses on your shoulder and breaks away with a thin thread of saliva joining your mouths.

"Ghost." You pant raggedly, eyes darting across his face. Humiliation is ready to sink in at his rejection, but he growls under his breath and kisses you again—harder this time, drawing you in with a hand to your jaw.

It quickly turns into a clumsy, greedy mess of clanking teeth. One of your hands curls around the short hair at the nape of his neck. It is difficult to comprehend that it is his tongue, hot and demanding at the seam of your mouth, pushing in once you part it open. It is his hand moving from your jaw to your hair, fisting it to the point of pain, while his other grips your hip and backs you into the tree.

Your spine presses roughly against the bark. The heat and solidity of his chest against your breasts makes your mind go numb. You can't think about anything, not the day behind you or the one ahead, only feel. Blood courses through your veins with the same heat as when you fight him, but instead of growling in anger, you release a throaty sound of desperation, moving your hands to the backs of his shoulders and digging your nails into the flexed muscle. It encourages him to grind his hips against yours with a low groan, striking an unfamiliar wave of warmth between your legs.

You try to recreate the satisfying friction, greedily bucking into him, but it's difficult with the standing position. The mess of emotions inside you is impossible to sift through, but one certainty stands out: you need more of this, whatever it is.

You attempt to lift your legs and lock your ankles around him, biting his lip as a demand for him to help you, but his hand suddenly releases its hold on your hip and he rips away from your mouth, breathing hard through his bitten lips.

"That's enough," he says roughly, stepping away.

What?

It doesn't feel like even close to enough.

Before you can reach for him, he gives you his back and leaves you there, trying to regain your breath. 

[frogtablestudios]

Pinch happy to see Peanut (PB&J Otter)

[sanjisleggy]

i just need more time to be loved by you (roronoa zoro x reader)

req: Could you please do a Zoro x reader (fem or gn)  where the reader is trying to plan a surprise thing for him and has been hanging around Sanji more to help get stuff prepared and in the process accidentally is ignoring Zoro. Zoro starts to worry that he isn't romantic or affectionate enough like Sanji and will loose the reader to him. Maybe Zoro even starts purposefully avoiding the reader like the mindset of 'if we don't talk I can't be broken up with'. Idk hurt comfort please make me cry but end nice 🩷

a/n: ngl i rubbed my hands together like a raccoon or smth when i was brainstorming for this req bc i’m just a sucker for hurt/comfort that isn’t dramatic hehe anyway thanks for 100 followers! :D i’ve been having a great time writing for one piece these past few weeks, everyone has been so kind :3c

contents: some suggestive content (16+ only ty!), insecure! jealous!Zoro, suspicions of cheating (but no actual cheating ofc), miscommunication, hurt/comfort and reverse comfort, angst to fluff

wc. 3.9k

wanna be on my taglist?

i. 

for the first time in over a year, Zoro wakes up in an empty bed.

the absence of a familiar weight resting on his chest nearly startles him awake, his brain skipping over the initial first few minutes of grogginess most feel when they’ve just woken up. he runs his hands over your side of the mattress before crawling over it just enough to check if you’re on the floor. 

it dawns on him, in that moment, that this is the first time you’ve gotten up and left before him since you began seeing each other. usually Zoro would be the one waking up at the break of dawn to get some early morning training in, always carefully taking a few minutes to lift your sleeping form off his body and place you back on your assigned end of the bed without waking you. it never seems to matter if you went to bed cuddling or not, somehow, throughout the night, you always find your way on top of him.

setting aside the foreign feeling in his stomach, Zoro decides to go look for you–he tells himself he’s just curious about the reason for your absence but the part he won’t admit is that he just misses seeing you first thing in the morning. 

it doesn’t take him long to find you, catching a glimpse of your back when he’s walking past the open kitchen door. before he can decide to get your attention, however, Zoro realises you’re not alone.

in front of a counter upon which is laid half-used utensils and uncooked ingredients stands you and the crew’s one and only chef. you’re both deeply engaged in a conversation spoken in a volume low enough that the swordsman can barely make out any of the words. he does, however, notice that you’re wearing Sanji’s favourite apron–it’s a tad too long for someone of your height, or maybe the stupid chef just has freakishly long legs, who knows? –and it causes his heart to stir in a way he struggles to describe to even himself.

if Zoro had to choose a past feeling that comes the closest to comparing, it would have to be when he’d challenged Dracule Mihawk to a duel and lost.

“oh, no, my sweet,” Sanji finally says something loud enough for Zoro to hear from behind the two of you. “you’d want to pinch it more than just squish it,” he continues before repositioning himself behind you to demonstrate. it’s hard to see exactly what the two of you are doing but it’s clear to the swordsman that the pervert chef’s most likely cupping your hands in his to guide your movement with whatever dish you’re seemingly making together.

Zoro isn’t surprised that you don’t try to push Sanji away in any capacity, not due to any lack of trust between him and you but because you’ve always been a very physically affectionate person. it was one of his first impressions of you when you joined the crew at the behest of Luffy. it was common on the Merry–and still is on the Sunny–to see you hugging, holding the hands or even kissing the cheeks of your companions in the most platonic sense. it’s just the way you show your happiness.

although every bone in Zoro’s body is screaming at him to storm in and tear Sanji away from you, a sudden realisation washing over him roots his feet to the ground.

is this what you actually need from me? if i touch you more, would you need it less from the others?

the swordsman can’t help but recall how just last night you’d kept bugging him for pre-sleep cuddles but he pushed your needy hands away every time.

“it’s too hot and humid tonight for that,” he grumbled after you frowned at his rejection.

“you’ve been saying that for the past two weeks,” you whined, wiggling around your side of the bed in protest.

“well, too bad the weather’s just been too hot. it’s not my fault.” he shrugged. when your frown only deepened, he decided to give you a few forehead kisses as compensation. “now stop being a brat and go to sleep.” 

Zoro walks away from the kitchen, opting to leave you and the chef alone; and wonders if you would’ve been in bed this morning when he woke up had he caved in and given you the cuddles you so wanted just last night.

he only sees you again when the sun’s started to set and all of the Straw Hats begin to gather for dinner. instead of taking your usual seat beside him, you end up serving him a plate of onigiri with a wide grin on your face instead.

“here’s your serving, my love,” you say with a satisfied hum that only serves to confuse the man. surely these are just the usual onigiri Sanji occasionally makes for meals, right? “how does it taste?” you ask after he takes a bite.

it tastes richer today and the rice is fluffier.

“it tastes the same as always.” the swordsman shrugs, physically incapable of praising anything remotely made by the crew’s dedicated cook. “why?” he adds when he catches the way your smile falters at his reply.

“nothing, it’s nothing.” you lean over to kiss his temple. his heart has been so deprived of your affection for the entire day that the simple gesture is enough to make him forget about your faltering smile from just mere seconds ago.

ii.

the next morning, after the Thousand Sunny has docked at a new island, Zoro wakes up yet again to an empty bed. this time, though, he wastes no time getting up and jumping into the shower after remembering a specific conversation from a week ago.

“we should go out on a date when we reach the next island,” you’d said, your bare sweaty chest sticking to his as you rested on top of him after an eventful night together.

“whatever you want,” he’d hummed in agreement as he rubbed your sides and back in an attempt to soothe the parts of your skin he’d been a bit too rough with. “we can even go right after we dock.”

rushing out the door of your shared quarters, green locks still dripping with water, Zoro makes it out just in time to catch you alighting the Sunny with two of your fellow Straw Hats: Chopper and, much to his dismay, Sanji. the three of you walk towards the bustling town together with the reindeer in between you and the chef with one hoof holding your right hand as his other holds Sanji’s left. 

Zoro feels the same stirring sensation from yesterday in his chest, except this time its intensity has increased tenfold. a bitterness forms in the back of his throat when he realises, if he wasn’t really paying attention, how much the three of you look like a family: a mother, a father and their child.

for a split second he imagines the kind of future you could have with someone like Sanji–someone who could provide for you and your children in a more meaningful way than a swordsman can. after all, what’s the point of teaching your kid how to wield a sword if you can’t even feed them properly, right?

a part of Zoro considers catching up to your little group and grabbing the basket from your other hand to replace it with his own. it would be a foreign experience to him, not usually being one to initiate even something as simple as hand-holding—aside from the times when your lives were being threatened and he needed to make sure you escaped safely with him.

the swordsman feels his face heat up at the thought of holding your hand for no reason other than the action itself. he tries to recall the last time you wormed your hand into his, intertwining your fingers with his calloused digits. Zoro remembers how soft your skin felt, how cold your hand initially was before it was engulfed in his warmer palm, and his heart skips a beat. 

by the time he snaps himself out of his reverie, he realises you’re nowhere to be seen.

”what’s bothering you, swordsman?” a familiar voice speaks from behind him. without turning around, Zoro simply shrugs in response.

”i don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

he hears Robin chuckle before he feels her hands sprouting from his shoulders to gently turn him around. though he really doesn’t want to talk about his feelings to the archeologist, he decides it’s better to comply than to fight it.

her arms are crossed as she looks at him with a smile. Zoro can’t help but compare her expression to that of a person seeing a pitiful baby animal struggling with eating solid foods for the first time—they know the only thing they can really do is watch.

”i think you should talk to her. you won’t know what she’s thinking unless you ask.”

Zoro curses under his breath. had he really been that obvious with his pining? how pathetic he must look to the rest of his crewmates.

how pathetic.

still, he can’t deny that she’s right—Robin always is, most of the time. he knows he’s been making a lot of assumptions lately and it’s not fair to either of you; and yet when he thinks about sitting you down to hear your actual feelings, he fears that not only will he be unable to offer you what you need, you would realise it as well.

would it really be the end of the world? if we go back to just being friends? 

Zoro’s lived his entire life up to this point without any romance, having deluded himself into thinking that any relationship—platonic or romantic—wouldn’t serve his goal of being the best swordsman. if anything, it would only be a distraction. he’d made it far in life with this belief and then, of course, he had to meet Luffy and subsequently: you.

he realises then that he can’t remember what it’s like not being your partner; to not have the privilege of being the one who sleeps beside you every night, to touch and hold and kiss you in ways only appropriate behind closed doors. when he thinks about his future as the world’s greatest swordsman, he can only imagine it with you by his side. it wouldn’t be the same otherwise.

maybe… if we just never talk about this, i can be yours for a little while longer. with a bit more time, maybe i can convince you to keep loving me.

iii.

a few days later, on the morning of the day you’ve been anxiously preparing for for a week now, you wake up, once again, to an empty bed and your heart sinks lower than it did yesterday.

Zoro has been waking up earlier these past few days and you’re unable to find out why. anytime you try to look for him during his usual training hours, you struggle to even find him, let alone spend time with him. for some reason that even the others are unsure of, he’s been training in odd places around the Thousand Sunny, seemingly forgoing the crow’s nest altogether. on the off chance you do manage to run into him, he’ll give you some random excuse for why he “can’t talk right now”.

”Luffy needs me to run some errands.”

”i have an appointment with the local blacksmith.”

”i think i see Chopper drowning.”

clenching your fists in your lap, you stay sitting in bed for a while longer, your heart pounding faster and faster no matter how hard you try to calm it down. you feel your eyes begin to burn with tears as you come to the realisation that maybe Zoro isn’t interested in you anymore. 

under your breath, you curse at whatever god is listening for their horrific timing. you’d spent the past week with Sanji and Chopper meticulously planning for tonight’s surprise birthday picnic and now you’re not sure if you’ll be able to convince your boyfriend to even look at you.

mind racing, you try to recall if you’d done anything to remotely upset him lately but you draw a blank. if anything, you’ve been spending more time away from Zoro in order to maintain the secrecy of your plans but surely that’s not what he’s upset over, right? wouldn’t he have welcomed the me-time with open arms?

finally deciding that it’s really not the time to be overthinking about this, you wipe away your tears and get ready to freshen up for the day. you and the others have put in too much effort into tonight to just throw it all away so you decide that no matter what, you will see it through, even if it ends up being the last time you spend with him as his partner.

iv. 

Zoro’s on the verge of falling asleep whilst sitting upright in bed when the door to your shared quarters bursts open and startles him awake. before he can beat the crap out of whoever it is, Nami’s frantic shouting freezes him in place.

”(Y/N)’s been taken!” his throat tightens as he feels his heart drop and his skin go cold. “quick you need to hurry!” the navigator yells. instinctively he grabs his three swords and leaps out of bed towards the door, more of the Straw Hats coming into view as he exits the room.

”you fucking dumbass mosshead!” Sanji shouts, furious, “sweet (Y/N)’s been kidnapped and you’ve been asleep this whole time?!”

”i-i last saw her being taken away towards the southmost cliff,” Chopper sobs, words muffled by his hooves as he frantically rubs away his never ending tears.

”remember, Zoro,” Sanji grabs the swordsman’s shoulders firmly, “southmost. SOUTH. it’s literally the closest cliff to the dock.”

it does cross Zoro’s mind that the chef’s acting fucking weird but right now isn’t the time for that. without a word, he takes off, running as fast as his legs can carry him toward what he hopes is the right direction. once he’s out of earshot, the Straw Hats let out a collective sigh.

”do you think he’ll make it?” Nami asks no one in particular.

”seeing as he really thinks (Y/N)’s in danger, i’d say so,” Robin replies.

”well, at least we have Usopp keeping an eye on him,” Sanji adds, “if mosshead really gets lost, we can at least rely on Usopp to get him back on the right track.”

a moment of silence passes as they all watch Zoro gradually disappear from view—all except for the sound of Chopper’s sobbing.

”he’s not here anymore, you don’t need to keep crying, Chopper,” Nami says to the doctor. he sniffles as he pulls his hooves away from his face, revealing a mess of snot and tears. 

“i-i know,” he chokes, reaching out to hug Robin’s leg, “i was faking it at first but now i’m scared something will happen and they really do break up.” Chopper lets out another cry, smooshing his face into the archeologist’s pants as he wonders if this is what children feel like when their parents get divorced.

“don’t be silly,” Nami leans down to pat his head, “i’m pretty sure hell would freeze over first before they decide to break up. besides, once Zoro sees all the stuff (Y/N)’s prepared, i think that’ll be the last thing on his mind.” 

v.

the swordsman barely thinks about where he’s going as he makes his way to you, his legs carrying him through twists and turns as though they have a mind of their own. all he can really focus on right now is the sound of his scabbards clicking against one another and the way you’ve been looking at him these past few days.

how your smile would melt away when he gave you another half-assed excuse to leave. how he felt you lingering a distance behind him so many times before your presence disappeared without saying a word. how just last night it seemed like you wanted to ask him something before going to bed, your mouth opening and closing as you laid down beside him, head turned just enough for your eyes to meet his. he’d almost asked you what’s wrong but before he could, you simply shook your head and turned around to go to sleep with your back facing his way.

i’m sorry. i’m sorry i kept avoiding you. i’m sorry i hurt your feelings.

Zoro takes a sharp left turn before he’s halted in his tracks when an entire tree branch falls just a few steps in front of him. before he can manoeuvre his way around the unexpected obstacle, he realises he’s going the wrong way; so he turns around.

i just needed more time to think. i just wanted a bit more time to figure out how to fix myself for you.

through the darkness of the night, his eyes catch a glimpse of light as he nears the edge of the forest that leads to the southmost cliff of the island. heart pounding rapidly in his chest as he continues to run, Zoro readies himself for a fight, to shed as much blood as necessary to bring you home without so much as a scratch on your skin. 

please be okay. this can’t be how it ends for us. i need to tell you that i—

he comes to a sudden stop, the inertia from running at top speed causing him to nearly stumble forwards. still panting heavily as he holds his unsheathed swords by his sides, Zoro simply stands there wordlessly as his eyes take in the sight before him.

you’re by yourself, sitting cross-legged on a large picnic blanket with a large array of food and bottles of alcohol surrounding you. you’re wearing a dress he’s never seen before but it fits you perfectly and he wonders if you’d gotten it just for tonight. you simply smile at Zoro as you wait a good while for the truth to fully dawn on him; to be honest you didn’t expect him to show up so frazzled and upset.

”happy birthday?” you eventually say, unsure yourself why the phrase comes out sounding like a question. still donning a look of shock on his face, Zoro sinks to his knees, dropping his swords onto the grass. he furrows his eyebrows, clearly deep in thought and your own eyes widen when you realise— “did you forget today’s your birthday?”

”i…” he murmurs, “… yeah, i forgot.” he swallows thickly. “is this all for me?”

”of course it is,” you can’t help but laugh a little as you reply, still unable to wrap your head around the fact that he truly did not see this coming at all. “i spent the whole week getting ready for this.”

Zoro feels a pang in his chest.

”you’re not breaking up with me?” he asks, stunning you into silence. for a second you think he’s trying to make some kind of sick joke but you know him well enough to tell from the way he’s staring at you so intensely that he’s being completely honest. “i thought…” the swordsman steadies his voice as best as he can, unable to help the words he’s been keeping hidden from spilling out of his lips, “you’d fallen out of love with me. i thought you just didn’t want to be around me anymore.”

you feel your eyes burn with tears as you hear your own thoughts being spoken aloud in his voice. your bottom lip quivers as you feel an odd mix of relief and sadness wash over you. upon seeing you cry, Zoro scrambles towards you until he’s within arm’s reach.

”no, no,” he clumsily wipes away your tears with the pads of his thumbs as he cups your face in between his hands gently, “please don’t cry. don’t be sad.” you place your own hands over his, keeping them held to your face as you give him a wobbly smile.

”i’m not sad, you silly man,” you reply with fresh tears still running down your face. “i’m so relieved. this whole time i thought you were going to break up with me.”

”what made you think that?” Zoro can’t help but speak with a hint of indignance in his voice.

”you’ve been avoiding me the past few days,” you sniffle, the sound alone twisting his heart even further. “i thought you’d gotten sick of me or something but i didn’t wanna waste all the effort me and the others put into tonight so i thought we could at least have one last date together before you break up with me.” you feel his hands tense up as you speak before a frown spreads across his handsome face once you finish saying your piece.

”i could never,” he responds resolutely, as though offended by the mere idea of ever falling out of love with you. Zoro admits he’d been dodging you in order to avoid being broken up with. “i just thought,” he says, face turning red as he realises how dumb it all sounds now that he’s saying it out loud, “that if i didn’t give you the chance to leave me, i’d have more time to fix myself… to have more time being yours.”

”what’s there to fix?” you can’t help but ask, turning your head ever so slightly to press a kiss against the palm of his right hand. you smile when you notice Zoro’s already blushing face turning a deeper shade of red. “i already love every part of you. don’t you ever dare think again you need to change.”

you let out a squeak of surprise when Zoro lunges towards you without warning, tackling you into a tight hug. his hand reaches out to cushion the back of your head as you fall backwards onto your back with him laying on top of you. running his fingers through your hair, the swordsman gazes down at you warmly as he just now registers the smell of onigiri and sashimi.

”you made all this for me?” he asks in a soft voice, his breath brushing against your face. you nod, smile growing even wider when he leans down to kiss the tip of your nose. “is that why you were hanging around the shitty chef so much?” 

you hum affirmative in response, unable to help the racing of your heart as you bask in the sudden display of physical intimacy he rarely shows you outside of the bedroom. you wonder if he can feel your rapid heartbeat from how closely his chest is pressed against yours.

”the onigiri from earlier this week was my first attempt at making it,” you share before you feel Zoro start to pepper kisses all over your face.

”i lied when i said they tasted the same,” he admits, the occasional syllable muffling from when his lips make contact with your skin. “they tasted really good. i just thought the shitty cook made them so i lied.”

”oh really?” you chuckle as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “i hope you like the ones i made today then.” Zoro brushes the tip of his nose against yours.

”i’d love anything you make for me,” he mumbles before capturing your lips with his own, pulling away only when his lungs begin to scream for air. “thank you for the surprise, (Y/N). i love you.”

”love you, too.” 

—

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