#the bones of something interesting are buried deep deep down

[vibrantstarfire]

there are ways to fix new52. the bones of interesting stories are there. i promise you. the ideas weren't bad, it was the execution and tone and characterization.

take my hand. the fixit fics will be legendary if we all work together

[pricetagged]

butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

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

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Would you maybe.. consider something with remora!mer x könig? (could be au from 141 since the boys would probably not be up for sharing her with him) but I love the idea of dopey remora!mer with massive shark könig T^T

-sleepyanon

yes, more shark!cod au for mermay (◔◡◔) more situations!!

maybe this is an au where remora reader never met shark!Price, and was therefore unprotected upon encountering the mer poachers.

...

77 / 1.2k

König’s eyes sweep over the humans crowding near the top edge of his dismal tank. The odd behavior disrupts his restless circling. Then they draw back. A new mer, suspended in a harness from above, lowers toward the tank. The humans—mer poachers—watch as callously as always.

The harness releases. You hit the water with a splash.

Instantly, you dart down into the depths of the tank and squeeze into the smallest space you can find. That's where you hide.

König barely glances at the commotion, much less does he bother chasing after you. What would be the point? Whoever you are, you're small, skittish—nothing more than a bottom-feeder. If you want to cower in the rocks, fine. He has no interest in weaklings who can’t face the open water.

Instead, he turns his attention up to the humans at the mouth of the tank. His fingers flex, claws itching to tear into something. But for now, he waits.

…

You press yourself into the deepest hollow you can manage, deep inside the tank's strange reef. It’s a reef that doesn't bloom with coral. Instead, it's angular, stone-dingey, and yellowed with algae. But you're too nervous to clean.

You huddle in the small cave until the muffled human voices fade. Why did they bring you here? What do they want? No matter how you tried to ask them and plead with them to let you go, they ignored you. You wrap your arms around yourself, curl up against the reef wall, and stare at the tag on your tail. The humans pierced it through one of your lower ventral fins. It hurts.

You grab it and turn it over, trying to be ginger with the way it tugs your fin, but you can't read the strange symbols. Staring at it makes you feel hopeless. Instead, you creep to the opening of the cave and peek out at the other mer circling the tank. They have tags like yours. Your gills fan with a sigh of relief. At least it's not just you.

König notices the movement from the corner of his eye—a flicker of motion near the reef. He doesn’t turn his head, but his posture shifts slightly, tail flicking in irritation. Pathetic. Hiding won’t save you. The humans don’t care about fear. If you're weak enough to show it, you deserve what you'll get.

His own tag—a crude metal clip punched through the thick muscle of his dorsal fin—itches, but he refuses to acknowledge it.

You avert your eyes until he passes overhead and away from you. Your spine prickles.

For the next two days, you don't venture more than a tail's length away from your safe spot. You stay low, you keep your mouth closed, and you avoid eye contact. You make sure the other mer can see you. You make sure you don't look like a threat.

On the third day, the humans toss chum into the water. Pink and visceral, it balloons across the surface and drifts straight down. The reaction of the other mer is immediate and brutal.

A snarl tears from König’s throat as the water clouds with blood and frenzy. His massive tail propels him upward in a single, violent thrust, shoulder-checking a shark mer. The shark, Nikto, snarls but doesn’t press the issue. Smart. König’s claws are already buried in the best cut of meat, tearing it free with a wet rip.

You watch the display with bright eyes from the reef below. The water churns with aggression. Tails lash; gills flare. Only fish bones and disembodied fin scraps make it past the frenzy. You spy one fin with a mouthful of meat still attached and creep closer, sliding along the tank floor on your belly.

A shadow passes over you. You flatten yourself to the ground and try to look as non-threatening as a piece of stray kelp.

König’s shadow looms over you, his massive frame blocking what little artificial light filters through the murky water. He doesn’t even glaring at you—just glides over you with a flick of his tail, in pursuit of a half-flank of whitefish several feet above your head. Even that small movement produces a current that knocks you back a few feet. His disdain is palpable.

The scrap of meat you’d been reaching for drifts just out of reach. Satisfied with his own chase, he doesn’t bother stealing it. Let the bottom-feeders fight over the dregs. He catches the disembodied whitefish flank and swims toward back up into the fray.

Once he’s gone, you twist and drag your fingertips along the bottom of the tank in a clumsy attempt to right yourself. The scrap of meat-and-fin spins along in König's wake. The current pulls it upward; it drifts atop the reef structure. You kick your tail and swim closer just to see it disappear into the crack of two huge stones.

…

König could heave those concrete slabs out of the way if he wanted to. But why would he?

He settles against a ledge near the top of the tank, arms crossed, tail lazily swaying to keep him suspended. His gaze flicks to the other mer. Nikto lurks near the surface. Horangi circles like a restless predator—then swims toward the reef.

You sense Horangi coming and still your movements, settling against the slabs a few feet away from where the meat disappeared.

Horangi’s striped tail cuts through the water. Then his clawed hand darts out—not toward you, but toward the crack in the slabs. He snakes his fingers into the gap. Despite his grit, he can't fit enough of his hand into the space to reach the food; after a long moment of maneuvering and shifting and shimmying his arm this way and that, he gives up and jerks away with a deep curse.

You keep your eyes trained carefully, demurely downward, but he hardly seems to care you're there.

Perfect.

Once he's gone, you move yourself over to your target and slip your deep into the crevice. It takes no time at all for you to find the morsel. When you retrieve it, however, you don't eat it. Instead, you swim quietly to the side of the tank, near the ledge where König sits. Without looking, you shuck the morsel of meat from its host fin, clean it in your specialized palms, and place both pieces on the ledge just out of König's reach: an offering.

Then you turn and swim dutifully back down to your reef cave. Your stomach growls.

König’s gaze snaps to the offering the moment you retreat. His fingers twitch. A beat passes. Then he drags his claws over it and picks it up. He doesn’t eat it immediately—just turns it over in his claws, inspecting it. It’s clean; it's prepared. Not hastily snatched and carelessly half-scavenged like the scraps the others fight over. He slips the meat underneath his hood and into his mouth. The fin he flicks aside—useless to him. But it would be a rather savory morsel to you. The gesture isn’t lost on him.

His eyes track your retreating form, lingering on the way you tuck yourself back into the rocks.

Maybe you’re not worthless.

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3

more mer au / more KorTac / masterlist

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader pt. 2

Part 2 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

Steps echoed softly against the snow as you made your way toward Mr. S's Mystery Shop, the sound somehow muted, swallowed by the heavy quiet of the world around you. It felt oddly distant, as if the entire universe had drawn its breath and left you alone with the sound of your footsteps. The fog clouding your thoughts lifted slightly as Grim darted around your legs, animatedly recounting how he and Yuuken had gotten into trouble earlier that day. His enthusiasm was contagious, pulling a chuckle from you despite yourself—a rare flicker of light in the usual gray haze.

The shop door slid open, a warm breeze rushing out to greet you like an old friend. The chill melted from your bones as you stepped inside, the scent of old wood and something faintly spicy filling the air. You followed Grim down the narrow aisles, your eyes wandering across the haphazard stacks of oddities and trinkets. The faint hum of a space heater buzzed in the background, blending with the soft thuds of items being restocked.

Your gaze landed on Grim busy packing away cans of tuna into his own basket. The extra weight of the thaumarks in your pocket served as a gentle reminder of Crowley's recent miscalculation of Ramshackle's weekly allowance. The headmage likely thought himself generous—he wasn't. So none of you bothered to correct his mistake.

A little extra was hardly a sin, and in your eyes, it was long overdue.

Leaving Grim to his own devices—his attention firmly locked on a staff member restocking the vending machine and occasionally eyeing the tuna cans with restrained interest—you made your way to the produce section. Your dormmates had sent you out with a list, and you were determined to fulfill their requests without incident. On your way back, a treat caught your eye. The packaging was flashy, almost comically obnoxious yet charming. The picture on the front was practically begging to be tasted, and you decided it was well-deserved after... well, everything

The sound of beeping filled the store, blending with the hum of quiet conversations and footsteps. At the till, you placed your basket on the counter and waited while the cashier scanned your items. Stifling a yawn into your sleeve, you reminded yourself that dinner would be soon. Briefly wondering if you'd make it back in time. A light brush against your neck jolted you from your thoughts. A hand reached past your shoulder, casually turning one of your items over.

"Ahh.. You got the last, huh? These are so popular on social media these days. Enjoy it for me, 'kay?"

The voice behind you was playful, with a hint of mock disappointment, quickly replaced by cheerful teasing. The arm withdrew just as you turned to find none other than Cater Diamond standing behind you, his signature easy-going smile already in place.

Your lips twitched, an instinct to respond stirring but words failed you. Instead, you gave a polite nod and returned to what you were doing, keeping your attention on the cashier. Cater didn't seem to mind; his light banter shifted toward Grim, who chuckled along with him, occasionally adding his own commentary.

As much as you had once longed for moments like this—to be seen, spoken to, acknowledged, the confidence you'd briefly held earlier had crumbled.

The sun was already setting by the time you left the shop, casting the sky in shades of muted blue and grey. Though the snow had stopped for the day, the cold lingered, biting at your fingertips even through your coat. You buried your hands deep in your hoodie pockets, the weight of the grocery bags straining against your arms.

"Come on, little star. You wanted to shine, didn't you? Why hide now? You're making a waste of me."

The Blot's voice echoed in your head, silken and sweet with a bitter edge. The ring on your finger grew uncomfortably warm, almost burning against your skin—a searing reminder of your contract. Your pulse quickens as guilt crashed over you in relentless waves, tangling with rising panic. You had made a promise to yourself—a cruel, unflinching vow to get your revenge. To make them feel what you had felt. To become so important that losing you would destroy them. And yet here you were, frozen in place, paralyzed at the thought of receiving exactly what you'd wanted for so long: acknowledgement.

Worse still, you found yourself too afraid to even wield the power you had traded so much to obtain, recalling how you foolishly agreed to the Blot's honeyed words that night without asking more. Then again, your time had been running out like an hourglass with a hole in it.

Grim's tug at your pant leg pulled you from your trainwreck of a mind, the words spoken softly by the blot still resonating within your mind, unable to be pushed aside and filling you with some irritation. Blinking, you tried to reorient yourself, offering him a half-formed reassuring response—until a familiar figure caught your attention near the store's exit. Cater.

"Cater.. right?" you said, tilting your head just enough to feign casual curiosity.

His bright green eyes met yours, lighting up with recognition. "Yeah! And you're... uh..." He trailed off, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish laugh, threading his fingers through his orange hair. "One of the Ramshackle prefects, right? You're so hard to get ahold of." His laugh was easygoing, but something about it hinted at familiarity, like he'd been trying to speak to you for some time now. Your jaw tightened at the thought.

You knew who he was, of course. Cater Diamond—the social butterfly, the NRC blog king, the guy who talked to nearly everyone or updates on his fast-paces student-run blog. One of the many who treated you like a nameless voice in the crowd, a background character at best. But something in his words made hope flicker faintly in your chest, a dangerous ember waiting to catch fire. Had he really been trying to reach out all along? Were you just that hard to approach..? Doubt creeped in momentarily before you brushed it off. He's lying.

The doubts clung to you like oil on fabric and your smile almost faltered. Almost. You caught it in time, replacing hesitation with a soft chuckle as you offered your name.

"You said these treats are popular online, right?" you asked, gesturing toward the flashy package. "Why? Some influencer?"

His eyes lit up, and you knew you'd hit the right note. As the two of you walked toward Ramshackle together, Cater launched into a detailed explanation about the trending treat—some influencer's viral snack review had sent demand soaring. You listened, nodding at just the right moments, letting him fill the space with his cheerful energy.

Eight minutes and fifteen seconds. The longest conversation you'd had with anyone outside of Grim or the Yuus since... well, since home.

At the front gate to Ramshackle, you paused and opened a pack of treats. Splitting it nearly in half, you handed one portion to Cater. "Sam's restocking in a whole week. You wouldn't want to miss out on the trend, right?"

For just a moment your usual resolve wavered. You knew what you intended to do—make them all regret forgetting you, bring everything crashing down—but right now... right now, you just wanted to feel a little less lonely.

Cater grinned, his eyes crinkling with the motion. "Our little secret, yeah? Guess that makes us snack buddies now. Next time, my treat—you can totes hold me to that!"

His words sparked a fleeting warmth, a rare feeling of belonging. You nodded, unable to summon a proper response.

Just for a bit... this was okay.

You tighten your grip on the bags as the warmth from the interaction fades, the stinging cold of the winter air nipping at your flesh once again.

It had been a few months since it all began—the Blot, the deal, and your decision to tear everything down. Returning to Ramshackle after parting with some friends, you shut your bedroom door behind you, the warped hinges protesting with a grating scrape against the frame. Your thoughts swirled from the events of the day, seeming vague and hazy even though it happened only a few hours ago.

"I've missed you." A voice crooned from behind—smooth and sweet, yet laced with something razor-sharp. If you could assign an item to a voice, it'd be a sugar cube.

"I was gone for two hours." you replied, setting your bag down and beginning the slow unwinding from your day. You never really knew if the Blot lived in the ring on your finger—whispering its thoughts directly into your mind—or if it was free to roam as its own entity. Tonight, it was lounging on your bed, propped up on one elbow in a mockery of comfort, the picture of lazy contentment. Despite being a humanoid figure of pure shadow, it radiated an unmistakable fondness. If shadows could smile, you knew it was smiling at you now.

"Two hours too long," it purred, with a hint of petulance bleeding into its honeyed tone.

As you sat at your desk, the Blot drifted close, leaning over your figure until both your reflections appeared in the small mirror. Its fingers, dark and lithe, combed slowly through your hair—gentle, almost reverent. Or was it mocking possessiveness?

"Do you think they'd miss you if you left for longer?" it mused softly. "Or would you slip their minds again, like you always used to?"

The question struck a nerve. You averted your gaze from its reflection, unwilling to entertain the thought as your jaw unconsciously clenched, deciding to test the waters, you shot back a reply a little too sharp for your liking. "Are you jealous?"

You turned to try and catch a gleam of its reaction, anything to give you a better understanding of the enigmatic being you've tied yourself to.

"Of them? Never." it whispered, shadowy lithe fingers tracing along your jaw, gently tilting your head back to meet its gaze in the mirror once again. "They don't know you like I do."

A chill crawled down your spine as its grip lingered a moment too long. Silence stretched between you, heavy with words left unsaid—words only the Blot seemed to know.

"How was your day, my little adventurer?" it murmured, its voice dropping to something low and intimate, almost conspiratorial. The way it spoke made it seem as though its words were meant for your ears alone, a secret shared just between the two of you.

You didn't respond immediately, focusing on your homework instead before offhandedly responding. "You're talkative today."

The air shifted subtly, the Blot retreating to your bed once more. It flopped onto your sheets like a restless cat, rolling and twisting the fabric with a peculiar energy, almost playful in its antics. For a creature so powerful, it had a strange, childlike quality in moments like these—unsettling, yet somehow familiar the way it could switch from suave and seductive to childish and pesky.

"Perhaps I'm feeling nostalgic." It mused after a pause. Was that vulnerability bleeding through, or just another calculated lure to pull you in deeper?

"Ask me something," it offered, voice as smooth as silk, "I'll humor you with an answer—a gift for all you've done, my dove."

You hesitated. There were so many questions but one had tumbled from your lips before you could stop it. "What are you?"

"You already know the answer." It interrupted, its voice dripping with mirth. It almost seemed to avoid the question, a moment of lost composure that piqued your interest.

Your disappointment must've shown—your eyes narrowed, brows furrowing and lips pursing just slightly into a pout or protest—as the Blot paused, considering you. Finally, it relented, leaning closer with a softer tone.

"Another. Ask me another. I'll give you more because it's you."

Time stretched as you considered your options once again—more carefully this time to pull back as many layers as you can grasp to reveal just a bit more. The Blot was clearly fond of you for one reason or another, but why?

You asked, your voice steady but curious. "What were you?"

The question hung in the air like a heavy cloth, wet and suffocating. For a moment, the Blot stilled. Then it smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of its shadowy mouth.

"You're so curious," it purred, voice dropping to a velvet murmur. "I love that about you."

Before you could react, it was there, face-to-face with you again, close enough that the air seemed to hum with its presence. Its tone grew lower, softer, yet charged with something deeper. The air had grown heavier. When it spoke, its voice was softer, yet somehow deeper and filled with something ancient and still thrumming with life. "Once... I was something like you. Real. Tangible. Alive."

"Wh-"

"We'd get along. At least I like to think we would" Its voice gained a firmer edge, almost wistful, yet underlined with certainty. "No... I know we would. I've seen what it's like to be forgotten." The Blot sounded firm as if it had substance behind such an egregious claim.

You recoiled slightly at the sureness of its tone as the tension thickened, words caught in your throat as you searched for a response. But the Blot spoke again, its voice growing almost tender.

"Yes. That's how I'd explain it. But it's all in the past. And now... here we are. Together."

Its fingers laced with yours, dark and cold yet strangely warm at the same time. Its thumb gently traced the rim of the ring on your finger—the physical reminder of your contract.

For a moment, it almost felt like an embrace—warm in its own strange way—before the Blot retreated at the sound of a firm knock at your door.

"Human! Come downstairs! We're watching films and consuming takeout!" Sebek's voice rang out, loud and commanding as always. You blinked, suddenly remembering your prior engagements for the evening.

On the other side of the door, Sebek continued his monologue. "Unless you fear the horror genre?" His tone wavered between challenge and care before taking a haughty turn and somehow louder. "Shall I request a film more suited to your frail constitution? I shall do it only to protect you from disgrace!"

His rapid footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving you in a strange quiet once again. Your gaze lingered on the Blot, still stretched lazily across your bed, its head tilted in quiet amusement.

With a sigh, you stood and made your way to the door, half relieved and half-annoyed.

The TV blared whatever movie had been chosen for the night, a tradition at Ramshackle where native members of Twisted Wonderland picked their favorite media to share with the prefects. It had become a cherished cultural exchange, a chance for everyone to gush about their favorite things—though you and the others never had anything to contribute.

Not that any of you wanted to. Any mention of home dampened the mood. The others missed it—their world, their families—while you had long stopped thinking of returning. You're never going home. It's too beautiful in your memories, untouched by everything you had become. Setting foot there would be like introducing flame to the wings of a butterfly.

You sat beside him, finding solace and comfort in each other's quiet presence. There was no need to speak, no need to acknowledge it aloud. He was your own guest for tonight's movie, something you never thought you'd have based on your previous reputation, or lack thereof. And yet, despite everything, you still couldn't forgive him for the way he once ignored you. You couldn't even recall how long ago that time was. It should have been easy to let go, to forget the loneliness, but the ache of it still lingered, a phantom pain of being unseen, unheard, unnoticed.

Everything felt so stagnant back then, so suffocating. In moments like these you couldn't help but be appreciative of the Blot's assistance, even as you both resented yourself and the entity in your bedroom for what it had cost you—even worse, knowing you had willingly accepted the deal. The truth, that claustrophobic reality, felt like a noose around your neck, dragging you deeper with every breath. Without the deal, you would have remained nothing—forgotten, buried in the snow, your name lost to time, your face unrecognizable by all. And when the thaw came, they could have found your body, decayed and nameless. A casualty.

A chill ran down your spine at the thought, the memory of that night creeping back, sharp and biting like frost against your skin. Jack, seated nearby, must have noticed. Without a word, the beastman draped his large, fluffy tail over your lap, a quiet attempt to offer warmth without interrupting the film.

The movie came to an end without you fully understanding the plot, the storyline lost to your distracted mind as you reflected on the whole evening. The lamps flickered back on as everyone began cleaning up, and there was an awkward, unspoken feeling hanging over everyone. The sort of quiet tension that lingered at the end of a gathering—was this goodbye? Was this the end, do they go home? The moment felt too brief.

But how many tomorrows are left?

Everyone knew that the Prefects of Ramshackle didn't belong here no matter how defined of a shape carved into everyone's hearts that only they could fill, they all knew that the Yuus would return home someday, often lamenting about their own world. Whenever the topic came up, you'd catch a fleeting glance from your friends. You'd never mentioned home—not since you'd given up on the idea. But you knew he was silently asking:

Do you plan to stay?

The boys scurried around cleaning up their messes, but their efforts were clumsy, adding new minor messes to clean—small, unnoticed attempts to stretch the moment just a little longer. They didn't want it to end yet. For now, neither did you.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a loud sneeze from Epel—one that would certainly earn him a lecture from Vil. You turn to see what he'd done, spotting a vase tipped over the kitchen counter, water and flowers spilling across the surface. They had been a gift, though the reasoning behind them had been flimsy at best. Not that you cared much. They weren't even your favorites, and flowers never lasted long anyway.

Wilting. Drying. Rotting.

Much like people.

You were slightly startled by the dark thoughts, pushing them away as Yuuken passed Epel a tissue before grabbing a rag to mop the mess before it seeped into the floorboards. Ramshackle already had enough mold; any more would be cruel.

"Did you catch a cold? I told you not to sit out in the rain too late trying to win that bet." Yuuken's tone was exasperated but laced with concern. Yuuka, less patient, flicked Epel's forehead in reprimand.

The mention of illness must have triggered Ortho's health and safety protocols, as he immediately zipped over, offering a full-body scan to check Epel's vitals.

"Uwah? Me next! Scan me!" Ace butted in with a cheeky grin—an obvious attempt to dodge dish duty. You shot him a knowing look but he only grinned wider, brushing it off and receiving his scan.

What started as a routine checkup quickly turned into a competition to see who was the healthiest, with everyone eagerly comparing stats. In the end, it came down to Jack and Sebek, though Jack narrowly took the win. Even Ortho seemed baffled by the results, staring at his screen in genuine confusion.

"I cannot understand how Sebek Zigvolt functions with such high exposure to Lilia Vanrouge's cooking..." he murmured, tilting his head.

Laughter rippled through the group as Sebek loudly protested, but the amusement died down as Ortho turned to you. Unlike the others, you hadn't joined in on their little contest, preferring to avoid the inevitable teasing about your ranking. But now, Ortho's bright yellow eyes scanned you from head to toe, and for a brief moment, his expression flickered with something strange—confusion?

"That's odd," he muttered. "You don't have any health complications, but... your body temperature is significantly lower than normal. By a lot. Please wait a moment while I check something."

Yuuta shot you a concerned glance, setting down a broken shard of the vase and rinsing his hand before reaching out to touch your forehead, only to immediately recoil.

"Woah. You're freezing..! Like wax."

Ortho scrolled through his holographic screens with increasing confusion, while the others hesitated before brushing against you, testing Yuuta's claim. You hadn't noticed before, but now that you thought about it—your skin was cold. Not just cool, but room temperature. Maybe a degree or two above it.

Ace snickered. "Maybe you really are a corpse, prefect. Don't worry; I'll cry over your grave for a good hour so you feel loved." He received a punch in the arm from Deuce for that, assuring you they'd visit every day and cry tons if you died.

The joke sent a sharp chill down your spine. For a split second, you were back there—lying in the snow, the cold sinking into your bones, the world growing quieter and quieter. The Blot ring on your finger felt soft and warm like an embrace in that moment as you pushed the memory down. You didn't even want to think about Ace and Deuce's reassurance about your death, not daring to recall how they wouldn't have even noticed a few months prior.

Ortho, unimpressed with Ace's comment, gave him a firm shove out of the way before running another scan. As he worked, Yuu barked orders at the others to finish cleaning up their messes, leaving you to sit on the couch under Ortho's scrutiny.

"It's strange..." he said, flicking through his screens and mumbling your full name a few times to search for you. "I have a database of nearly the entire student body in my records, but I had to create a new profile for you."

Something in your chest twisted.

That sick feeling, the one that always crept in whenever you felt especially neglected, clawed its way to the surface. This was a punch to the gut, a reminder that even a machine designed to remember, hadn't even noticed you enough to have you in his system.

How cruel.

You forced a laugh, pushing past the bitter taste in your mouth. "So, what do you think? Am I a corpse after all?"

Ortho paused, then, as if to make up for the oversight, carefully selected your favorite color for your new profile, even marking the tab as favorite with a cute icon.

"I apologize. I don't know," he admitted. "But I'll ask Big Brother. Maybe it's something I haven't thought about yet."

Ortho had left earlier than the others after being called back by Idia for something, but a sense of foreboding lingered in the air. You couldn't shake the feeling of being caught—caught in a way that was difficult to explain. Who else, other than the Shroud brothers, would have the highest chance of recognizing what you'd done?

Then again, the Blot taking a form and making a deal wasn't something that had ever been seen throughout Twisted Wonderland's history. Perhaps you were safe.

But the uncertainty gnawed at you, that creeping feeling that something—someone—might figure it out. The longer the silence stretched, the more unexplainable guilt festered.

Part three

was the second part weird?

I hope not hah

I have more plans to write more for this if it's still requested, and I'd like to apologize for taking two weeks to write this short thing. I got very sick, then very behind in schoolwork and then procrastinated for far too long.

My lovely little taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia ( @tipsyon-tea - You mentioned wanting to read whatever happened next but never directly asked to tag. pls tell me if you'd like to be removed from this)

[ceilidho]

fear of god

There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 7 masterlist

-

And now that the permafrost has thawed, the carcasses buried below have started to warm and the anthrax spores in their ribs have begun to twitch. 

To say that you are on edge would be an understatement. Your muscles ache from being tensed for so long in the supine position, but you remain that way until the day cycle returns and the ship hums back to life, the thought of sleep unfathomable. Synapses firing in your brain keep you from sleeping soundly. Or at all, for that matter. By morning, you’re exhausted, eyes burning from lack of sleep and head pounding something fierce. 

Old questions are compounded by new ones. Ones such as, is what you’re experiencing real? Can you trust what’s in front of your eyes? Are your senses lying to you? How can you be sure of anything happening to you right now? What can you use as a yardstick to measure reality? 

The most worrying question being: did you make a mistake? 

You review the evidence again, starting from the top. A man suspended in the middle of space with no other spaceship for millions of miles nearby. You didn’t imagine that. Unless your mind has deteriorated to such an extent that you now reside entirely within a made up universe where a stranger—seen and acknowledged by your colleagues—boarded and took residence on your ship, which is a thought too horrified to contemplate for very long, then you have to believe that nothing you experienced over the last several days was just in your head. 

Which means that over the period of a week, a man hovered in space right outside the still moving ship, somehow following its flight trajectory, and no one other than you noticed his presence. Conspicuously absent from all perimeter scans and observational points. Disappearing from sight, in fact, when another crew member tried looking for him. 

Everything points to him being a figment of your imagination, but what does it say now that the people around you are able to see him as well? And what does it say that they seem completely unconcerned with having found him at all?

Your stomach rumbles and you climb out of bed. 

You creep tentatively down the hall towards the mess, sensitive in a whole new way to your surroundings. The corridor remains empty and quiet save for your trembling breaths. A deep, thrumming hum follows you through the ship. 

Nikolai’s already there when you enter the mess, and you catch him in a good mood, which is like saying you caught Rickettsia where typhus was found present. Which is to say, unsurprising. 

“Morning, doctor,” he booms from across the mess. “Sleep well?”

You hum instead of giving a straight answer. “You?”

“Best sleep in months. We should rescue people more often. Makes life more interesting, yeah?”

Again you hum instead of responding verbally. 

It makes life more interesting or it makes life a tragic crawl to oblivion. This doesn’t feel like some Greek tragedy, but then again the people in it are never privy to their genre. You don’t have the luxury of knowing what’ll happen next until it happens, until the moment is already beyond you and you’re forced to stare back in horror at all the goosestepping you did to reach this point. 

You shake your head to dispel those thoughts. 

Breakfast is another mundane affair. Some days you miss buttered toast so bad that you teeter on the edge of bursting into tears. A deep yearning for the familiar, for home. It sneaks up on you when you least and most expect it, waiting for you to let your guard down. 

Your whole body tenses up when the mess door slides open with a gentle hiss and you hear Gaz’s voice. Again, a wave of nostalgia washes over you, an ache felt deep in your pelvic bone like staring out of a fogged up window and watching the world pass you by. 

Real coffee in real cafes; sitting at the back of the bus on a cold day, tucked into an oversized scarf and drifting off, head bouncing with every little bump; the crunchy-cream spoonful of a crème brûlée; running your fingers over glaucous leaves in the garden behind your late professor’s house, the waxy coating rubbing off onto the pads of your fingers; and then a man’s rich, deep laughter again—

Your fingers slip under the table to pinch your outer thigh and the spell breaks, the pain grounding you. 

“Morning, little castaway,” Nikolai booms, leaning back in his chair and raising a hand in greeting. “Finally rested after your journey?”

“Can’t complain,” Gaz says while making himself a coffee with the instant crystals. 

When the coffee is finally ready, Gaz wanders casually over to the table, stopping when he reaches your side. You put off looking up at him until the tension in the room reaches critical mass. 

Then you finally look up in acknowledgement and find him smiling placidly down at you. He looks rested, no sign of stress or bags under his eyes or so much as a hair out of place. You’d never suspect that he just spent the last several days stranded in the middle of space. 

“Good morning, doctor,” he greets.

What is it about the cadence of his voice that scratches the ear just so? There’s something to it, a layering behind his words that you can’t make out. 

“Morning,” you reply, voice cracking after the first syllable. You cough and clear your throat. 

He joins the two of you at the communal table, pulling out a chair to sit right next to you, humming and nodding when Nikolai lets him know where to find the ration packets for breakfast. He doesn’t make a move to go grab something to eat. 

“Not a breakfast person?” Nikolai asks.

A smile. “I need to work up more of an appetite.”

His words fill you with such cold dread that you can’t even look over at him. Frozen in place, spoon buried in your bowl of oatmeal in front of you. Then embarrassment washes over you when you play his words back in your head and realize how normal they sound. 

“What’s on the docket for today?” you ask to change the subject.

“Same shit as always,” Nikolai sighs, resting both elbows on the table and sinking his head into his palms. He dips his head forward enough to run his hands through his hair before straightening up again. “Farah has some ideas for how to approach the situation, but…I have my doubts. Not worth boring you all with details. Either problem will be resolved or not. Same shit, different day.”

“I’m sorry, but is something on the ship broken? Is there a problem?” Gaz’s concern seems so genuine that for a second you allow yourself to get swept up in the illusion that he has no idea what’s wrong with the ship. 

“Autonomous navigation is broken,” Nikolai explains, rolling his eyes, frustration oozing from his pores. “It was on the fritz when we passed Mars, but now it’s dead. Kaputt. Thought at first that maybe it was inertial measurement unit that was malfunctioning, but fixing that changed nothing. Then we thought: maybe something is wrong with star tracker, but code looks good, so can’t be that. Lots of time wasted and still nothing is working; it’s a very troubling problem.” 

“Do you mind if I take a look at it?” Gaz asks. “I was the technical engineer on my previous ship. It might help to have someone come at it with fresh eyes.”

Nikolai studies him, the moment of scrutiny breaking his usual jocularity. Then he shrugs. “Why not? But if you break anything, I will personally toss you out of the airlock.” 

Gaz smiles wide. “Sounds fair. ”

‘Technical engineer’ indeed. You scoff in your head, unsure of your own scepticism but committed to it because everything about the situation just feels all too convenient. 

Much bites when it feels threatened; you know this and you have to choose not to act on it.

Oatmeal mostly done, you scoot your chair back and get up, eager to head to your station. 

“See you guys in an hour for morning briefing,” you say to the two of them, tossing your bowl haphazardly into the dishwasher. 

“Mind if I walk with you?” Gaz asks, also rising to his feet. 

Your heart jumps. “Why?” 

Something in your tone must give you away because even Nikolai glances up, furry brows pulling together concernedly. Careful now. You give yourself away when you speak without thinking first. 

Gaz smiles with all his teeth. “It’s on my way. The commander wanted me to pass by after breakfast.”

Too much time passes for you to cover up your faux pas with an excuse. Better just to swallow your pride instead. 

“Sure.”

You’re so stiff on the walk to the medical unit that your low back aches, the nerves likely inflamed. An old injury flaring up from stress. You’ll have to remember to roll out your yoga mat and stretch later, some cat and cow to loosen up your back.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” Gaz observes casually. “From outside, you don’t get the same perspective, but even for an old ship, there’s quite a bit to it.”

Hearing him speak so frankly about watching the ship from the outside sends a chill down your spine.

What’s the use in telling you this? You can only speculate. Though his tone remains unambiguously light, eyes scanning the paneled interior walls and the incandescent light strips overhead running parallel to the floor, there’s a veiled weight there. Something almost taunting. 

“Is it?” you whisper, compelled to answer for reasons beyond you. “Is that…is that something you thought about a lot?”

“No,” he answers, quite simply. “I knew I’d get to see for myself eventually.”

Sometimes, in the privacy of your mind, you think about how some of the Earth's oldest trees are kept secret from the rest of civilization. You crave that kind of furtiveness now, wish you could burrow that far deep and remain hidden. 

You wish you weren’t plagued by the knowledge that a static body in space couldn’t possibly keep up with a spacecraft in constant motion for several days on end. You want to go back to not knowing anything at all.

But before you are precious hours of solitude, so you hold your tongue until you reach the midway point in the ship where the corridors split and your paths diverge. 

Just as you’re about to part, Gaz stops and looks down at you. “By the way, doctor, you haven’t evaluated me yet. When should I come by?”

“Evaluate?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Make sure I’m not sick or infected with anything. Isn’t that part of your job?”

It’s said in earnest but it feels like a barb. A sharp thorn in your side pricking you again, telling you that you’re not pulling your weight. That you’re taking up space and not contributing to the mission.

“Maybe, um…” You clear your throat. “Whenever you have time. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Gaz repeats, eyelids narrowing with his smile until just the darks of his eyes are visible, the cornea all but gone. “Sounds like a plan.”

Again, you can feel it calling you to him. Whatever it is. Thoughts laggardly filling your head, sticky like sap or syrup. His face is nice to gaze on, they say, nicer still to touch. Your hands itch to reach up and cup his cheeks though a louder voice in your head reminds you of how improper that would be. 

You take a step back and the urge falls away like rain.

And then he’s gone, continuing down the corridor towards the front of the ship without another word. 

You wonder if there’s something wrong with you for not insisting on examining Gaz in the medbay as soon as possible. Even if you were to take him at face value and ignore all the other red flags warning you away from him, you’d be remiss not to check his vitals and bloodwork. 

Tomorrow you will. You’ll be braver tomorrow. 

The second the door slides open and you take a step forward, you can tell that someone was in the medbay earlier. Your nose twitches, like a smell you know but can’t name. Right on the tip of your tongue; hungering for the word that eludes you for so long that you wonder whether it even exists or if your brain has tricked you into remembering something you’ve never encountered before. Presque vu; the wallflower step-sister of epiphany. 

You take another step into the room and start when the door slides shut behind you automatically. When you look around the room, nothing looks taken or moved. Even your microscope is still out on the table from the day before. 

A deep inhale just leaves you more frustrated. The only smell in the room is that of formaldehyde and antiseptic, but still the feeling impresses itself upon you, despite the lack of evidence. Someone was here. You’re sure of it. It’s an uncanny feeling, like knowing that someone’s eyes are on you. 

You’ve heard of conditions causing one to detect smells that aren’t really present—phantosmia, sometimes caused by nasal polyps or strokes, but neither of those fit your circumstances. Nothing your mind conjures up as a probable cause fits right. 

Pinching your nose works to an extent, but it’s not a sustainable solution; you can’t go hours on end with one hand clamped over your face. It cuts the strange effect the scent has on your mind though, concrete evidence that what you’ve been experiencing is in large part an olfactory phenomenon. 

In the en-suite bathroom, you riffle through the medicine cabinet one-handed, wincing when you knock over a bottle of cough medicine and send it tumbling to the floor. You rummage around until you find what you’re looking for in a little blue container still nestled under the cinching straps lining the back of the medicine cabinet. 

Unscrew and uncap to a waxy, off-white jelly. You slather a thick layer of petroleum jelly under your nose, so thick that a glob lodges in your left nostril and you nearly sneeze it out. It does the trick though. Mutes the scent somehow; turns the dial all the way back down to zero so you can breathe with ease again. Think clearly again. 

You step back into the main room. When you look back around the medical unit, again you notice that not a single thing looks out of place. If someone had been here before you, there would be signs—things misplaced or forgotten out on one of the tables or on the exam bed in the middle of the room. This is the only room on the ship entirely under your supervision and dominion; you know where each piece of equipment is stored and how every inch of the room should look after you’ve put everything away. 

But the room looks fine. Untouched. 

Your better judgment tells you to just let it go. 

Touching your palms to your pants, you find them drenched in sweat. The body knows when there's something amiss. 

You observe and take note.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"I Read About You in History Books"

[Bucky Barnes x fem!reader]

Part Two here [Outside of History Books]

Masterlist

Summary: You've always been fascinated by history, especially by the untold stories of people forgotten in the shadow of legends. Bucky Barnes is one of those people.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, Fluff with a dash of angst, not proofread

Word Count: 1.6k words

You knew The Winter Soldier. Who didn't? Everyone knew the tales of the most feared assassin in the world. How he appears and disappears like a ghost. How he struck his victims with deadly accuracy and no one could catch him. The man behind the mask intrigued you more, though. It was almost laughable, but to you, The Winter Soldier was older news than James 'Bucky' Barnes.

Meeting Steve Rogers was incredible. It took every professional bone in your body not to jump up and down in excitement. I mean it was the Captain America. How were you not meant to be excited?

You didn't expect to become his friend, to watch his back and have him watch yours. You had been in so many fights besides him and, of course, asked him every question you could think of about his life, the war and especially Bucky Barnes.

Why do you want to know so much about him? He had asked once.

Only the Gods knew the answer.

You couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Bucky Barnes, more than what was in the history books. There was never much about him in anything, always being overshadowed by Steve or the other Howling Commandos. You'd read every account, watched every documentary, pieced together the fragments of his life as if they were a puzzle begging to be solved.

You never expected to meet him. Never expected him to be more than a name in a book or a picture in a documentary. You thought that meeting Steve was miracle enough.

You were quite wrong.

~~~

"Mind if I join you?"

Bucky frowns. "In a stairwell?"

"Well, I usually come here to get some quiet, so yeah, in a stairwell."

Bucky's posture is stiff as he leans back against the cold concrete wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You stand a few steps below him, one hand resting on the metal railing, your head tilted to the side as you study him.

“Quiet, huh?” he asks, his voice a low rasp, still hesitant to engage.

“Yep,” you reply, popping the 'p' with a small grin. “It's one of the few places in this whole compound where no one’s either training, running missions, or asking me a million questions.”

He’s guarded, that much is clear, but there’s something else too. Something underneath the surface, a complexity you’ve always suspected is buried deep within James Buchanan Barnes. You aren’t just interested in The Winter Soldier. You want to know the man beneath that, the person history has barely bothered to document.

“So, what brings you up here?” you ask casually if your presence is the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky glances away for a moment, his jaw clenching. His eyes are distant, but not in the way that screams of danger. More like he’s... lost. "Just needed some space," he finally says.

"I understand that." You slide down onto one of the steps, resting your arms on your knees, looking up at him. "It gets overwhelming, doesn’t it? Always being around people, no room to just... think."

Bucky nods in agreement, his eyes flickering to you.

You decide to take a chance. "I swear this isn’t some weird interrogation or anything, but... I've read about you, in History books. Well, about the Howling Commandos. About you and Steve during the war."

His expression tightens, the walls going higher up than before. "You don't know me—"

"I know," you say quickly, cutting him off. "I know that what’s in those books isn’t the whole story. That’s why I want to know more."

"More?" His gaze sharpens, almost suspicious. "Why?"

You shrug. "I don’t know. Maybe because history’s never the full picture. It’s just pieces, bits of what people decide to write down. I’ve always thought there had to be more to you than just 'Steve’s best friend' or 'The Winter Soldier.' And..." you press your lips together, hesitating, but continue, “...I guess I just want to know who you really are.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, the tension between you thickening with each passing second. His blue eyes are scrutinizing you, searching for something—maybe sincerity, maybe an ulterior motive. You aren’t sure.

"You think you can figure me out?" he finally says, his tone biting, though not as cold as before.

You shake your head. "No... But I think you deserve to be known. Not just as a name in a book or a legend in a file. As, well, you."

His brow furrows, and for the first time since the conversation started, he looks truly unsettled. "What if I don't even know who that is anymore?"

The pain in his voice catches you off guard. For a moment, the Winter Soldier—the assassin, the ghost—seems to fall away, leaving only a man haunted by the weight of his past. And it breaks your heart a little.

"Then maybe I can help you figure it out," you say softly.

Bucky exhales, a sound heavy with the burden of decades he hasn’t asked to carry. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make any promises, but he doesn’t leave either. Instead, he slowly lowers himself to sit a few steps above you, the silence between you shifting into something more comfortable.

"Can I be completely honest?" you ask.

"Huh? Yeah?"

"I don't come here for quiet. I lock myself in my room for that. I totally stalked you in here."

Bucky scoffs. "You're probably the nicest stalker I've encountered."

You look up at him, grinning. "Thank you!"

He raises an eyebrow at you but you swear you see a small smile grace his lips.

Maybe this is the beginning of something. Maybe not. Either way, you aren’t about to let him disappear like a ghost again.

Not if you have anything to say about it.

[motorsportbarbie13]

Hurricane - Part Four

{“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” “You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. “Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?”}

warnings/notes: emma's mom is a *raging* bitch in this. alcohol consumption (poor coping skills ig) shoutout to my writing therapist @lestapiastrisgirl for always having my back <3 pairing: max verstappen x emma meyer (fem oc) word count: 6.6 k (jfc i can't shut UP about these two)

read hurricane on ao3 hurricane master list main master list ask me anything

Late afternoon sunlight spilled in through the floor to ceiling windows as Emma moved through the kitchen. They’d returned from Jeddah just last night, the brutal triple header having stolen so much from both Emma and Max, they had retreated to their bedrooms right after getting home. It had been nearly noon before either of them emerged the next day, with Max coming out first to make breakfast for the both of them. 

Breakfast between the Max and Emma on mornings when they were home had become somewhat of a tradition, a tradition that Emma was quickly becoming attached to. She didn’t allow that thought to full form in her head though. It was too dangerous. Too familiar to admit that she was getting attached to Max on more than a professional level. She didn’t want to admit the way she looked for him whenever she walked into a room. She didn’t want to admit how her heart pounded the entire time Max was in the car on the track and that she couldn’t fully settle until saw the checkered flag after a race and knew he’d be safely in the garage soon. 

Admitting any of that didn’t appeal to Emma at all, so she buried it all so deep down in her chest that there was no way it could ever surface. 

She tried to tell herself it was just kindness and convenience, this little breakfast tradition of theirs. Whoever woke up first would be the one to start the meal and Emma always made sure the fridge was stocked with bacon, eggs, and whatever fruit she thought Max might like that week. They hadn’t been doing it long but it was something that both of them looked forward to, even if neither put words to their feelings. Emma wasn’t willing to examine the fact that maybe Max did it because he wanted to take care of her and that she did it for the same exact reason. 

Shortly after the meal was cleaned up the morning after returning from Jeddah, Max had left in a flurry of athletic gear and gatorade, talking about playing Lando, Carlos, and Charles in a game of padel but that he’d be back in time for dinner and to text him what she wanted him to pick up from the market. 

Emma had drifted about the apartment for an hour or so after Max left, the exhaustion of being away from the only soft place she had to land had seeped deep in her bones somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah. Everything she considered doing sounded like it required too much effort but guilt sat heavy in her chest in response to her desire to just relax. She knew Max wouldn’t mind, her not helping around the house. It wasn’t like the place was a disaster either but her idle hands felt wrong, like if she didn’t do something to productive she was ungrateful for everything Max had already done for her. 

Emma wanted to sit at the piano and play something but even that seemed to be too strenuous that day, her attention span for anything longer than a 15 second TikTok video was completely nonexistent. Emma was never sure how to handle days like this, the days where she was too tired to do much more than get up off the couch or do anything productive. These kinds of days had never been allowed in her home growing up. If you weren’t doing something productive or useful with your downtime, you were lazy. It was a mantra that was hammered into her consciousness so hard that even now, when she hadn’t lived at home for years, the words still haunted her. 

In the end, she had settled down on the couch before flipping through one of the dozens of streaming services Max had access to and settled on an old favorite: West Wing. Emma was half way through the episode where Mrs. Landingham was killed by a drunk driver in her brand new car, the anticipatory tears having started during the opening credits, when her phone buzzed to life. She half expected it to be Max telling her he’d decided to go out to dinner with the boys instead of coming home and that she was on her own for dinner but when she looked at the caller ID, her heart stuttered to a stop. 

MOM

“Of all the days for you to call…” Emma whispered, blowing out a breath. She spent several moments trying to decide if she had the strength to deal with her mother that afternoon. She knew the answer was ‘no’ but she’d been dodging her mom’s calls since before Japan so Emma knew it was time to face the music. 

As if he could sense her distress, Jimmy jumped up on the couch right as she answered, curling himself up into a ball in her lap and bumping her free hand with his head. Emma grinned down at the spotted cat. Max had insisted that Jimmy hated strangers and to not be surprised if he was quite standoffish but Jimmy had been nothing but sweet as sugar to Emma since day one. 

Much like his owner. 

Sliding the button on the screen of her phone, Emma lifted the device to her ear. “Hi Mom!” She tried to sound as happy as possible despite the aching exhaustion pulling at her extremities. 

“Emma, darling, how are you my dear?” The sickly sweet voice of her mother filled her ears, sending anxiety shooting down her spine. 

“I’m good, just trying to relax a bit.” 

“Ah, yes, I’m sure those girls you’re looking after run you quite ragged.” Something in her mother’s tone had Emma sitting up a bit straighter. She hadn’t lived through years of baiting and passive aggressive taunts to not recognize the beginnings of a fight brewing. 

“Well, about that…” Emma started, figuring there was no time like the present to fill her in on what had happened. Maybe her mother would surprise her and be on her side for once. 

“I had the most interesting discussion with Greta down the street this morning!” Her mother interrupts. 

Emma closes her eyes, dragging in a ragged breath. Clearly there was a reason for this call other than a friendly check in. These kinds of calls always came with an agenda set forth by Emma’s mother and Emma’s mother alone. She was helpless against it. The quicker she accepted that Gloria was in control of the call and she ws just alone for the ride, the quicker the call would be over and the sooner she could get back to crying over Mrs. Landingham. 

“Oh?” She asked reluctantly, knowing that this conversation has already been planned in advance and needed no help from Emma to move it along. 

“Yes! She said her and Frans were watching the Formula One race on Sunday evening and she said the funniest thing to me!” 

Emma’s heart stopped. Oh, here we go. 

Without waiting for a response, her mother continues. “She said that she swears she saw you at the race in one of the garages! I told her she must be mistaken because you were supposed to be in Monaco working the nanny job you insisted taking instead of returning to the school like your father and I had advised.” Her tone is light, innocent almost but Emma knows better. 

“Ah…well, Greta wasn’t wrong.” Emma’s stomach churns with anxiety as she fights to find the words. “I was in Jeddah for the race on Sunday.” 

Emma’s mother makes a small noise of surprise, even though Emma is fairly certain the surprise is feigned. “How nice of the family to give you the time off so quickly after starting a job!” She observes. 

Emma knows this is a trap but there’s nothing she can do about it but continue on. “Actually, I don’t work for the Dubois anymore, mom.” 

“Emma Jane Meyer, what are you talking about?” She asks sharply. 

There it was. The facts that her mother had been fishing for plainly stated and out in the open. Emma manages to stifle the heaving sigh she wants to let loose but she knows that’s a dangerous move, especially when her mother is out hunting for reasons to be angry.

 “It just didn’t work out mom, the family weren’t who they presented themselves to be.” 

On the other end of the phone, Emma’s mother makes a disapproving tutting sound that almost certainly was accompanied by a roll of her eyes. “Well then, why aren’t you back home? How are you living in Monaco of all places without a job?” 

“I do have a job, mom.” Emma learned long ago that short answers were the best way to deal with Gloria. 

“Oh!” The genuine surprise at the exclamation has a heavy weight settling itself directly on Emma’s chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. “Well, that’s certainly an improvement on where my mind was going!” God, Gloria was always so supportive. “Well, go on then, what are you doing? Did you find another teaching job that quickly? I’m surprised the family didn’t reach out to the school to let them know of your…record.” 

White hot searing pain slices at Emma’s heart as she sits there, listening to the surprise and backhanded compliments she had always been so intimately acquainted with. Emma can’t let her mom see that she’s gotten to her. She can never show that kind of weakness or she gets eaten alive. 

“Do you remember Victoria’s brother Max? I’m working as his personal assistant.” 

“All those years spent in university and you’re an assistant?” The way her mother says ‘assistant’ makes it sound like Emma was selling her body on the streets for drugs.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma closes her eyes. “It’s a good job mom. Max is busy and he needed the help. I’ve been to Japan, Bahrain, Cyprus and Saudi Arabia in the last three weeks alone. It’s actually a really good opportunity for me.” 

Gloria is silent for a beat, as if she’s struggling to find a chink in Emma’s existence. “He’s that racing car driver, yes?” 

“Yes, mom.” Emma fights the exhaustion that’s begging for her to be impatient and short with her mother because deep down, she knows it wouldn’t change anything anyway. “He drives Formula 1 cars for a living. That’s why Greta and Frans saw me on tv. I attend all the races with him and was watching him from the garage on Sunday.” 

“Well, what do you know about racing cars, Emma Jane?” The question is accusatory, as if she had somehow tricked Max into hiring her too. 

“Nothing, mother.” 

But she knew Max, and that was enough for her to care about something so foreign to her. 

“Then why in the world did he hire you?” 

Emma has to hold the phone away from her face for a moment, staring at the device like it was going to sting her. Why was she even entertaining this?

“I don’t know mother. Max is patient and the work I do is really racing adjacent. I don’t have to know about tire deg and sector times when all I do is manage his inbox and book his travel.” 

“Have you managed to find an apartment then? I’d imagine the Dubois didn’t allow you to stay. Max is certainly able to pay you well.” The speed at which Gloria changes the subject when she runs out of ammunition makes Emma’s head swim. 

“I’ve uh…” Emma knows she should lie. Knows it’s in everyones best interest for her to lie but somewhere between Jimmy settling in her lap and the third insult on her intelligence, Emma has completely lost her ability to control her mouth. “I’ve been staying with Max while I get back on my feet.” 

“You’re sleeping with your boss?” Her mother screeches so loudly that Sassy goes skidding across the living room floor, tail puffed and terrified. 

“Jesus Christ! Mom! Are you for real right now?” 

“Well, you quit your teaching job with no notice to take a nannying job, which you promptly got fired from and are now shacking up with the man who signs your paychecks! I don’t know if I’d recognize you if I passed you on the street, Emma Jane!” 

“Oh for the love…” Emma whispers more to herself than to Gloria. “I can’t do this anymore.” She continues, louder now so her mother can hear. “When you want to have a clam, adult conversation you know where to find me.” Emma finally snaps, stabbing at the red End button without waiting for a reply. 

The silence that floods the room should feel soothing after the barbed words being exchanged moments before but as Emma leans back into the overstuffed couch, Jimmy managing to be brave enough to climb into her lap again, Emma feels anything but soothed. She had tried so hard to be neutral, to not give into the baiting that she knew was the goal the entire time but once again, she had failed. 

As Emma scratched between Jimmy’s ears, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had finally reaching the breaking point with her mother. 

***

Emma was angry.

Max could hear it. 

It wasn’t sobs or shouting that he heard as he returned from padel later that evening though. No, that wasn’t how Max knew Emma was angry. He knew she was angry because the sound floating out of the apartment was loud and angry, the epitome of heat and anguish in musical form. 

The piece Emma poured over while he quietly set his things down in the kitchen was sharp, short, and exasperated. It’s rough, ragged, and raw, the way Emma was sorting her way though whatever had happened while he’d been gone. As he settled into the living room, he made enough noise so Emma knew that he was back but not enough to distract. 

This had become sort of a routine in the short time she’d been staying with him. In the evenings when they were both relaxing, Emma would sit down at the piano and work through whatever she was feeling that day and Max would quietly sit on the couch or slip into his sim rig on the opposite side of the living room, volume down, so he could race and listen to her music. 

Tonight was different though. He’d never heard her play like this before and the moment he settled on the couch, Jimmy instantly bounding over to him to curl up in his lap, he knew she was working through something that he wanted to be around for. 

While Emma hadn’t been working for him long, and living with him for just a bit longer, the nature of their jobs forced them together for long hours in stressful situations over and over again for weeks on end so Max felt like he’d had a good enough chance to get to know Emma, to be able to read her well. It was sometime in between Japan and Bahrain that Max noticed how she avoided any talk of her parents or her past. If the subject of home came up, she deftly dodged any questions asked of her and even when they were alone, Emma remained quiet and careful. It was almost as if she was walking around afraid to get into trouble despite being incredibly competent at her job and a fully capable adult. 

Max got glimpses of her though, the Emma that tucked herself away behind heavily fortified walls that no one was allowed to breech. On nights like these, nights like the quiet ones they’d had in Cyprus between the races in Bahrain and Jeddah, Max got to know Emma better through how she played the piano. He knew how precious those moments were because in those little glimpses when she let her walls tumble down around her, Max saw her. Saw the hurt, the anger, the rejection but he also saw the hope, the commitment, the passion she had. Emma revealed so much of herself while her fingers danced over the keys when she played while he listened, more than she probably realized. 

It was easy to pick up on the anger radiating off of her body that evening not only because Max knew her but because Max understood the anger. He’d heard it, felt it in his own body time and time again. Knew the hurt of disappointing parents with high expectations. Knew what the anger felt like because he’d dealt with that last week in Jeddah after his penalty on Oscar which had cost him the race. 

He knew she was angry because he recognized the same demons in Emma that he was fighting with on a daily basis. 

The piece ended a few minutes after Max had settled into the couch, the silence blanketing the dimly lit Monaco apartment. Warm yellow lights cast a golden glow over the two of them as Emma sat at the bench for a few moments, flexing her fingers and staring at the sheet music in front of her. 

“You okay over there, Sunshine?” 

Emma’s heart fluttered at the nickname Max had started using in the last few weeks. The nickname she was desperately trying not to like. The breath she filled her lungs with was ragged but getting everything out of her body was so cathartic Emma almost felt steadied. “I think so.” She replied softly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Emma turned to face Max for the first time since she’d sensed him in the living room with her. She appreciated the way he was just loud enough to ensure he didn’t startle her anymore but was never so overtly there that she was distracted. Max is still dressed for padle, although his dark blond hair is still a touch damp, so Emma assumes he had showered at the club. The way his icy blue eyes watch her with a quiet confidence has Emma nodding despite the way she wants to shut down. Vulnerability was never rewarded in her house growing up so opening up to someone like Max was a terrifying prospect. 

Max pats the couch cushion next to him as a grin stretches across his face, rewarding her for her bravery. When she settles down beside him, Emma brings her knees up to her chest before circling her arms around them so she’s tucked into a protected ball.

It takes an amazing feat of strength for Max not to reach out and pull her into his lap. 

“What happened?” He asks quietly when she doesn’t offer up an explanation to the distress still rolling off of her in waves. 

“My mother happened.” She replies lightly, almost as if it’s a joke and it all clicks into place for Max with just those three words. 

Max sits and listens as Emma recounts the entire nightmare story from beginning to end. With each sentence, each quote from her mother, Max’s chest tightens and his blood pressure risees. As Emma tells her story though, she finds herself feeling lighter with each word that passes her lips. She’s never spoken to anyone other than Victoria about her upbringing, about how her parents treated her as an afterthought and a burden. It was never something she liked talking about because talking about it meant making it real. And making it real meant admitting that she was so unlovable that even her own parents didn’t want her. 

With each bit of story she releases, Emma sinks a little bit deeper into Max’s side. He doesn’t notice it at first, neither of them do, but when she tells him how she ended up hanging up on Gloria after she accused her of sleeping with Max, he looks over to see her head nestled gently on his shoulder. His arm goes around her shoulders instinctively, only seeking to comfort her and offer a silent word of thanks for entrusting him with what Max knows is a difficult story to tell. 

After a few moments of silence, Emma rises again and approaches the piano. Max watches curiously as she sits back down on the bench, fingers stretching out for the keys once again. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, does the piano sound better than it did that first day?” He asks, trying to distract from the heavy feeling that hangs in the air still. 

Emma looks at him, head tilted like she’s surprised at the question. “You know what, it is.” She says after a beat. 

Max nods, satisfied grin hitching up at the corner of his mouth. “Good. I asked Charles to send over his piano guy to tune it while we were gone. I’ll let him know you approve.”  

Emma’s mouth drops open a bit at bit of information Max drops on her. “You…what?” 

Max looks at her and shrugs. “You said it was out of tune and so I wanted to fix it for you.” 

“You really are one of a kind, Verstappen.” She says with a shake of her head before turning back to the piano to play Clair de lune, something she knows is one of Max’s favorites. 

***

Max wasn’t sure how he’d done it but after an hour or two of cajoling, he’d gotten Emma to agree to go out with him, and the crew he’d played padle with that afternoon. He knew she needed it, could read it in the way her eyes went stormy and unfocused when she had been attempting to make dinner, the phone call from her mom still digging their cruel talons into her memory. 

Usually Emma fluttered around the kitchen while she was cooking, a quiet confidence radiating off of her while she deftly prepped whatever meal she’d been inspired to make that day. Max found himself sitting at the counter more often than not whenever she was in the kitchen, mesmerized by the way she moved around in the space that usually sat empty and silent, even when he was home. The way she seemed to know exactly what to start prepping, when to put something in the oven or in the pan, what seasonings to use without consulting a recipe most of the time. It was all fascinating to Max, who probably would’ve messed up boiling a pot of water. 

Tonight was different though. 

The pots clattered against each other just a bit louder than normal as she searched for the right one to sear the salmon Max had picked up at the market on his way home. Her movements as she chopped up the lemons for the sauce were stiffer than usual, more forced and stilted, compared to the smooth confidence he was used to from her. 

There weren’t big, body wracking sobs or tears, just quiet tight shoulders and less chatter as she worked to get dinner ready.

 He knew that she needed to get out of her head to escape the constant press of anger and anxiety because he’d been there and knew he’d go there again before the season was finished. Figuring out how to help Emma gave him hope that maybe he’d be able to pull himself out of his own spiral the next time it happened.

So when Max saw that familiar, long distance look in her eye he had called for a night out. She hadn’t been out in weeks, he reasoned, needed a chance to blow off some steam, didn’t she? There had been a quiet flicker of something on her face as Max stood in the kitchen telling her how she’d love Jimmy’z, how Charles and Lando and Carlos had been asking after her earlier that afternoon. She’d tried to argue that she didn’t have anything to wear that would be appropriate for a night out in Monaco but Max hadn’t bought that, insisting that anything she had in her closet would look perfect. 

“I’m not above begging, Sunshine.” Max had crooned as he put the last pan away after washing it by hand.

He didn’t miss the way she blushed at the nickname he’d become accustomed to calling lately.   

“Okay! Fine! You win.” She had laughed eventually, rolling her eyes but Max saw that smile creeping slowly across her face, bright and genuine. “It would be embarrassing to have to tell the boys how you got on your knees in front of me.” 

Max had gone pink at the image Emma’s words conjured in his mind. 

The image of him down on his knees for her was nothing compared to the images that popped into his mind the moment Emma stepped out of her bedroom an hour after agreeing to a night out. Her platinum blonde hair was twisted up in some sort of complicated braid situation creating a crown around of her head. Emma rarely wore her hair completely up but Max considered threatening another begging session to get her to wear it pulled back like that more often. The way it was swept up and out of her face showed off the long lines of her neck in such a dangerous way, Max’s grip on the marble countertop in front of him tightened painfully just looking at her and he hadn’t even gotten past her neck. 

The dangerously short lace dress that hugged curves Max hadn’t been aware she possessed fit her so sinfully well, his mouth ran dry. 

He must have been starting at the Ferrari red dress a little too hard because when Emma got closer, her face clouded with anxiety. “What?” She asked, awkwardly tugging at the spot where the fabric tightened around her hip. “Is it too much?” Emma huffed before dropping the sky high black heels in her hands down on the floor, the shoes clattering noisy against the tiled floor. “I knew it was too much. I’ll go change.” 

Emma made an attempt to turn around and retreat back to her bedroom but was stopped when Max surged forward, hands reaching for her without even thinking. He swore his fingers burned when they found the bare skin of her elbow. “You look good, Em! Perfect for Jimmy’z, I swear.” 

Emma flushed so deeply her cheeks nearly matched the red in her dress. “Yeah?” She murmured, slipping her feet into the heels in front of her. 

Max nods, “Yes, Sunshine. I promise.” 

She doesn’t look totally convinced but enough so that she continues back towards her bedroom. “Okay.” 

“You ready then?” 

He tries not to groan when Emma catches her bottom lip between her teeth, brows pinching together as if she’s already having second thoughts. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She says, nerves evident in the way she shrugs as if she’s not the most gorgeous person Max has ever seen in his entire life. 

“Perfect. Let’s go then.” 

***

Max regretted agreeing to this, he decided shortly after they arrived at Jimmy’z. The moment Lando had spotted Emma across the dance floor, his grin had gotten much too wolfish for Max’s liking. It got even worse as Emma weaved her way across the crowded club with him right behind her, his hand low on her back as he guided her through the crush of bodies. It felt like every single head in the darkened room swiveled in her direction, following her every move as if she were the sun and they were plants reaching towards her warmth. 

“Gentlemen!” Emma greeted, seemingly totally unaware of the effect she was having on every male in the room, including his friends. 

Lando stood first, opening his arms for a hug that Emma freely gave. “You look…” Lando’s gaze raked over Emma’s body and Max had to physically restrain himself from punching the McLaren driver. “Stunning tonight.” 

Emma went pink, ducking her head against the compliment Max knows she’s going to struggle to accept. “Thanks, Lan.” She murmurs and Max’s pulse stutters at the nickname. 

Carlos is Max’s next victim, taking Emma into his arms in a friendly hug but it sits all wrong in Max’s chest just the same. “So glad you agreed to come out with us tonight, Emma.” 

The casual kiss on the cheek Emma gives Carlos has Max seeing red. He clenches his jaw, forcing a tight smile onto his face as Emma’s passed to Charles. 

“You look good in Ferrari red, love. Maybe you should watch the next race from my garage.” Charles says, kissing her on both cheeks before he smirks over at Max’s murderous face. 

“Never going to happen, Charles.” Max grits out as Emma slips into the booth next to Lando. He slides into the booth on her other side, shooting Charles a glare that is meant to be intimidating. 

Charles just grins over his glass as he takes the seat across from the trio, beside Carlos. 

Max ignores it and dips his head towards Emma, the scent of her vanilla and spice perfume wrapping itself around his senses. “Do you want me to get you a drink?” 

Emma shakes her head before pointing towards Lando’s retreating frame, already making a beeline across the room towards the bar. “Lando’s got it, but thanks Max.” She chirps before leaning back into the plush leather booth. 

Max desperately shoves down the white hot sear of jealous that flashes in his chest. He listens quietly as Charles pulls Emma into a conversation he refuses to be a part of, focusing instead on the way her knee keeps touching his ever so casually. Every time he feels the press of her leg against his, he swears his heart stutters to a stop. 

Lando returns quickly, two glasses clutched tightly in his hands. “One double cran for the prettiest girl in Monaco.” He flirts, grinning like a schoolboy when he sees the muscle flutter in Max’s jaw. 

Max knows Lando’s MO. He’s seen it time and time again. He’s all charm and pretty words, designed to get his target to tumble into bed with him. Usually Max just rolls his eyes at his friends antics but with Emma it’s different. He feels…needlessly possessive and for someone who’s always gone out of his way to remain emotionally unavailable and unattached, it’s an unsettling feeling. 

Emma doesn’t belong to you, Max gently reminds himself. She’s his assistant, nothing more. She’s a grown woman who can choose who she wants to spend time with freely. Max just wished it was with him and not his on-track rival.  It was none of his business, truly and as he sat listening to Lando make Emma laugh he repeated that mantra over and over in his head. 

The conversations flows just as easily as the drinks do with the bottle service girls making several visits to the table, refilling the glasses as quickly as they’re drained. Emma is definitely tipsy by the time she finishes her third drink, the light dinner they’d shared a few hours earlier doing nothing to help slow the grip the alcohol has on her mood. Her laughter comes easier, a little louder than usual and she’s leaning into the Lando’s side with every sip that she takes. The way she’s returning Lando’s flirty banter, teasing him with the same energy he’s giving her, has Max’s jaw clenching. 

Suddenly, the DJ starts spinning a more sensual song, one that has Emma swaying back and forth before she downs her latest drink. Lando turns to Emma, a charming grin spreading across his face. “I’ve had enough chatting to last me the rest of the season. Dance with me?” 

He doesn’t even wait for a response before he’s standing and grabbing Emma’s hand. “It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice!” She quips but gets up regardless, following Lando out of the VIP area and onto the dance floor. 

Max watches Emma go, hips swinging back and forth with her hand captured tightly in Lando’s as they disappear into the crowd. His knuckles go white around his gin and tonic watching the McLaren driver turn Emma around on the dance floor, his hands landing low on her hips as he pulls her into him. Her body is loose from the alcohol and she wraps her arms around Lando’s neck as easy as breathing. 

He watched, stony glare on his face, as Emma stepped even closer into Lando’s grasp. Her hips swayed in time to the music that thrummed through Max’s chest. The bass thumping in time to the beat of Lando’s hands exploring all the parts of Emma Max wished were his alone. 

“You’re going to give yourself lockjaw if you keep clenching that hard.” Charles remarks, amused smily kicking up at the corner of his mouth. 

“What?” Max’s eyes dart back towards Charles, mouth thinning into a straight line. 

“You’re trying to kill Lando with those daggers you’re shooting from your eyes.” Carlos observes, taking another sip of his drink, eyes bright with mischief. 

“I don’t know what you two are talking about. They’re just dancing.” 

“Uh huh.” Charles murmurs, though he sounds unconvinced. 

“It’s not like I own her, she’s just my assistant.” 

Charles snorts softly, rolling his eyes. “You haven’t stopped staring at her since you both walked through the door.” 

Max flicks his gaze back to where Lando and Emma still connected in every place that mattered on the dance floor. “She had a rough day, I’m just concerned.” 

“So that’s what we’re calling it these days? Concer? Because it reads more like obsession.” Carlos teases as he turns to watch the couple on the dance floor.  

Max shoots Carlos a look that has him grinning over the rim of his drink, brows rising into his hairline. The three men continue to drink in silence, Max not so subtly watching Lando paw at Emma opening, Charles and Carlos watching their the steam practically pour from their friends ears. 

As the song ends, Lando takes Emma’s hand and leads her back towards the booth. He slides in first, then, with a playful tug on her hand, pulls Emma down onto his lap. Emma laughs, bright and slightly breathless. It’s a sound that Max is used to only hearing when it’s aimed at him. Her eyes flick almost imperceptibly towards Max, a subtle fleeting glance to gauge his reaction. 

Max, jaw still tight, offers no reaction. He can’t. Refuses to give Lando the satisfaction and Emma a clue as to the storm roiling inside him. She’s vulnerable, drunk, and reeling from a difficult fight with her mother, now is not the time nor the place to get into a possessive pissing match with one of his best friends. So instead, he stares ahead, his expression carefully neutral, focusing on the flashing lights across the room as if they held the secrets of the universe. 

Seeing his response, a mischievous glint sparkles in Emma’s eye. She leans in close to Lando, her hand resting lightly on his arm to whisper in his ear, “I wore such a pretty dress just for Max and he’s barely looked at me all night” 

Lando doesn’t have to see her face to know Emma’s practically pouting. 

Normally, she wouldn’t share such a confession with anyone but the alcohol Emma’s consumed that night has her lips loose and her desire for Max ratcheted up a notch. Lando throws his head back, chuckling, his arm tightening around her waist. He didn’t mind being a means to an end for a night, especially if it meant cuddling up with a woman like Emma. 

Max doesn’t hear a single word she says but the sight of her whispering so intimately in Lando’s ear, the easy familiarity of their closeness, sends a primal wave of jealousy surging through his veins. His vision narrowed, the edges blurring a bit as his mind goes wild with speculation on what she could have been whispering in his ear. There was a feral growl building in his chest, a possessive rage that threatened to erupt. Max wanted to yank Emma away from Lando, right up off his lap, throw her over his shoulder and take her home where he fucked her so good she never wanted to look at another man ever again. He wanted to stake his claim. Wipe that sums grin off of his friends face. The causal touch, the shared secret, the blatant disregard for his presence. It was all too much. 

Max was on the verge of losing it and all he could do was sit there and take it.

The night continued on, the music pounding, the conversation blurring into a general hum that resembled a hive of hornets. Emma, despite her earlier energy from earlier, was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol and the emotional rollercoaster of the day. The vibrant energy of the club was beginning to feel like an overwhelmingly heavy warm woolen blanker: too warm and too heavy all over, all at once. 

Max watched from his place in the booth as she disentangled herself from Lando’s comfortable hold, a soft smile on her face. “Thanks for the seat, Lan.” 

Lando grinned up at her, boyish dimples winking up at her from the corner of his mouth. “Anytime, Emmy. Anytime.” 

Emma rolled her eyes at the nickname as her gaze drifted towards Max. He was sitting in the same spot he’d been in all night, still nursing the same drink from earlier. He watched as she took a few wobbly, tired steps to the other side of the table before slipping into the booth beside him. Her perfume, thick with the sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon mixed with the smell of the vodka she’d been drinking that night, flooded Max’s nose. 

“Hi.” She breathed, head coming to rest into the crook of Max’s neck. 

He straightened, surprised by this sudden closeness after a night spent watching Lando paw at her. Max looked down, chin brushing the smooth silk of her hair as he battled the urge to bury his nose in the locks. 

“Everything okay, Sunshine?” He asked, voice gruff. 

Emma scooted closer, so that her thigh was pressed into his and their shoulders were overlapping. “Yeah, I’m just getting a little tired, I think. Everything just kind of hit me all at once.” She gave a small, whiny sigh, burrowing her head even deeper into his neck. 

Max stiffened, knowing that Charles, Carlos and Lando were watching them with curious stares but also realizing Emma was overly uninhibited at the moment. He didn’t want to push her away but he also didn’t want to cause a scene, knowing that both would certainly lead to Emma feeling embarrassed. 

“Can you take me home now?” She asked sleepily. 

Max blinked, his breath catching in the back of his throat. “Home?” 

Emma nodded, eyes fluttering shut despite the loud chaos of the club pulling just beyond their bubble. “Yeah. It’s just…my bed sounds really good right now and I kind of want to cuddle with Jimmy and Sassy before I fall asleep.” 

Max’s heart clenched painfully. 

“Yeah, of course.” He stood slowly, guiding Emma along with him. Her body sagged into his grasp as Emma stumbled a bit. 

“Oops!” She giggled before reaching back to snatch her clutch from the table. “I’m going to pilates at 9am tomorrow, do either of you want to come with me?” She asked Lando and Charles while leaning heavily into Max’s side. 

All three men exchanged glances before nodding, smirks on their faces. “Sure, Emmy.” Lando chuckled, knowing that there was no way Emma would be out of bed anywhere close to 9am. 

“See you guys later.” Max said before slipping his arm around Emma’s waist and turning her towards the door. She was sober enough to make it to the door herself but unsteady on her feet enough that she leaned into Max’s side the entire walk to his car. 

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @martygraciesversion381, @samantha-chicago, @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland, @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @mindless-rock @piastri-fvx @mel164 @schumi-angel @myescapefromthislife @supertrashbread @sunny44 @tinystudentblaze-stuff @sarx164 @xoxomansee

[fluffydeoxys]

my jeb design, now including the character analysis/design thoughts as part of it! under the cut

Alrightyyy, Jeb is a pretty interesting character, and it took quite a bit of fiddling to get him right and encapsulate the very distinct personality, demeanour and role that he has. I primarily took inspiration from his live-action MPN design, but I changed quite a few elements to suit this vision/image in my head.

Jeb clearly has a very particular, highly egotistical, and composed image of himself. He pronounces himself a saviour (to the point that it's literally his title in MPN, lol), but I don't think this is in a really "clean" or "pretty" way. I purge the wicked. His means of saving is brutal murder, which he occasionally relishes. (But he scorns the brutality and crudeness of others, most notably Hank. Funnily.) Yet, despite that, he talks so eloquently and clearly has a lot of pride in his work and is exceedingly protective of this idea of saving Nevada, making it a better place. Though that's long since fallen to the wayside.

I greatly enjoy the live-action design, but it has a very obvious "combat" focus by placing the body armour over top of his tattered and repurposed scientist coat, which I think is a cool take on him, but I prefer communicating this sort of... eloquence? That contrasts very prominently with how haggard, unkempt and messy he is now. Which I think is a very apt summation of his character; he presents himself well and means well, but he has left a long string of destruction in his wake that he cannot escape from. That will haunt him down to the very bone.

It's why I retained elements such as his tie and coat (more obviously resembling its past appearance), like they're symbols of his past in Project Nexus. The red tie has nice contrast and draws emphasis to his chest, where the dark body armour under his coat lies. Simultaneously, the body armour loosely resembles a waistcoat (or some kind of nice-looking undershirt), giving the illusion of a more composed, tidy appearance. But the belts attached to the sword holster on his back recontextualise his appearance, reminding the viewer that Jeb is a fighter, no longer a civilian scientist.

The coat has multifaceted symbolism. It's a piece of his past for one, but it's worn and tattered and no longer looks like a scientist's coat. What was once more 'civilian' attire now accentuates his appearance as a capable and experienced fighter. It's also the only prominent white piece of clothing on him, and it's worn on top of everything else. It's like wearing shed skin. He is no longer that same man; he should abandon it, yet he clings to it. That old innocence.

Deep down, he's broken and tormented by the things he has done, and it reflects in the arrangement of his colours. The innermost parts of himself are dark layers, punctuated by red, while a facsimile of purity is draped over top.

But you could interpret it that there is still some scrap of good buried in there, deep down, even despite how the halo has twisted and warped him into something borderline unrecognisable. It is a desperate attempt to hold onto the good he still has, the good that he still wants to do.

Further to this idea, the undersides of his shoes being dark, dried red was done intentionally. It's meant to represent the idea of the people he has stepped over and the lives he has ruined in his attempts to fix and save Nexus City and Nevada at large. And he has been doing this for a long, long time. Enough to stain the entire sole of his boots.

Some interesting thoughts/lore bits that came about when making the design were:

A reason why his scientist coat doesn't have long sleeves like you would expect is due to the injuries on his hands. When channeling the halo, the scars on his forearms conduct the dissonance energy from the halo in various arcs of power. Subsequently, the fabric has been charred and burned away, leaving his forearms exposed. One of several downsides granted by the halo and another rather literal example of how it has damaged and ruined various aspects of Jeb's life.

The bandages covering the wounds on his hands are so loose and half-assed because Jeb has to change them daily, which he has found exceedingly annoying and frustrating. While he's not perpetually bleeding from them perse, leaving them exposed poses a risk of infection. But by now, Jeb kind of doesn't care. Caring for himself is kind of the last thing on his mind.

Speaking of his wounds, they're very blatantly paralleling crucifixion wounds, but they have a 'reason' for existing. When Jeb first took the halo, when it bound itself to him for the first time and responded to his desire, it pierced his two hands and chest. It left permanent, painful injuries through which he can channel the halo. These injuries turn purplish when he uses his power to reflect the dissonance steeping into his blood and body.

Having scars extending down his forearms and up his fingers in cross-like designs has some religious imagery, but I think it also nicely conveys some gnarly consequences for having the halo. It's not pretty, and it's definitely not good for him, but being separated from it now would practically kill him. It's a pretty tough lose-lose situation, and it's disfigured both his mind and his body. Further to this idea, it's why he bleeds, and his body barely holds itself together when exerting the full strength of the halo. It's breaking him; his body and mind weren't meant for this power, but he can never let it go. Whether that's because of his ego... or because he believes he's beyond saving.

I do enjoy some interpretations where Jeb is taller than Hank, but personally, with my vision of Hank, that really doesn't work for me. I just like this size difference a lot more. It subtly conveys the difference in 'power' between them as well. Sure, Jeb has killed Hank many times but in the end, it is a force that is of infinite potential, and Jeb is one person. Merely a man. Yet Hank is in endless motion of the Machine's cogs, and Zero is a piece of tapestry woven into subconscious dreams.

To that point, I pretty easily settled on a wiry but still fairly muscled build for Jeb because that just made the most sense to me. He just strikes me as the slender type, and it works in nice contrast to Hofnarr/Tricky, who I see as shorter and rounder. He does NOT take care of himself, and he's probably running on nothing but fumes and the power of the halo on many days, but he's not entirely emaciated. He needs to be strong enough to protect himself and to hunt down well, mostly Hank. And if you're not prepared to face Hank, then you're blindly walking into death's maw.

There's a nice distribution of mostly angular (especially pointed, more narrow shapes) and straight shapes in Jeb's design, especially in his head and fingertips, which are distinctly blocky. His narrower, slanted rectangular head helps convey his age and how it's worn down on him. (It directly contrasts Hofnarr, as well.) These go in direct, nice contrast to the spiky fluff of his hair, which I am quite pleased with. It looks haggard, and it's very good at accentuating his emotions when drawing his expressions. And at his worst, when it looks mangy, it looks very mangy.

Why I draw his halo like a square has no real particular reason, it just kinda happened the first time I properly drew him. But I grew quite attached to it, and it means there's fewer, almost no round elements in his design. However, the choice to make his halo 'emote' was an intentional decision.

I personally believe the halo is directly intertwined with his psyche, and for as much as it corrupts and deludes him, it is also 'affected' by Jeb's mind. While this doesn't really mean anything, the halo isn't really "sentient", it is nonetheless an extension of his "being" whenever it is connected to him. While Jeb is not a forthcoming man, only really letting anger and frustration escape easily, his halo is always transparent. Much to his disdain. It grows pointed and sharp when angry, it drips with sweat when nervous, and it shakes and warps when taken by surprise. I think it's a cute detail, while not being an especially deep one.

Jeb doesn't have as many scars as Hank or Zero because while he has fought a lot, it's nowhere near the sheer amount that those two have. Additionally, it's primarily stitching scars from how many times Jeb has been torn apart and blown up, which is his primary cause of death. The big two-part stitch in the middle is from MC3, I went frame by frame to see how he died there LOL. I probably could've done it for his other deaths, but I'm content with the placement of his stitches. Not too many, but enough to go "wow, he's been stitched back up a lot huh"

His colour palette is also in the 'warm red tone' category once again because I've latched onto it for a few of these characters. I find it a little more visually appealing than giving them primarily monochrome tones (though this is intentionally not the case for Zero, although my thoughts on that are split). I'm not sure if I'll carry this same idea into Sanford and Deimos when I get around to them, but red is a very prominent and reoccurring colour in Nevada, so I think it makes sense. It's not too warm, and it still leans into making Jeb look quite... tired. Plus, I've always found the gradient on his head to be appealing.

He's a man who will forever live with his mistakes, wearing them like skin and bearing them as scars etched into his flesh. In contrast to his worn appearance, the halo on his head shines brightly like a cursed crown perched just above him. A mockery. A man steeped and damned to sin that he cannot escape. And whether he will right his wrongs, who's to say? But I like to think that he wants to try. If how he treats Deimos and Sanford is anything to go by, even if that kindness quickly slips into his delusions...

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 1

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts You move next door to a disabled veteran and his troubled partner.

Warnings and details: disabled!Johnny; established Ghoap future Ghoap/reader; domestic abuse (not Ghoap); heavy themes of suicide, violence, abuse, poor coping mechanisms, prescription drugs. I’m not sure if I have anything here, let me know if anyone is interested in this series.

#

A helicopter goes down in the mountains of Kazakhstan and it takes a piece of Soap with it. They never recovered the arm—nor the three service members who lost more than their arms in the crash. The thought is one that Johnny’s mind cycles back to often, in moments of quiet or while he lies awake at night feeling tremors in an arm that’s no longer attached. Suddenly he’ll wonder: what are those bones up to, buried in snow and ice so deep the sun will never touch them again? Do they miss me?

Fuck, he misses them.

#

After the accident, the world is very black and white. Mostly it’s black. Blackness at the edge of his vision threatens to creep in when he stands too long, when he stands on his own, when he turns his head too fast. Anytime his blood pressure rises over that Goldilocks number of 120/80, it threatens to drop him faster than Simon used to during their first weeks of training together in the 141.

The doctors say that he’s a miracle. The traumatic brain injury had his brain swelling and pushing at the confines of his skull like water freezing in a bottle. Give him a little longer in the cold and maybe his cap would blow off. Except it hadn’t; he was still dealing with swelling all over: in his thalamus, his hypothalamus, in his cerebrum, all the words he’d never bothered to learn in school and couldn’t fucking remember now no matter how hard he tries. He gets the point. Simon does too. Johnny should be dead.

Instead he just wishes he were.

Even now, when he can remember his name and Simon’s and even (more often than not) the name of the waitress who serves them chicken and waffles at the local diner every Saturday, there are still more bad days than good. Still more darkness than light. Still more nights waking up to the sound of helicopter blades slowing, the relentless hum becoming a deafening chop chop chop like the thrum of his heartbeat. There’s that moment of weightlessness when the helicopter goes down and he has yet to go with it that makes him wake in a cold sweat, nauseous and looking for something to be sick in.

Through it all, Simon is there. Simon is the light. He’d laugh if he heard Johnny say that—though a laugh is probably too generous. Simon doesn’t laugh much these days. Not when he spends three fourths of his time taking care of Johnny and the other fourth thinking about how better to take care of Johnny. If it weren’t for Simon, Johnny would have done himself in by now. There’s a thousand ways to do it; plenty of arms and munitions in the apartment they share together. Or there are the pain pills, if he wanted it to look like an accident. A few too many of those and he could crawl right through that darkness in his vision and find out what’s on the other side. As soon as the thought crosses his mind (and it crosses his mind more often than that fucking chicken crosses the road), the guilt comes, like anyone and everyone can read it on his mind: his mama rest her soul, Simon, Jesus on the cross. After all of the work that has gone into him, into saving his broken body and mind, into rehabilitating him, how can he even think of throwing in the towel?

Turns out it’s pretty fucking easy to think about it.

As a matter of fact, he’s thinking about it the first time he meets you, when you nearly do the job for him.

It’s spring, cool, and he’s working up a goddamn sweat anyway. Simon stands in the alleyway, smoking and pretending not to watch as Johnny hobbles up and down the length of the parking lot with his forearm crutch. His armpit throbs. His knee throbs. His head throbs as he continues along, beating out a strange little rhythm on the concrete—thum-thump, thum-thump, thum-thump. He says all the curse words he knows and dreams up a few new ones too. It’s supposed to be getting easier, but Simon just pushes him harder to make up for the ground he covers. That’s one of the shitty parts about loving an ex-military man; he never goes easy on you.

Johnny’s thinking about the tub upstairs, just big enough for him if he curls in on himself. Sometimes a hot bath helps the knots in his muscles, but sometimes when Simon leaves the room to get a washcloth Johnny will slip beneath the surface of the water and see how long he can hold his—

Then you come out of absolutely nowhere in your shitty little four-door and nearly hit him. As a matter of fact, you do hit his crutch, sending it sprawling out of his hand and sending him clattering to the ground on his bad side. For a moment, he thinks: this is it. This is how I die. Not in a helicopter in Kazahkstan but here, now, today, and he can’t tell if it’s relief in his belly or regret. Then your tires squeal like pigs on the pavement, the smell of burnt rubber thick in the air, and he is face to face with you and your horror, close enough that the air from your hasty turn brushes along his body and sends his heart pounding.

“What the steaming bloody fucking Jesus do you think you’re doing?” he finds himself shouting, pain lancing all along his side from his fake knee to the stump of his arm. Simon is there all at once, cigarette abandoned to smolder to ash in the alleyway, putting his hands under Johnny’s armpits and lifting him like a child even when he yelps in pain like a kicked dog. Johnny leans against him heavily. The edges of his vision are turning black. He bangs his fist against the hood of your car. “Did Jesus send ye? Did He tell ye to finish the fucking job and do me in? ‘That’s the cunt right there, beam him with your car’? Did he tell you that?”

You reluctantly get out of the car, not even wearing a goddamn seatbelt. The car’s soft, insistent alarm begins to remind you with unending politeness that the door is open and your seatbelt is off while you stand there, pallid, eyes huge and watering in the face of Johnny’s shouts.

He sees then that one of your eyes is swollen almost completely shut, blood turning the white sclera pink like the fine mist of blood over the snow when they finally pulled Johnny free from the helicopter. No wonder you didn’t see him coming, with a single functioning eye. He’s opened his mouth to tell you so (and to tell you a dozen other fucking things) when he nearly swoons, the rug of the world being tugged under his feet by the hand of God.

Simon slips a firmer arm around Johnny’s waist.

A man gets out of the passenger side. He begins to berate you for not paying attention, for nearly killing Johnny. Johnny agrees, but is annoyed all the same. He’s the one who almost died; leave the shouting to him.

“I’m so sorry,” you choke out, tears dripping near-constant from your eyes. “I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry. Let me get your—”

“Done enough, haven’t you?” Simon asks cooly. It sends you reeling back into the car where you sit with both hands over your mouth, chest hitching with your panicked sobs.

“Hey, is he, like, okay?” your partner asks.

“Fuck off,” Simon says, deftly ushering Johnny over one shoulder and holding the crutch in the other. He carries them back to the elevators without breaking a sweat, and Johnny cries on his shoulder from the pain of it, the sheer embarrassment of it the whole way home. The day before Kazahkstan he couldn’t have been able to tell you the last time he cried; now he cries every fucking day from one reason or another.

“I’m fine,” Johnny says when they make it back to the apartment and Simon eases him down into a chair. They arrange his knee in the one position that has it throbbing less, but then Johnny bats Simon’s hands away. “Go. I’m fine. I don’t need you hoverin’ over me.”

“Alright.”

“Fuck off with yer alright.”

Simon doesn’t say anything. Johnny hears his footsteps leading toward the bedroom they share—hardly a bedroom, how long has it been since they slept there together peacefully? Since they fucked? Johnny can tell you how long it’s been. Since before things went black and white. The footsteps stop then.

“You stepped in front of her, Johnny,” Simon says, his voice low but not quiet enough to count as a whisper. “I watched you do it. Don’t think you’re so fucking slick.”

He shuts the bedroom door behind him.

[demonpiratehuntress]

fictional boys (Monster Trio + Ace, Kaku)

featuring - Zoro x F!Reader, Ace x F!Reader, Sanji x F!Reader, Luffy x F!Reader, Kaku x F!Reader

summary - their reactions to finding out you have a crush on a fictional character

warnings - slightly angsty in Sanji's part but otherwise none

a/n: Kaku is severely underrated and there is a shocking lack of fics for him

ZORO

You're always reading. This was normal for you, but Zoro had never seen you this engrossed in one before. You spent more time with that damn book than you did with him these days, and even napping with you was a pain because you always had it with you. And he didn't understand your obsession with it, until he overheard a conversation between you and Nami.

"So who's your favourite?" The orange-haired navigator asked excitedly, leaning forward for the gossip.

"(Random Name)," you answered just as eagerly, your eyes lighting up excitedly. "He's the coolest!"

"Right?" Nami agreed, a dreamy smile on her face. "And the hottest."

"Oh yeah definitely."

"Who's the hottest, now?" A familiar deep voice cut through before you two could get any further than that. Zoro stopped by the table, crossing his arms and looking unamused.

"A guy in this book," you answered your boyfriend, unaware of the hostility in his tone, "He's this really cool knight who-"

"I'm cooler."

You looked up at him in surprise, not expecting him to cut you off with those words, "What?"

"Your stupid knight," he clarified, "I'm cooler than him. And hotter."

You looked at Nami, who was trying her hardest not to laugh. Then you looked back at your boyfriend, who was looking at you expectantly. Waiting for you to agree.

"Zoro-"

"Oh, so you like him better than me?"

"No! I never-" You stopped, starting to smirk. "Wait...are you jealous?"

He glared at you, "I don't get jealous."

"Oh, alright then," you sat back, deciding to tease him. "Then I can tell you more about his heroics, if you'd like."

A growl followed your words, and the book was quickly pulled from your grip and tossed overboard. The silence was only broken by a splash, before you finally reacted.

"Zoro! What-"

"Mine," he suddenly lifted you up bridal-style, "All mine." He carried you off to his room to show you - remind you - who you belonged to.

"I'm way better than that shitty knight."

ACE

The last time Ace had seen you, you were reading. The next time he saw you, you were still reading. He had gone and had a whole island adventure while you'd apparently just lay on your shared bed with your nose buried in a book. He wondered what was so special and interesting about it, so when you went to go do something he picked it up and read a little bit of it.

"Ace? Are you actually reading something?"

You giggled from the doorway, watching as the second division commander jumped, startled, and dropped your book. He looked up at you, pouting slightly.

"Just wanted to see why it's more interesting than I am."

"It's not more interesting than you are," you denied, coming over to the bed. You sat down next to him, picking it up and checking if you still had your page marked.

"But you're ignoring me to read it!" He protested, crossing his arms. With that and his pout, he looked like an upset child. It was cute.

"I'm not ignoring you! It's just..." You sighed. "There's a character I really like and I want to see where his story goes."

"His?"

You realised your mistake too late. Ace's eyes narrowed, looking from your face to the book. For a moment, there was dead silence, before he suddenly burned your book to a crisp. Your eyes widened and you were about to scold him for that, but he quickly engulfed you in a bone-crushing hug, nuzzling his face against your neck.

"You don't need a stupid book boy, you have me."

"Portgas D. Ace, are you jealous of a fictional character?"

"W-what?! NO! I just...you know...you don't give me any attention anymore!"

"So you're jealous. Of a boy who doesn't exist."

He groaned, keeping his face buried in your neck so you wouldn't see the embarrassing blush that fell over his cheeks, "Not jealous. Just want you." Before you could tease him any further, he leaned up to kiss you deeply.

"I'm the only one who's allowed to have you, no one else. Not even some damn fictional character."

LUFFY

He doesn't think much of it when you spend most of your free time reading. He doesn't feel threatened by anything or anyone when it comes to you, but he is also very confused by the concept of fictional characters. So when he hears you and Robin gushing about one, he is only intrigued by what you guys are talking about.

"Did you get to the part where..." Robin was asking you, rambling on about one of the scenes in the book.

"I did!" You gasped, "And I loved it. Especially what he did."

With Zoro napping, Sanji cooking, Chopper making more rumble balls, and Franky and Usopp working on the ship, Luffy had nothing better to do than come sit and listen to you and Robin. When he heard 'he', though, his interest was piqued.

"Who's 'he' (Name)?" He asked curiously.

You blushed at his question, unsure of how to explain this to your boyfriend, "He's, um, he-"

"He's (Name)'s fictional crush," Nami answered for you, shooting you a playful smirk. She knew damn well what she was doing, and your eyes widened.

"Luffy-"

"What's a fictional crush?" He blinked, confused.

"Nothing!" You quickly responded before Nami could open her mouth again, "It's really nothing, it's not important."

"It means (Name) likes a boy in the book she's reading," Nami continued, "The same way she likes you, Luffy."

"NAMI!" The glare you shot her could make sea kings tremble.

"But why?" Luffy questioned, "(Name) said I'm the only one she likes like that."

"And that is true," you agreed, smiling as you gave him a quick but loving kiss on his cheek. Sometimes you were grateful for Luffy's obliviousness.

"Good, because I would have just fought him for you."

SANJI

Sanji was happy to see that you had found something to occupy yourself with while he was busy, so he wouldn't feel guilty about leaving you alone so much. He would bring you snacks and refreshing drinks while you read, happy to serve you and keep you satisfied while you enjoyed your mental adventure. But a conversation between you, Nami and Robin changed everything.

"(Random Name) is so hot," you were gushing as Sanji arrived with another tray of drinks, "Like, unbelievably hot. And he's so sweet, too. Definitely boyfriend material."

While Nami and Robin eagerly agreed with you, Sanji almost dropped the tray he was holding. His eyes went wide at your words, and he felt his stomach churn.

"My love...who are you talking about?"

He didn't want to jump to conclusions, but why would you openly talk about some other man in front of him? Is this how you felt when you saw him give attention to other women? He swore he would stop right now if it meant this person wasn't real.

"A guy from the book I'm reading," you smiled up at him, but faltered when you saw the look on his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he shook his head and forced a smile, "I'm glad you're enjoying the book, love."

"Sanji, he's just a fictional character," you turned to face the cook completely, "I wouldn't really date him, even if he was real. You know I only love you, and you alone."

Your words were reassuring, and Sanji was grateful it wasn't any real person, but the words 'boyfriend material' rang in his head again. He set the drinks down. Then, unexpectedly, he got down on his knees and clasped his hands together in a begging gesture.

"(Name), my sweet, beautiful girlfriend that I love more than anything else in the world, I promise to stop looking at and flirting with other women if you stop reading that book!"

You raised an eyebrow, realising that he really was jealous of (Random Name), "You really mean that?"

"Yes yes yes! Please!"

"You better keep that promise."

"I will, because I'm only yours and you're only mine."

KAKU

With Kaku's job being...what it was, you spent majority of your time at home in Water 7 alone. He was almost always away on missions, leaving you with nothing to do but turn to books to occupy yourself during the day. So in the absence of your boyfriend, it was only natural you would be drawn to fictional men as a way of receiving affection.

Kaku didn't expect to come home and find downstairs neat but empty.

"(Name)?" He called out, frowning when he got no response.

He came upstairs, finding you asleep on the bed with a book clutched close to your chest. He looked at the title - it was a romance. That made him feel guilty; he knew you didn't like romances, and that you only read them when he wasn't around. He tried to remove it from your grip so he could cuddle you instead, but this action stirred you and you slowly sat up.

"Kaku?" You blinked the sleep out of your eyes, then smiled softly, "You're back. Hi."

"Hi," he replied sweetly, returning your smile. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's alright," you reassured him, "I didn't realise I fell asleep. Must have read until I passed out."

He chuckled at that, before gesturing to the book, "What were you reading about?"

"This?" You looked down at the book. "Oh, I just heard from a friend it was good. And that the main male character is swoon-worthy, which he is. I can see why she liked it."

At the mention of the male MC, Kaku felt an unjustified and unnecessary bout of jealousy swell up inside him. You liked the guy in the book? Maybe if he had been here you wouldn't.

"You don't have to be jealous you know," you started to smile playfully. "He doesn't compare to you."

"I'm not jealous," he tried to deny it, but his rosy cheeks gave it away. "It's a fictional character, why would I be jealous?"

"'It'?" You teased, pulling him closer to you. "So jealous you can't even give him a pronoun." You laughed, and the sound relaxed the tense CP9 agent.

"Ha, ha," he replied dryly, wrapping his arms around you. "Come here."

"I love you, and only you," you smiled and kissed his cheek.

"Good, because it will only ever be me and you."

[gor3-hound]

promise i'm working on content right now but here's a drabble because uhh... it came to me x

corrupt cop leon !! 18+ content

tw: non-con, lil mysogyny and filming. fem!reader

Leon thinks you're cute. Real cute. He'd happily take you out to dinner and treat you real nice if Irons wasn't working his ass to the bone. He barely has enough time to eat or sleep as of late, let alone take the time out of his day to take a pretty girl to a fancy dinner. Not that he could afford to on his payroll, even if he wanted to. City life sure wasn't cheap, something he had to learn the hard way.

He's not a scary cop, not on the surface. He can see the way you instantly relax as you see his face after he pulls up next to you. He's still all baby-faced and bright-eyed, his gaze shining as he looks over you.

"Late night for a pretty girl like you to be out," he had said, shooting you a disarming smile. He'd gotten you to talk for a while, nodding and acting all interested until he got your guard down enough. He didn't have to sweet talk you, but he was nice enough to at least try and get the girl compliant enough to go along with him.

Didn't last long, though. You really started to kick up a fuss as he got a little too touchy with you. All girls like you were so stuck-up. How many dates did a guy have to splurge on to get into some panties? What ever happened to a good old-fashioned backseat blowie? The Internet really fucking ruined women. They all thought they were 'too good' for a quick fuck. Like that'd stop him.

He has you pushed over the hood of his car in a few seconds flat. Cop training came in handy, made him real good at restraining the pretty girls he wanted to stick his dick into. Had you cuffed with his hand cupping your mouth before you could even think about screaming, fumbling with his belt for about 30 seconds before he's hiking your skirt up and tugging your panties to the side.

He thrusts into you with one quick snap of his hips, groaning loudly as your tight heat wraps around his cock. You're not really wet, but the warmth and snugness makes up for your lack of arousal. It makes his cock twitch as you cry out into his hand, the feeling of tears gathering against the skin as they trickle down your cheeks making him grin. He always loved it when they cried, made him feel like his cock was really doing some damage.

"Can you do me a favour, sweetheart?" He murmurs, pressing wet kisses down your neck as he thrusts into you, his balls slapping against your clit repeatedly. Still not enough to get you dripping for him. Jeez, you were a picky one, huh? He had a pretty cock, most girls at least had the decency to get wet after a while. You're lucky you're just his type, or he would've dumped you on the side of the road by now.

"See that light right there?" He breathes out after a beat, his free hand tapping the window right where his dashboard camera sits, recording his every move. He grins against your neck, pretty blues peeking through his lashes as he stares at the camera. "Look at it for me, baby. Wanna be able to watch your pretty face on video when I fill you up."

His words seem to make you panic a little, your cunt clenching around his dick as you start to sob, your chest heaving as you struggle to breathe against his palm. You're drooling all over him, and he's starting to wish he decided to fuck that pretty throat of yours rather than your cunt, cause that's the only thing on you that seems to know how to get wet. Oh, well. He's too close now to bother pulling out.

It only takes him a few more thrusts before he spills his seed deep inside of you with a whimper, his eyes squeezing shut as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He pulls out a minute later, tucking himself back into his pants, leaving your trembling body bent over his patrol car. Takes him a moment to catch his breath, then he unlocks your cuffs and rubs your wrists - all sweet and gentle.

"Up you get, sweetheart." He pats your ass before helping you up, straightening out your skirt with a sweet smile on his face - like his cum wasn't dripping down the inside of your thighs. He pulls out a wad of cash, stuffing it down your top just to get an excuse to peek at the tits he never got around to touching.

"Money for a taxi, cutie. There's some really nasty men lurking around this time of night."

[yaut-jaknowit]

Gawtin x fem hunter reader

The reader having been raised on yautja prime in a family who’s striven in bloodlust, and in high demand for more hunts blinded by hunger and need, which made reader to be a good hunter but only downside is also being blinded by the need and hunger for trophy’s/hunts, stumbling upon gawtin, the 2 getting into a fight, which as the fight goes on, Gawtin grows more interested in reader.

Bloodlust

Pairing: Gawtin (Female Yautja) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 3512

Summary: Deep in the forests of Yautja Prime. A human made their name among their clan, proving they could be as great as their best hunter. You hunt for a well known cvorteilio only for the hunt to turn from bad to worse. The hunter becomes the hunted. You've also got a audience that likes what she sees. Even as you succumb to bloodlust to fight for survival.

Author Note: I never thought about this before and I love it!

P.s. Work moved my schedule AGAIN so I'm back to a 6am-2pm. Which means, I won't have as much time to write

Masterlist

Ao3

As an entire different, frail species on a completely hostile planet, it changes a person. Reduces them to what makes them at their core. That’s when its determined whether they love or perish along the land. Life lives and returns. A unending cycle that a hunter knows far too much about.

The land is unforgiving to a creature meant only as prey. It takes and only relents in giving when you’ve earned that right to nourish your form to survive another day. Not only is the wildlife trying to bring you down, the plants would love for you to slip up once. One wrong step could be the fatal blow they’ve been desperate for. To feast upon something that doesn’t belong to this world. Something new and fresh. Young.

There won’t be any slips to bring you to a fatal end. Not with the way your dam taught you. To be sure footed even on the rockiest of ground; to crush all those who want to see you under their feet. Another trophy on their wall. A decoration. Your dam saw to it you wouldn’t become prey like what everyone saw your kind to be. She thought you as a miracle when she stumbled across your abandoned form days after learning she will never bear another child. Let alone a miracle to survive for so long without substance.

Your dam made sure you’d survive. No matter what. It sort of back fired though. Once seen as meek prey amongst her clan, now you were worthy to be hunted. That your skull could be torn out of your body and adorn on a hunter’s wall. As a prize. Trading one monster for another.

Humans are seen as volatile creatures. You’ve only grown to show how much of that’s the truth.

Bloodlust.

Yautjas befall the same disease. All of them can. But you, not of Yautja-not even a drop, has fallen to these depths before. When a Yautja threatened your family name with vile disgust. You were blinded by a vision of red and tore the scum apart in a challenge. Pieces of him had to be scooped up and buried. They’ve never found where his pinkie finger disappeared to. Nor have they ever seen the three pieces of bone connected by thin twine hidden under clothing around your neck.

A mark to etch into the world of the first time you’ve gone into bloodlust.

Today was no different. The more times you succumb to the bloodlust, the easier it is to slip into it. Until you cannot be pulled free. Bad Blood. Because they cannot follow the code that their culture has been built on. So, they must be killed. Their blood purged of the universe before it can spread.

You’ve had a firm grip after showing such a sight in front of the clan. The clan leader had sparks of fear in his green eyes. A human befalling to bloodlust has never happened. He almost beheaded declared you as a bad blood and to be slaughters where you stood. But, when your eyes panned over to him… he won’t it but you saw the hesitation. The clan leader, a title earned in shed blood, couldn’t utter the words needed for your excitation. Something he probably regrets still to this day.

There are times where you’ve slipped under its control. Not often. It mainly comes in the heat of the moment. Fight or flight for survival. Or when the hunt is just that exciting.

As the hunter, the feeling of eyes made your skin crawl with gooseflesh. Anger raced along your blood as you tuned into your senses. That did little to help you, only pissing you off more. A snarl etched into your face as the feeling dissipated. This is a gaze you knew the origin of.

A Yautja.

How dare one interrupt your hunt?! If the coward decides to show their mug, you’ll show them not to mess upon your fury. With a lungful of fresh, humid air, you sprint across the branch and flung yourself to the closest limb. A singular leaf flutters down at your sudden weight. The cvorteilio below you were none the smarter at your move. Despite the eyes on you, you settle close to the trunk of the tree. A few drops of sweat trickle down your face. You use the back of your hand to wipe them away and focus on the pack below you.

The heat of the new morning beat down on you despite the foliage providing shade. A quick swig of your water helps quench your thirst. You tie the pouch back to your hip. The pack continues to laze in comfort, not expecting to be hunted. Let alone at this time of day.

Two suns rose high in the blue sky, pounding heat and humidity of the jungle. The bow slips off of your shoulders; an arrow notched. One specific predator lies amongst his pack. A seasoned male who’s time was soon coming to an end. Either by your hand or to the rising male. You waited until the youngster was ready to take over the pack. Your dam had raised you well.

Said leader was lying on his side, stretched out as if he had nothing to fret about. If only he knew of the danger from above. You pulled the notched arrow back. The taunt and steady string against your finger tips. Your lungs filled with air, held for a second before you released both the arrow and air in the same motion.

A high pitch whistle and dull thud is what your ears hear. Then, chaos.

Your marks leaps to his paws with a mighty roar that vibrated the tree branch you were perched on. A gasp surpassed your lips as the male shot its gaze up and found your form among the tree. Its form screamed dangerous. Those eyes that called for your death. Honestly, you felt fear at the mistake. Fear was good. You used it for the adrenaline dump into your system and notched another arrow.

It whistled through the air and landed with a dull thud where the cvorteilio once were. Its feathered plume was raised while it gave warning calls that sent the rest of the pack either to fell and join his side. You sent another arrow at its heart and hissed when it refused to take the hit.

Despite the height of the enormous tree offer, the cvorteilios began to climb. The leader was the first to begin the ascent to your crouched position. A snarl rattle the back of your throat. There was no need in being quiet anymore. His claws dug deeply into the thick, near fireproof bark. Another was sent flying but only embedded into his shoulder. Not deep enough to do fatal damage.

More cvorteilio clambered onto the thick trunk. Your options grew increasingly thin. There was no running, no amount of climbing that could save you. Now, the only chance for survival was your favorite.

Hunting.

Your lips spilt into what anyone would call a psychotic smirk.

Arrows flew threw the humid air. All landing with a dull sound yet no all hitting their marks. But the pained noises is all you needed to hear before leaping to another branch to defend that side of the tree. It was fruitless. That only worsened when you reached behind your head and felt nothing but air. A curse leaving your lips. The prized bow was slipped back into place. Then, a well decorated spear was pulled free from your belt and extended it to its full height.

The silver metal shined beautifully in the full light. Your grip firm yet gentle like balancing on thin ice and going for the short. Sweat beaded down your face, nearly blinding you. The thick, humid air made it hard don your lungs. You were forced to slow your movements so the device in your lungs could keep up. Even technology has its limits to allowing a different species from surviving on Yautja Prime.

A narrowing of your gaze did nothing to the advancing group. A telltale sign behind you alerted you to one cvorteilio had made it. A fine female you would’ve chosen next to the leader. She lowered her jaw. Drool dripping from her dangerous maw, teeth glinting in the sunlight. You held your spear and stepped backwards so none could surprise you from behind.

She stalked forward on her front bird-like limbs and back canine paws. Almost like a wingless griffin. A very dangerous wingless griffin who was more than happy to tear you apart.

You never give her the chance and charged forward with a battle roar. Spear in hand. The female snarled back and leapt forward in hopes of surprising and overpowering you in one swoop. But, you buried one end of your staff into the branch. The other end slicing threw fur, flesh, and organs with no force at all. Her heavy weight sent her crashing all the way down until one end stuck out of her back and her belly met the branch. It was now slick with her blue blood. Still in the fight, the creature snarled and swiped her fatal claws at you.

Pain lightning across your flesh. Blood mixing with your salty sweat, making the now spilt wounds sting. You gave a hiss and stumble backwards then, you cursed yourself when the large form slid to the side then going into freefall.

With your spear.

More cvorteilio landed on either ends of the branch you stood upon. Others were nearby. Six. All adults. All skilled within their pack. All prepared to die to defend against the clear threat to their territory and way of life. Something you would’ve applaud them if it wasn’t for the threat to your own life.

Both loses of your primary and secondary weapons weighted heavy. If you dam was here to watch this fatal error, she’d be raging at how you could be such a fool. So, you pulled free your small parrying knives. The last resort for your survival.

The next to attack didn’t follow the same footsteps of its predecessor. It kept its vulnerable bits low to the ground and darted forward with lightning moves. You barely had time to draw up a knife to divert a blow that would’ve torn your face clean off. You brought the other sharp weapon and feel it slice through fur and muscle.

Blood and sprayed in a beautiful arch over your face, arms, and chest. Marking you with the blood your prey.

An artery had been severed. The blood spurting out with each beat of its now weakening heart. It would only have minutes before it would die from blood loss. You grinned and dodged another feeble attempt to harm you. Claws swiping through the air you once stood. You dance around another attack and drove the same blade into one of the main arteries of its neck. The shrill cry it gave was music to your ears. It jerked away from you, stumbled over its own paws. Then, its form pitched over the edge of the branch.

Down it went.

Four more to go.

You met every other with the same fierceness. Red entering your vision as another contender steps up to.

Five bodies litter the ground at the base of the tree. Blood drowns you. A mix of blue and red to make a near black purple. Your chest heaved with each deep breath you took to regain the lost air.

The sixth body stood near in front of you. The very prize all this started today. A rumble vibrating the back of your throat. A well know Yautja pleased noise. “Come on now. I’ve earned your head.” Then, you launched yourself at the leader, wanting to spill blood. No. A deep, rooted need that your own blood sung to bathe in.

He read the move. His body rolled to the side and whirled around. Your back to the trunk of the three now, limiting your space of movement. A hiss of displeasure left your lips before the beast stalked closer. You mirrored the movements, not willing to give up any space to him.

One dodged had another set of claws raking down your back and skidded across your rib cage. The red in your vision swarmed until it thickened. You released a howl from the depths of hell itself. You whipped around with a new fury driving your muscles.

He makes another move to attack but you watched it in slow motion. You rolled into his space and drive the blade of your knife into the soft mushy underside of his belly. The sharp metal slice up from pelvis all the way to his sternum.

Blue blood and intestines spill from the clean cut and drowned you like a paya praised warrior. The hunter you were born as. You gave one last roar that echoed for miles before slumbering to your blood knees. Everything about yourself was drenched in gallows of blood. You panted heavily and noticed the red starting to fade away.

Your spine locked up, head whipping up to the left. Nearly the same color as the leaves around her, stood a female form. A biomask covers her features and gives away nothing besides the feeling of her piercing gaze on you. The red in your vision doubled. A fiery snarl ripped at your throat. Blood coated hands made holding your knives nearly impossible. Even with an iron grip, the handles wanted to slip out of your hands. So, you threw the blades into the branch and launched yourself forward. A roar left your lips only to be cut off.

The view before you changed in a second. Your back slams into the hard bark that once was beneath your feet. A strangled, choked groan is all you can give. The move throwing you off balance mentally and physically. The red threatened to evaporate but you clasped onto it with an iron grip.

You kicked, clawed, and even tried to bite at the form pinning you down. Even the human body has it’s limits.

Her voice over came the roaring of blood in your ears. “Calm. Clam. Soothe, little one,” she cooed to you. The rest of your reservoir depleted. Your chest heaved with each breath you took. Her masked face hovered over your sweat-soaked, blood-drenched form.

Once you finally caught your breath, the green female Yautja releases your throat and pulls away to stand a towering height above your prone form. Exhausted, you sit up and rest back on a hand. Propper up. You can barely look up at her.

One thing you questioned: why wasn’t she killing you?

This one wasn’t from your clan. Humans are considered forbidden to be on Yautja prime. Kill on sight. Yet, she hesitates… or won’t do it at all.

In reaction, your eyes narrowed, lips drawing tight over your slight pointed teeth. If she were to grant you mercy to see another day, you won’t waste it by angering her.

Her masked face glanced side to side, over the edge of the branch. Down at the carnage left in your wake. “I have never seen a ooman go into bloodlust,” she spoke, intrigued at the situation. “you have clan markings as well.” You didn’t need to see her eyes to know they were sparkling with curiosity and mirth. You couldn’t tell if you liked it or not.

With your markings decorating both of your arms, proudly slating what clan and family you come from. Markings you had to work twice as hard for. Just to prove you were worthy of them as a ooman. You pulled yourself to your feet, head confidently raised. You weren’t going to let her mock you.

A snort enters the air. “I don not even need to see the entire clan marking to know where you come from. That posture is well known.” You bristled, feeling offended at her mocking you. If only you had the energy to issue a challenge and teach her you were something to stifle with. But after defeating six adult cvorteilios, you could barely lift a finger. You’d call upon some of your hunt siblings to help carry them back for the entire clan. Nothing will go to waste.

She reaches up and tugs the bio-mask from her… oh Paya, she’s beautiful. Here top, right mandible was cracked. She had a crown of spikes on her head. Then, her gorgeous eyes. The purple so vibrant you swore they glowed in the daylight.

“Calm, little hunter. You have done your fight. I do not challenge you,” she coos to you again, soothing most of your jittery feelings. “I spotted you amidst your hunt and decided to watch. You are very skilled. You were taught well by a great teacher then. They are proud.” All statements. The female highly confident in her words.

So that was the eyes you had felt earlier. You didn’t know if the quelled the unease in your belly or just made it worse. It made sense spotting her was impossible even without the camouflage. Her green scales matching the foliage nearly perfectly. Lucky.

“if you desire help, I am more than happy to do so. I can retrieve my ship and aid in carrying your hunts home.” With this amount of kills, it wasn’t demeaning to ask for help either.

You narrowed your eyes on her then dipped your head in agreement. Her upper mandibles pulled up into a grin. The female took off and left you standing on the branch, covered in blood, sweat, and guts still. It was beginning to dry and flake off of you. You ignore the familiar feeling to take a few hearty swigs of your water sin. Then, you start the process and lowering the gutted cvorteilio down to the ground alongside its fallen pack members.

By the time she came back, ship carefully docked, you had said your prayers and prepared the bodies to move. The two of you loaded each one in the cargo hold. You boarded her ship and took a seat besides her in the cockpit. The ship was pulled expertly up into the air and gliding over the massive trees you called home.

Along the way, you checked up on the arrows and spear you retrieved, checking for any damage. You kept peeking at her from the corner of your eye, drinking in the sight of her beautiful face. Then, her eyes caught yours. She chuckled. “Ask away.” The one thing that gives you away… your eyes.

“Your name.” How rude of you. “Apologies. What is your name?” you rephrased the question to be more polite. She was giving you a kind of gesture after all. Then, you told her yours to be kind and open for causal conversation.  You wanted to learn more about her. Anything. Though impossible, you couldn’t help your thoughts about her.

She repeats your name a couple of times. In your delusional state, you really liked the sound of her name coming from her mouth. “I am called Gawtin.” Even her name was pretty and rolled off of your tongue smoothly.

“Mm, that’s a pretty name,” you mumbled mainly to yourself but you weren’t as quiet as you thought.

A smoothing purr rumbled from her throat and vibrated the air. Get it together. Stop saying stupid shit like that. “Why thank you, little hunter.” Paya, the names she keeps calling you. Usually offensive if not taken a certain way. You were used to it from your hunt siblings and your dam.

Sooner than you liked, the ship sets down in a larger enough spot close to your home. The two of your work in tandem to bring each carcass to the base of your tree home.

It was over quicker then you wanted it to be. Nerves light up along your spine. A prickling feeling. Cursing yourself for your humanness, and these damn feelings that weren’t very Yautja-like. You watched her bid you goodbye and walked for the door.

Panic. Your heart racing wildly in your chest. “Wait! Gawtin,” you called after her then cursed yourself again for a silly, childish move. You take a breath to help settle your nerves. “I… I would like to see you. If possible.” As a human, you knew you had no grounds to speak to anyone outside of your protected clan. Or else you’ll find yourself dead and mounted on someone’s wall.

Gawtin paused just shy of the ramp of her ship and glanced over her shoulder. “I would like that too, little one. Where I can finally challenge you and see what your skills are.” A challenge?! There were many different types of challenges. The man two though are a fight to the death or until they forfeit.

You answered with an nod, not trusting your voice. Gawtin smiled then ascend into her ship, leaving you with that promise. To fight her? A challenge. How lucky you were!

[levellyscorner]

Cowboy like Me (Outlaw!Bucky x F!Reader)

Summary: When Bucky Barnes and his gang derail a train expecting gold, they find a hidden heiress instead — sharp-tongued, silk-wrapped, and worth more than anything they came for. With orders to keep her close until a ransom can be arranged, Bucky is saddled with a woman who won’t beg, won’t yield, and turns captivity into a slow, dangerous game neither of them can win clean.

Tags: Outlaw!Bucky Barnes, Western AU, Enemies to Something Complicated, Forced Proximity, Hostage Situation, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Tension So Thick You Could Lasso It. Sharp-Tongued!Reader, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn (but not that slow), Dust, Gunpowder, and Glances, No One's Soft Here, Emotional Restraint (Literal and Figurative), She's Tied Up but Still in Charge, Rough Exterior, Worse Interior, One Horse, Two People, Too Much Heat. Reader Is Not a Damsel.

A/N: This story contains: one outlaw with more silence than sense, one heiress who doesn’t know how to shut up (and wouldn’t if she did), a horse that deserves a raise, and enough rope to make things interesting. Enjoy the ride and Yee-haw. PS: I Def got inspo from Red Dead Redemption 2

Word Count: 3,3272

Cowboy Like Me

"Forever is the sweetest con." 

Chapter 1: “This Is Why I Don’t Take Public Transit”

The sun hung low in the sky, a fiery orb that cast long, jagged shadows across the parched plains. The earth beneath was cracked and barren, like the skin of a dying beast, and the air shimmered with the heat of the day’s last breath. Dust swirled in the air like a golden haze caught in the dying light, clinging to everything in sight—rock, dirt, skin. The land stretched out in every direction, a sea of muted browns and yellows, broken only by the sharp silhouettes of cactus and scrub. Out here, nothing moved unless it had to—and even then, it was a struggle. 

Bucky knew this land like the back of his scrap metal arm. Every scar in the earth mirrored a scar on his body, every crack in the dirt a reminder of the world that had shaped him. He’d become a product of this unforgiving place, a living testament to its cruelty. His past a tangled mess of scars, both on his body and soul—was buried deep beneath a rough exterior. Hidden behind the cold stare of a man who had learned not to feel too much. His gang, his brothers in arms, were all that mattered. Loyalty to them was the only thing that kept him going. His loyalty was to the quick draw, the sharp shot, and the scent of gunpowder in the air. And for a man like him, there was nothing more reliable than the iron in his hand and the and the cold bite of steel over anything else.\ 

His eyes narrowed as he looked out over the horizon, watching the glint of metal growing larger in the distance as the smell of coal wafted through the air. The rhythmic chug of the train's engine was faint at first, but as it neared, the sound grew louder, more urgent as it snaked into view. He didn’t have to look behind him to know the gang was already moving into position.  

The train tore through the plain like a beast with steel bones and a fire-breathing heart, its smoke plume bleeding into the tangerine sky. Bucky pulled his horse around and signaled to the others with a sharp flick of his fingers. No words. None were needed. They knew the plan, had ridden it through a dozen times in the dead of night, across campfires and crumpled maps stained with sweat and whiskey. Tony let out a sharp whistle from down the ridge, and that was all it took. 

The gang moved as one—spurring their horses down the dusty slope, kicking up clouds that shimmered gold in the dying light. Bucky followed suit, crouched low in the saddle, metal hand gripping the reins tight as his horse pounded across the flats. They rode fast, drawing alongside the moving train, the roar of hooves and wheels colliding like a storm. 

As he neared the train he stood in the stirrups, crouched low, and launched himself onto the back of the train. Metal groaned beneath his boots, but he held steady. Behind him, the others followed—gripping handrails, hauling themselves up one by one like wolves climbing into the belly of a wounded beast. Bucky didn’t speak. He just nodded once to Steve, then slipped through the door into the first passenger car. 

The change in atmosphere was immediate. Inside, it was velvet curtains, soft lamplight, and the murmur of idle conversation—until the door slammed behind him. A woman screamed. A man cursed. Cards spilled across a velvet table. A bartender reached under the counter, and Bucky fired without hesitation. The shot rang out, sending patrons scrambling. 

“Down,” he barked. “Now.” 

They obeyed. He didn’t have to shout again. One look at the gleam of his metal arm and the revolver in his hand was enough. Torres moved past him, herding passengers into corners with a casual kind of menace. No one resisted. 

They swept the first car in under a minute. 

The second was louder—more crowded, packed with men in dust-covered suits and women clutching pearls like prayers. Sam disarmed a security guard with a twist of the wrist and a clean punch to the throat. Creed grabbed a man trying to sneak out the emergency door and tossed him back into the aisle like a sack of flour. 

Bucky kept moving. 

By the third car, the scent of perfume had faded into sweat and fear. The air felt tighter, more expectant. He could feel the heartbeat of the train now steady, pounding, alive. Each door he pushed through brought him closer to the last one. The one they were here for. 

The private car. 

Tony came up beside him, cocking his head, chewing a toothpick. “Private car?” he muttered. “Didn’t see that on the manifest.”  

“Neither did I,” Bucky said. He grabbed the handle and pushed. The door swung open with a slow, deliberate creak. Bucky stepped in first, revolver raised, breath steady. Gone was the stench of sweat and panic that clung to the rest of the train. The air in the private car was warm, perfumed faintly with rose oil and something sharper—like brandy soaked into wood. Afternoon light spilled in through half-drawn velvet curtains, washing the room in amber. Everything gleamed: brass fixtures, a crystal decanter, polished mahogany walls. A record spun lazily on the phonograph in the corner, its music soft and scratchy beneath the clack of wheels on the track. He was expecting the sharp bark of a guard or the startled shout of a tycoon. But in the center of it all sat you. 

You looked like you’d been carved from the stillness itself. Perched in a velvet armchair beside the window, one leg crossed neatly over the other, a book resting open in your lap. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise. You merely looked up with a slow, unhurried tilt of your chin, your gaze moving from Bucky’s revolver to his face with all the urgency of someone bored by theater. 

Bucky blinked once. 

Tony stepped in behind Bucky and came to a slow halt, boots falling silent against the velvet-lined floor. His eyes swept the room—over the glint of cut crystal, the curve of carved mahogany, the way the late sunlight spilled like liquid gold across your pale blue dress. You looked untouched by the chaos just three cars behind you. Serene. Still. Like something painted to be admired and never touched. His gaze lingered on your face, noting the calm in your eyes, the faint lift of your chin—the way you looked through them rather than at them. 

“Well, hell-” he murmured, a grin curling slow at the edge of his mouth. “Ain’t this a painting.” 

Bucky didn’t lower his gun. Didn’t raise it either. 

You looked up at him. Then Bucky. Then back to your book with a sigh so faint it felt like an insult. Without a word, you raised one gloved finger. 

Wait. 

You turned your gaze back to the page, reading — slowly, deliberately — as if the presence of two armed outlaws in your private railcar was no more urgent than a fly buzzing at the window. The train rumbled beneath you, but you didn’t so much as sway. Then, with a flick of your wrist, you snapped the book closed. Not in fear. Not in alarm. It was the sound of finality — of a woman deciding the scene could now proceed. “I take it this isn’t a coincidence,” you said, your voice smooth and slow, like honey trickling over a blade. 

Bucky opened his mouth, but Tony answered first. 

“She’s not part of the plan,” Bucky said, his voice low, edged in steel. 

He didn’t take his eyes off you. Didn’t need to. You sat like a statue cast in gold light—perfectly still, hands resting on the arms of your velvet chair, legs crossed with casual precision. The pale blue silk of your dress shimmered in the sunlight spilling through the half-drawn curtain. Not a single hair out of place. Not a single flicker of fear in your eyes. Tony’s footsteps slowed behind him. He stopped just inside the doorway, his posture shifting from swagger to scrutiny. The smirk that had been halfway to forming on his face never made it. His gaze swept the room, taking in the etched crystal on the sideboard, the lace trim on the window drapes, the distant murmur of a record still turning on the phonograph. 

“This car was supposed to be empty,” Tony muttered. “Cargo only. No staff. No passengers.” 

His eyes narrowed on you. 

“But look at this. Velvet chairs. Curtains tailored by hand. That dress.” He said the last word like it was a crime scene clue. “What the hell is this?”  

You didn’t answer. 

Didn’t rise to the question, or shrink beneath it. You stayed perfectly still in your seat, back straight, gloved hands resting lightly on the arms of your chair. Your ankles crossed neatly beneath layers of silk, not a single thread out of place.  

You blinked once. 

Slow. Measured. 

Then you looked up at him — not startled, not scornful. Just… bored. The kind of bored that weighed more than anger ever could. Like you’d been interrupted halfway through something more interesting, and couldn’t quite bring yourself to care enough to mask the inconvenience. 

It wasn’t disdain. 

It was worse. 

It was disinterest. 

Tony gave a short laugh under his breath, but it didn’t sound amused anymore. He stepped further into the car, boots quiet against the thick rug. “This car was listed as empty,” he said. “Freight only. No passengers, no staff. Just space.” He looked back at you, narrowing his eyes. “Which means whoever put her here didn’t want her seen.” 

Another beat passed. 

Tony’s smile returned, but this one was tight. Sharp at the edges. 

“Which means someone will miss her.” Tony turned toward him, his voice low. “She’s leverage, Buck. And I’m guessin’ she’s worth a lot more than whatever we came here for. We’ll take her with us- A girl like her? Tucked away in the back of a private car, no staff, no guards?” His mouth twitched into something crooked and cold. “That don’t happen unless she’s important. And when someone this expensive disappears… bells start ringin. ”  His jaw squared. His tone dropped. The air in the car went taut.  

“Tie her.” 

Bucky didn’t move — not at first. But his fingers twitched near his hip, just above the length of coarse rope looped through his belt. It wasn’t for show. It was the kind of rope used for drag-outs and battlefield improvisations — not velvet-skinned heiresses. 

But Tony didn’t care. 

“I said tie her. Hands behind her back. Tight.” He gestured with a curt nod toward the rear door. “She rides with you. You’re in charge of our lady now. She gets clever, or cute, or loose—that’s on you.” 

The silk of your dress caught against the velvet seat with a whisper, folding around your legs as you rose like a blade being drawn from its sheath. You stood tall — not like you were squaring off against them, but like you were already above them. You didn’t need height. You had presence. And suddenly, that sunlight behind you felt like a spotlight. Your voice was smooth, but the undercurrent in it was lethal. “You’re out of your damn mind.” 

Tony blinked. 

Even Bucky shifted slightly. 

The offense in your tone wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t panicked. It was the kind that lived deep — in your bones, your blood. The kind worn by women who had been raised not to be touched without permission. “You break into my railcar,” you said, voice crisp, cut-glass perfect — all vowels sharpened and smoothed in the same breath, the kind of tone bred in old-money parlors and perfected over champagne and backroom politics. 

You took a step forward, silk shifting like water around your legs. 

“—track dust across hand-loomed velvet, talk about me like I’m a shipment of sugar cane, and then decide I ought to be trussed up like a damn steer?” 

Tony didn’t answer your tirade — not with words. 

He just flicked his gaze to Bucky and jerked his chin. That was the only command he needed to give. 

Bucky didn’t speak. He just moved — quiet and reluctant, the way a man moves when he doesn’t like the thing he’s about to do. The rope came free from his belt with a low hiss, the fibers rough, worn, military-issue. Not meant for wrists like hers. Not meant for this. With one swift motion a gloved hand pressed flat against the small of your back, not violently, but with force — solid, unquestionable, final. His other arm caught your wrists before they even fully left your sides, pulling them behind you in one clean, ruthless motion. 

The rope followed — slipping around your skin in a single practiced loop, rough fibers dragging over silk and bare flesh alike, biting through the space where grace had reigned only seconds before. It was the kind of movement born from instinct, not intention — the reflex of a man who didn’t wait for yes or no when the stakes were high. 

You were bound before you had time to object. 

You turned your head slightly, lips parted as if to speak — but the knot was already halfway done. 

Efficient. Quick. Deliberate. 

It wasn’t a soldier’s knot. It was a warning. 

You inhaled sharply, chest rising against the stiff boning of your corset. Fury bloomed hot beneath your ribs — not just at the rope, but at the sheer audacity of being silenced by speed. Pinned down without a single word passing your lips. Your voice, when it came, was cold and smooth as glass. 

“I’ve seen livestock handled with more ceremony.” 

The rope paused mid-pull — just for a second. Enough for the silence to sting. Tony’s laugh cracked through the tension like a matchstrike from the door. “That one’s gonna be a real joy on the ride.”  

You held your spine straight, eyes forward, chin lifted with that practiced, noble poise — even now, even bound — as though the train still belonged to you. The sunlight behind you spilled gold across the satin of your sleeves, your silhouette like something carved from marble and fury. 

You shifted just slightly — enough for your voice to find him, smooth and knife-edged, cut for the kill. “No hesitation,” you murmured, the words slipping from your lips like silk over steel. “How very charming. Do you tie up all your women this quickly, or am I just special?” 

Bucky didn’t reply. 

But the final tug on the rope slowed — just a hair. Enough for you to feel it. Your lips curled — the barest hint of satisfaction blooming there like something dangerous. 

“Mm. That’s what I thought.” 

Quick as a trigger pull. Without a word, his arm snaked behind your knees and, in one seamless, startling motion, he lifted you. You didn’t stumble. You didn’t even have time. The world tilted hard as your body was hoisted upward, silk skirts spilling over his arm like water pouring from a shattered vase. Your cheek pressed to the rough shoulder of his coat, the heavy scent of leather and sun-baked dust filling your lungs. 

The position was inelegant. Indelicate. Undeniably humiliating. 

Your hair slid over your shoulder in soft waves, brushing against the rough canvas of his coat as the motion jostled you. One satin strap slipped slightly, tugged askew by gravity and friction. The sunlight caught on the fine embroidery of your bodice, casting threads of silver and sea-glass blue across his back — a beautiful ruin. 

You were silk-wrapped, dust-drenched, and livid. 

The hem of your dress bunched at your hips where his forearm pinned your thighs, and your corset bit into your ribs with every sway of his stride. The rope at your wrists had no give — each step tugged it tighter. You could feel the heat of him through his shirt, the effortless power in his gait. The certainty in it. He carried you like you weren’t resisting, like your weight meant nothing — like your fury didn’t burn through your bones. 

But it did. 

Oh, it did. 

You narrowed your eyes, lashes brushing your cheekbone as you forced your breathing into something measured. Elegant. Controlled. 

If you couldn’t have dignity, you’d have defiance. 

And it radiated off you like perfume. 

Outside the railcar, the world erupted in color — golden light flaring across the plains, shadows stretching long and lean like scars across the earth. The sky had begun its descent into fire, stained with deep tangerine, bruised rose, and the molten edge of dusk. Bucky descended the steps with you slung over his shoulder, boots hitting iron and gravel with quiet finality. Each step jarred the breath in your lungs, rattled through your ribs, and pressed your cheek harder against the thick weave of his coat. The scent of sunbaked leather and gun oil clung to him — not unpleasant, but sharp, worn-in, unapologetically male. 

You didn’t struggle. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. But you held yourself rigid, like a board of lacquered oak, as if your posture alone could rewrite the scene — make it something less savage, less undignified. The hem of your dress fluttered in the wind, snagging on the butt of Bucky’s revolver, dragging in the dirt behind you. One slipper had been lost somewhere inside the train. The other swung helplessly with each step, a ridiculous echo of grace. 

It slapped softly against your foot, rhythmically — a final insult in a performance you hadn’t volunteered to give. Dust clung to your calf, to the trailing threads of your hem, to the edge of your dignity. And still, you didn’t break. 

You didn’t scream. 

Didn’t squirm. 

You burned. 

Every inch of you was locked with tension — not fear, but rage held steady. The kind that didn’t explode. The kind that sharpened. That waited. 

The sun clung to the horizon like a dying flame, catching in the glint of your earrings, the shimmer of ruined embroidery, the strands of your hair that had come loose and now whipped lazily in the wind. You were a painting half-destroyed and somehow more arresting for it. Bucky walked as if you were weightless. Like he didn’t feel the defiance simmering off you — or maybe he did, and he just didn’t flinch from it. 

The gang watched in stillness. 

A few leaned forward. One man shifted on his boots like he didn’t know whether to nod or kneel. But no one laughed. Because there was nothing funny about the way you looked — slung over his shoulder, silk and salt and sunlight, eyes that didn’t belong to the conquered. There was nothing funny about a woman who could be bound and still make the desert feel colder with a single glance. 

He reached the horse in silence. The animal snorted, hooves shifting in the dirt, sensing the tension in the air — or maybe just the weight of what Bucky was about to hoist into its saddle. 

He didn’t pause. 

Didn’t offer a word of warning. 

His arm adjusted beneath your knees, the other tightening against your back. And with one sharp, fluid movement — more strength than grace — he swung you up into the saddle like gear being packed for the ride.  

It wasn’t just ungentle. 

It was disrespectful. 

You sat still for a beat — breath caught, jaw clenched — willing your posture to hold when everything in you screamed to curse, to spit, to shove back. Your spine refused to slump. If anything, it straightened further. The train, the dirt, the rope — they could take the softness, but they would not take your bearing. 

Your voice, when it came, was velvet over razors. 

“Well,” you said, blinking dust from your lashes. “That was charming.” 

Bucky stepped around to the saddle’s near side, adjusting the cinch strap, not bothering to meet your eye. Your lips curled, not in a smile, but in something far older. Meaner. “You could’ve at least pretended I was breakable,” you added, voice high-society sharp, every consonant a dagger. “Or is throwing women around just part of your technique?” 

Still no answer. 

Not even a glance. 

He simply checked the weight of his satchel, then reached for the reins like you weren’t even there. 

Your legs had twisted awkwardly to one side, skirts bunched beneath you, the cinch of the rope across your spine making every small shift feel like a punishment. But you moved with purpose, carefully straightening your posture, lifting your chin — forcing your bound body to mimic control, authority, even if the raw skin at your wrists told another story. He climbed up in front of you a second later, settling into the saddle without so much as a glance over his shoulder. 

Still silent. 

Still avoiding you. 

And you weren’t having it. 

You leaned forward, just enough that your voice would carry — low, smooth, for him and only him. “You know,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear, “if I wanted to be ignored by a man with nothing to say, I’d have stayed in town and gotten married.” 

Still no answer. 

He stared straight ahead — stone-jawed and stiff in the saddle, like the horizon was more interesting than the woman he’d manhandled onto his horse like a sack of sugar. 

You tilted your head slightly, lashes lowering in practiced irritation, and let the silence stretch. Your posture didn’t falter — no slumping, no giving in to the weight of the restraints or the ride. 

Only your voice moved. 

“Quiet and dull,” you added, letting the words slip out like perfume laced with poison. “How lucky for me.” 

You caught it — the smallest shift. The faint grind of his molars. A pulse in his jaw. 

Good. 

Your lips curved, barely. Satisfaction, not softness. You settled back against the saddle, rope taut across your back, spine still straight. The wind caught your hair, sweeping it across your shoulder like a flag of defiance. Even bound, even bruised, you looked like someone who hadn't lost yet. 

And then you twisted the knife — gently, of course. 

“I’m beginning to think the rope was the most interesting thing about you.” 

His hand tightened on the reins, leather groaning in his fist. Still silent. 

But that was all the reply you needed 

[gilverrwrites]

Hi friend!

Would you be interested in doing a NSFW alphabet for Bruce? Just read your black mask one and damn heheh

Bruce Wayne: NSFW Alphabet

AN: Thank your so much, glad you enjoyed! And yes I would be interested.

As always readers; please take whatever you vibe with and leave what you don’t. It’s all in good fun.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

It really depends on your existing relationship, and its level of intimacy.

A hook-up is getting the bare minimum to keep his image where he wants it to be. He’ll help you get clean, offer you his bathroom, and if he can, he’ll help you redress and get you out asap. If you decide to stay, he’ll be cordial; he’ll do the pillow talk, let you wear his shirt, make sure you’re fed and watered or whatever but he won’t hold you, and he won’t be there when you wake up. He will however leave a note with some half-truth about having to leave for business, and money/gift cards for a coffee and an Uber.

If you’re more than that (dating/married/so on) then it depends on how well you’ve voiced your needs to him, and how much time he has. Let’s be real Bruce is a hypocrite, he wants you to tell him in explicit detail how you need to be cared for, and if you don’t he’s profiling you until he gets it right, but he ain’t saying anything about himself.

So provided he doesn’t have to run off to save the day, or your escapades haven’t coincided with a routine patrol, Bruce is excellent at aftercare.

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Him: Bruce is highly critical of himself. He’s not blind, he knows he’s physically fit, widely intelligent, and highly attractive, but there’s also always room for improvement.

But if he had to choose, it would be his brain. He enjoys being able to look at you and knowing in an instant that you want him. Knowing if it’s a right here right now, or a tease me till I’m begging kind of want. Knowing exactly what you need to hear or where you need to be touched. Being able to predict and acclimatise to your desires is such a big thing for him.

As for you: It’s all in your eyes. You may or may not think you’re quite stony-faced, but not to Bruce. He just loves how expressive your eyes are. Yes, when he’s analysing you; looking for those dilated pupils and heavy lids. But also just the delight when he surprises you with sneaky kisses, when the skin around them grows crinkly as he growls something totally scandalous, or how they grow wide and doe-like as he’s stretching you out, or when they twitch and roll when he’s fucking you just right.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He’s not particularly vocal about it unless he’s really lost in the heat of the moment but; breeding kink. He wants his cum buried as deep inside of you as your body will allow. He wants you so full it’s spilling out and leaking down your thighs, soaking into the bedsheets. And then he’s gonna scoop all those stray drops up and push it all right back in.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

At his age, he doesn’t really get the terms that people use in sex nowadays. That information wasn’t easily obtained in his prime but if he had to identify with something he’d claim soft/dom and/or a brat-tamer, and he’d be right.

But sometimes he likes to switch roles.

He’d never admit it, because he’s a goddamn control freak, he considers (his own) submission as weak and at best he’d be a power bottom but damn it’s so comforting and so hot to be at your mercy or just taken care of sometimes.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Ooh ho ho. Brucie has been around many blocks, and back again.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

I have no explanation for this, I just feel it in my bones but he’s so into doggy. Especially when it’s a hook-up and/or a quickie. By extension, the flatiron because it offers that really deep penetration that has him cumming right against your cervix.

Also the eagle and the leg lock/missionary, specifically with a pillow under your hips and one of his hands pushing on your stomach so that he can keep you in place as he punishes your g spot.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Very rarely goofy, at least not until he’s at a level of familiarity and intimacy that would allow him to let those walls down. He’s not without a sense of humour, it helps if you’re goofy first.

Blow a raspberry on him, and he’s pinning you down and giving you 10 back. Give him a ridiculous nickname and he’ll start testing new ones out on you. “Ohh Brucie boo boo, that feels so good.” “You like it when I bend you over and fuck you like this honey bunny?”

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

It’s thick and dark, but well-trimmed. In his younger years, he waxes off his happy trail and chest hair, but from his mid-late 30s, he starts letting it grow.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

This again is widely dependent on your relationship.

If you’re a hook-up it’s just about fun really. It’s sensual, borderline pornographic but ultimately impersonal.

But if you’re more than that, then sex is very intimate for him, and he’s surprisingly passionate.

He struggles with voicing his emotions so this is how he shows you his appreciation for all that you do. It’s how he apologises for being gone so much, for making you worry. Your body is where he takes out his frustrations but also where finds respite and comfort.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Not something he particularly enjoys, but it is a necessity. He’d rather the real thing, but if that’s not accessible when he needs to let off some steam then so be it.

There have been many, long frustrating nights that have ended with him beating it in front of the batcomputer, unable to focus, and wishing it were you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

As previously mentioned, breeding kink. (See c for cum)

Bondage: I’m specifically talking about him being the rope bunny here. Nothing extreme, soft ropes holding his wrists to a chair or a bed frame while you grind on him. Yes he could break out at any minute, but he doesn’t, that’s part of the submission, the fun.

This can be flipped, he’ll tie you up if that’s what you want but he prefers to pin you down with nothing but his own strength and body weight.

Roleplay/primal play: His interest in the whole cat and mouse (or bat and cat) has never been subtle really. He likes being the predator, catching the prey and taking his reward. Ties in closely with the brat taming too if you’re a fighter or mouther.

Extending on prev, I think he’d also like interrogation play: again both ways but primarily he likes to be the interrogator. To hold you down, tease, and question about whatever subject matter, probably what you want to have done with you, until you beg him to make good on all your confessions.

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

He’s boring in this regard; the bed. It’s a comfortable, safe environment where he can let loose.

If you wanted to do it in the cave or the Batmobile he’d comply, but explicitly when off duty with low risk.

But if it was up to him, he’d keep you all locked up in his chambers, squirming in his sheets, eyes rolling back to look at his ceiling. It’s like he’s claiming you, inside and out, full and scented by him and his bedsheets.

Maybe, with the certainty that nobody will be home, he’ll find other places to fuck you; the marble stairs, the hot tub, in front of the fireplace.

But be prepared for the unmitigated guilt and humiliation of traumatising at least one of his kids when they inevitably stop by unannounced.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He often comes home in the early hours of the morning still full of adrenaline and looking for relief.

Outside of that, he’s highly receptive to teasing and shameless levels of flirting. Clothing too; he likes skimpy, short skirts low cut tops but that’s not always necessary. Just knowing you’ve got nothing on under that flowy outfit, or that he bought you those shoes, or that’s his button-up will do it for him.

And then there’s domesticity. When you bring him food during a long and intense research session. Seeing you be really good with Damian, or helping Cass with her ballet hair, or scheduling dinner for the two of you with Babs and Dick.

Just you clicking so perfectly into his life, predicting and meeting his needs without being asked, makes him want to show you just how much he appreciates it.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

If you want to call him daddy that’s fine, he can be your baby daddy, but you are not his baby.

You can be his baby momma though. He wants to fuck a child into you, not fuck a child, even in a fantasy capacity.

If he wanted a child he’d be adopting you, not sleeping with you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

50/50

He rarely gives oral when hooking up, because he’s a fucking beast at it. Wet and sloppy, just going to town, which affords him a lot of women wanting to ride again. But in that same vein, he doesn’t expect these people to give him anything. If they’re gasping for it, he’ll oblige but otherwise, he just avoids the whole oral thing.

But when it’s his love, there’s no stopping him from spending an afternoon worshipping those perfect hot, wet folds. Drinking you up until your fluids are dripping down his neck, until his scalp aches from your grip and you’re seeing stars.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It varies of course but preferentially 70/30 rough/sensual with a lot of crossover.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

As mentioned in J for Jack-off, if he needs to release some tension quickly, and you’re available then he’ll take you. Bend you over the nearest surface, bruising you with his vice grip, no sound but for his grunting and the salacious slap of your skin against his until he’s got everything out of his system and can get back to the job at hand.

But otherwise, he’d rather take his time with you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

If you’re an adrenaline junkie, then sure he’ll take risks for you.

That said, the risks he takes are calculated, and he is good at maths. He won’t bore you with the statistics, just know that he’ll always find a way to give you what you want.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

No average human can keep up with Bruce Wayne’s stamina, let’s be real. But that’s okay, when you’re all spend and cock drunk and too weak to move, he’ll make sure you don’t miss out on anything. He’s strong and fit enough to do all the work for the both of you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Holy utility belts Batman!

For all his gadgets and tech, I want to say he has sex toys galore but honestly I really don’t think he does.

He probably has the classics: retrains, cock ring, remote control vibe, plug, dildo and/or strap.

And some more out there things: electro collars/low impact tasers, clamps, a swing.

Heaven knows he can afford anything and everything. But beyond that, I don’t think he reaches for them often, nor does he seek out or experiment with new ones. Not unless something sparks it.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Are you kidding? The moment he sees his opportunity he’s laying the teasing on thick. Sneaking touches when nobody is looking, speaking to you in that voice, calling you while you’re busy to tell in explicit detail what he’s been thinking about doing to you since he saw you in those pants this morning.

And when he finally gets you alone, he’s 100x worse.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

Noisy but not loud. He has such a low, deep voice. So when he groans and coos in your ear it’s certainly clamorous to you. All the filthy things he says bellows.

But nobody outside the room you’re in will hear him, not unless he wants to be heard anyway.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

With time and experimentation, Bruce knows what turns you on better than you do. Kinks you’ve never thought of. Subtle touches you barely notice, getting just close enough for you to smell his natural musk. He moves his body in precise ways, and uses really specific words that have your mind racing.

He’ll play you like a fiddle and have you thinking it was your idea.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s packing, and we all know I don’t mean guns.

And that's when it’s soft and in the cold. At full glory, I’d say at least 8 inches, above average girth. Cut, with some very prominent veins.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Fair to moderate, adrenaline heightens the senses and emotions and can be an aphrodisiac which is where a lot of his drive comes from.

But removing that from the equation, he’s trained himself not to think about you or anything that turns him on when he needs to focus. So when he gets to relax or when he sees you again, all that pent-up denial comes running back to him.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It really depends on his mindset. More often than not, by the time post-climax hits, after an already long night, he’s out like a light the moment you’ve signalled that you don’t need him any more. Sometimes sooner.

But if something’s on his mind, a series of clues that aren’t adding up, a villain that shouldn’t have gotten away, when he’ll be up all night thinking about it. In this scenario, it’s not uncommon to find his side of the bed empty within an hour or two.

[hayatoseyepatch]

𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓: There was always something about seeing Kafka transformed, something that piqued your interest. Maybe it was the glow in his eyes or the sharpness of his claws, all you knew is you wanted to take his Kaiju form for a ride.

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: Hibino Kafka (Kaiju No. 8)

𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.3k

𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘: Fem!Reader x Kafka. ⚠️NSFW Dark Content⚠️.

𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: Monster Fucking, Marking, Blood, Cunnilingus, Size Difference, Man Handling, Penetrative Sex, Dacryphilia, Tummy Bulge, Cumflation.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊: I am so sorry this one is so late!! I had some stuff come up in my personal life and it threw me all off whack. I will work to be back on schedule. Thanks for bearing with me. This was so much fun for me to do, its definitely much different than anything I've written before and I hope you enjoy! (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ Also, oops its late. The full masterlist for my kinktober can be found here.

“Are you sure about this?” Kafka’s voice shook with uncertainty, the last thing he wanted to do is hurt you, but even he couldn’t deny the way his cock hardened at the prospect of what you were suggesting. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought of it before, imagined the look on your face as he took you in *that* form. He had a bit more control after joining the first division. He knew he could switch back in an instant if need be but after losing control once he was too scared to risk it. As if reading his spiraling thoughts he feels your hands cup his cheeks. “Kafka, baby, it’s still you. And I love *all* of you, no matter what form that is.”

Your sweet words spoken against his lips were enough to dispel any concerns he had. His lips met yours in a desperate kiss, tongues dancing in each other's mouths as heat consumed your very beings. Kafka wasted no time after pulling away, your eyes locked on him as he transformed. He was careful, quite aware of his strength in this form as he hovered over you. His eyes darkening as he watched the way the smallest of touches had you bouncing off the mattress from the force he admitted. He caged you in, the difference in size clear as day. You felt so small as he hovered above you, heart hammering against your ribcage in anticipation.

The next moments go by in a blur. Your clothes ripped from your body by sharp claws, leaving them in shreds on the floor next to the bed. A thick thigh between your legs, one that you ground your hips down on, desperate for friction as his long tongue caressed your neck. Kafka made his way down your body, wet appendage wrapping around one of your pebbled nipples, careful of his teeth as he nipped on your sensitive area. One hand groping the other, sharp nails pinching your skin. However, it seemed he was just as desperate as you were as large hands gripped your waist, hoisting you with ease up the mattress until his face was positioned between your legs.  

Your eyes cross, rolling to the back of your head from the pleasure you were receiving from Kafka, large hands gripping your hips as his long tongue moves deep within the walls of your cunt, the sheer length of the appendage allowing the base of his tongue to rub against your clit with every pass. The sensation of feeling so full on his tongue alone sends a shiver down your spine. You spare a look down cheeks burning at the intense gaze from those glowing blue eyes, locked on you as he buries is tongue over and over inside your cunt. The protruding boning at the top of his head resembling horns allowed you enough to grip, using them as leverage to fuck yourself back on his tongue. “Fuck Kafka, so deep, need more.”

Your response comes in the form of a growl against your cunt his tongue picking up speed, noticing the way your hips stuttered against his face as your orgasm approached. He had never managed to bring you to the brink this quickly before, if he was honest that and the sounds falling from your lips alone were a huge boost to his ego. His hands dug into your hips forcing your cunt further on his tongue, the claws digging into your skin. A mixture of pleasure and pain from the blood pooling from the wounds enough to throw you over the edge. Back arching off the bed as you cum against his face with a cry, hips rocking against his face as you rode out your orgasm. Chest heaving with heavy breaths as you come down from your high. Preparing to pull away, Kafka prepares to move, only to have your hands grip his horns. “Kafka, please, need you inside me.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but the tone in your voice coupled with the desperation clearly painted on your expression left no room for argument. Sitting back on the balls of his feet, his eyes practically roll to the back of his head with need when you part your thighs once more, your fingers parting your folds to present your cunt to him. No words needed to be exchanged for him to know exactly what you wanted. With one hand poised on the base of his cock, he angled it at your entrance. Running the head of his cock along your fold, collecting his own saliva and your wetness for lubrication before beginning to slip inside. Barely even a few inches in he watches as your back arches off the bed.

Full, you felt so full, knowing that he wasn’t even remotely in the sheer size of him made you feel stuffed. Tears glazed over your vision as he continued to enter your depths. Your fingers gripped the sheets as you nodded, encouraging him to keep going. It was taking all the self-control Kafka had not to slam his hips forward and impale you on his cock, you were always tight, but this was an entirely new experience. After a few more moments of this, he let out a heavy sigh as he finally bottomed out inside, waiting for you to give an indication you were ready for him to move. “Fuck, Kafka..”

You whined, rolling your hips against his own as he split you open on his cock. He took this as the initiative to move. Pulling nearly all the way out before bottoming out once more. His hips set a steady pace, the squelch of your cunt ricocheting off the walls like a symphony. His heart raced in his chest as he watched your every reaction to fucking you. Towering over your form as he fucked your tight little cunt, growling with the exertion of holding himself back so he didn’t hurt you. “More Kafka, please fuck me harder I can take it wanna feel you.” You sounded absolutely wrecked but it did the job, Kafka picked up speed his hips slamming into yours with reckless abandon.

Claws bit into your skin as he gripped your waist, his increased strength being used to his advantage as he manhandles you. The way he had a hold on you, forcing you deeper on his cock in time with his thrusts. He knew he wouldn’t last long, the familiar tightness building up in his stomach as he fucked you. You desperately gripped onto his shoulders, the way he was hitting the deepest parts of you while using your body as if it were a toy, not having to move a muscle as he manhandled you. He bounced you on his cock, hips stuttering as he got closer, and he wasn’t alone, tears flowing freely down your cheeks as white blurred the edges of your vision.

 “Please, Kafka, feel you in my tummy. Gonna… Need you to fill me up, Kafka please!” You were already so drunk on pleasure, words coming out in a babble not even you were sure you understood as you released, body trembling violently as you came with a cry. Your juices sprayed him as you squirted on his cock. He was only moments behind, sharp teeth sinking into the tender flesh of your shoulder as he came. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as he rode out his high, thick ropes of his cum painting your insides. Filling you so much the cum seeped out around his cock as it had nowhere else to go, your tummy bulging with not only his cock but the copious amounts of  cum that you were sure would be dripping from your cunt for days. Kafka’s tongue soothed the bite mark on your neck, the metallic taste filling his mouth as he cleaned your wound. He wanted to panic, pull away and apologize for losing control, but the way your ankles locked together to keep him in place he was sure you didn’t have a problem with it and that this night was long from over.

𝕯𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖇𝖞 @/𝖈𝖆𝖋𝖊𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖘𝖚𝖓𝖊 & @/𝖘𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖐𝖆-𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖕𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖘.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn @littleplantfreak @maruflix @umemiaa @stunies @eevees-hobbies @143-ilyuu @uzxotic @princesstiti14 (𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑 𝖋𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙/𝖉𝖒/𝖆𝖘𝖐 𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖔𝖗 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖞 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖘) (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

[bumblehoneybee]

Okok so I saw that you wanted Knuckles requests and I have some capital “A” Angst if you’re up for it!!

What would happen in a scenario where Knuckles is forced to chose between his beloved, and the Master Emerald? Especially if his S/o - perhaps bloodied and beaten - is demanding he chose the Emerald over them because he’s “got a fucking job to do.”

AUGH I’m sorry, the angst is flowing rn- have an awesome day/night!!

Don't Touch

"Don't touch it." You said, voice cutting through the air like a knife. Everyone jerked back, surprised that you could make such a sound, make such an angry coldness coat your voice. Your face was just as cold. "Don't touch it."

It was golden and shimmering in the light that pierced through the rocky ceiling above. Something like this, buried deep underground, held obvious value. Knuckles was excited to see it, as was Sonic and Tails, the trio eager and interested to figure out what this new strange floating liquid gold thing was.

You, on the other hand, hung back with Amy, eyes flitting between the golden mass molding about midair and the various carvings that decorated the wall. Depictions of something long lost, people forgotten to time, they unnerved you.

The writings, the symbols, you didn't quite understand them, but you knew that most likely, they meant this new treasure was bad, bad news.

"O-kay?" Sonic drawled out, an amused if perturbed brow cocked your way. He didn't know you to be so. . . serious. "Why?"

"It doesn't seem safe." Amy piped up for you. "It shouldn't be able to move like that on its own."

"The emeralds can as well." Knuckles countered.

"The emeralds are jewels." You say, backing away. "This thing is. . . alive."

"Technically the emeralds are too. . ." Knuckles murmured. Sonic shrugged at him, running a loop around the pedestal the golden glob floated above. "What shall we do then? Leave it?"

"I could make something to contain it." Tails offered. His tails spun him up to get a more aerial view. An obvious stress coated you, body tensed and twitching like you were expecting the treasure to attack Tails. "It would take a few days, but it would solve the issue with not touching it."

"An issue only to our newest member." Sonic teased, nudging you with his elbow. You jumped, not noticing his approach. "What's got you so uptight? Aren't you excited to see your first treasure hunt be so successful?"

Any answer you could conjure up was lost on the tip of your tongue. You didn't know how to explain the foreboding sense of doom you felt looking at this treasure, but it rocked you to your very core. It wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary, still twisting and melding like it did when you all first entered, but still. . .

You felt scared.

And it was obvious to everyone. When Sonic's gentle ribbing didn't ease your mind, he grew a bit doubtful. Knuckles too was losing interest in the treasure in favor of aiding your distress. Luckily you seemed to relax as he approached, leaving only Tails near the globby gold.

"Like I said," the little fox dropped down before you, and your shoulders sank, "I can make something and-"

In the blink of an eye, everything went golden.

Everything felt. . . muffled, but your chest screamed in agony. Piercing pain rocked up and down your spine, like you were stabbed right in the heart. It hurt terribly, but your throat was too clogged to cry out. You couldn't even claw at yourself, to try and escape the muffled pain that was sinking into your very bones, cause your arms were lax and useless.

And you couldn't breathe.

Knuckles' immediate reaction to watching whatever that gold shit was pierce through your chest was to punch it, but the liquid metal easily cradled his fist and sent him flying back. He could hear the others crying out, a mix of your name and exclamations of what wasn't working on the new found monster, but over all that he could hear the sound of you choking.

And you were, stood there gilded and losing shape fast. Your body drowned in shimmering yellow, giving rise to a new figure, bulging and bulky, with red eyes that surveyed the scene around it. Soon, a smile cracked across its face.

Then Sonic slammed into its side. A distinct hiss rang out from the beast, a crater in its body from where Sonic hit. It sizzled a weak blue color from his strength and power, but quickly refilled its shape.

It gave Knuckles an idea of its weakness, however, and he called out to the others. "Fire! It can't take the heat!"

"Already on it!" Tails replied, readying some large gun Knuckles didn't see him pack for the trip. A wall of flames spewed from the tip. The beast shrieked at the heat, slithering away, towards the wall. "Get back here!"

Tails gave chase, flying up towards the open ceiling while the rest raced to climb up after. Upside, in the sunlight, the creature shined bright enough to blind. Knuckles squinted against the sheen, watching it twist into the air with a crackling laugh.

You were inside it. This bastard had taken you hostage, and was now-

"It's headed for Angel Island!" Amy cried, pointing to the streak of gold now tearing through the sky. "Knuckles-"

"Get something to contain it!" He demanded, already racing towards the nearest teleporter to take him back home.

"Knuckles and I will protect the emerald!" Sonic shouted, volunteering himself as aid, to Knuckles' half buried irritation.

"And we're going to save them!" Knuckles snapped back. "Even if it kills you."

"Kills me!?"

Knuckles didn't spare a response.

By the time the pair made it to the island, the monster was already circulating the emerald. Something appeared to hold it back from consuming the gem, allowing Sonic an opening to slam into the beast once again, knocking it away from the alter.

Were you in there? Were you fighting? Were you alive?

Knuckles threw himself into battle. He caught Sonic on his recoil, throwing the hedgehog back at the monster. The extra momentum made a deep impact, but also meant that Sonic was thrown across the island, hopefully aimed for land. Knuckles didn't have time to check as he blocked whips of golden goo from splitting his face in half.

He threw punches back at the beast, fighting through the uncomfortable vibrations that shook through his arms. But all the while, he couldn't help but wonder: was this hurting you? The monster shuddered and bent beneath his attacks, but didn't seem to feel them. Were you feeling them? Was he hurting you?

A rouge tendril of gold whipped out, clipping Knuckles on side and spilling the first blood onto the ground. He grunted in pain, scolding himself for getting distracted, only to balk at the splat of the beast hitting the floor.

It was as sudden as your devouring. The beast shuddered, whining in a high pitched cry of a voice. It lowered towards the ground, melting into more of a tall blob, but before Knuckles could throw a punch, it opened.

The golden, metallic flesh peeled back, exposing you amongst the amalgamation. Your eyes were bloodshot, exhausted. There were veins of gold webbed to your body; were they draining your energy? Your life?

“Knuckles,” you croaked out, and he hated how his name sounded like it was being peeled off of your throat, “it’s okay.”

“It’s NOT okay!” Knuckles shouted back at you. His hands clenched and unclenched into fists, unsure of what to do, how to protect you.

“It’s okay.” You murmured, quieter now. A hand strung up in strings of gold reached out. Knuckles knew better than to touch — he had seen how that horrid thing swallowed you whole — but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into your cold palm. “Don’t worry about me. Protect the emerald.”

Knuckles whined your name, struck by the lump in his throat.

“Do your job.” You said, almost scolding him. A worn out smile crossed your face, only to be swallowed as the monster collapsed around you.

Rage burned through Knuckles. This thing had eaten you, was hurting you, and by Chaos, was he going to save you. He could hear the yell of Sonic, racing back to the battlefield, hear the distant whir of machines that indicated more allies on the way.

The beast made a lunge for the emerald. Knuckles intercepted it, and thus the all-out brawl started once again.