#there's versions without the red metal too!

[treefish]

shower retexture. ☻

[attleboy]

i thought too hard about insect motifs got a little silly and made... a lot lmao these versions of the characters are from @sm-baby's amazing digital carnival au!! full images and rambling about insect choices are gonna get stuck under the cut... it'll be a bit long and i will be putting photos of real bugs down there so be mindful

pomni: "butterfly"

inspirational species are black swallowtails mostly for the shape, and malay red harlequins mostly for the pattern

carnival pomni's actually the one that kickstarted this whole set... i drew her hat in a way that reminded me of butterflies, went "wait...", then i fully leaned into it :)

jax: "centipede"

there was no specific species for jax. without being able to use color, they were too similar to pick any out... i have included a giant centipede just for reference though since it was mainly larger centipedes i used for inspiration

anddd there's a little bonus sketch for how pre-sentience jax might've looked with a centipede outfit... he gets a bug scarf and some goggles!

ragatha: "ladybug"

inspirational species was the twice-stabbed ladybug chosen because the inverted color scheme looked the best out of all the ones i tried, and also because it's a metal name and we know ragatha's good with a knife... stabby stab... i did add more than two spots to the dress though, it just looks cooler lol

gangle: "spider"

inspiration was the spinybacked orb weaver which i was absolutely ecstatic to find because come on that is the perfect spider for gangle like look at it!! it looks like her mask, it's got red, it's got gold on the limbs, literally twinning

zooble: "mantis"

inspiration was the spiny flower mantis which, like with gangle, i feel is pretty much perfect for zooble... they come in many colors (including pink), have abstract patterns, and it gave me the excuse to cover zooble in spikes :D fun

and no kaufmo because i'm lazy and he's dead (sorry kaufmo fans but am i wrong), and the rest don't have bug names that i know of?

i still want to draw the carnival characters in their regular looks sometime, i just got really really inspired by the idea of secret skins and bug-themed outfits and went a liiittle haywire :P

anyways if you read all that you're a real one and you've got too much time on your hands... if you didn't, i understand, i get wordy, sorry :'D okay i think that's all byeee

[cillivnz]

RING-POP

PAIRING. sam monroe x f!reader

SYNOPSIS. sam makes you try a different version of your favorite candy; bigger and bitter.

WARNINGS. NSFW themes (18+), pet-names, cursing, dirty-talk & too many puns (i swear this punk cannot shut up), name-calling (brat, dumb girl), brat-taming, degradation, slight dacryphilia, perv!sam, clueless!reader, oral sex (m! receiving), face-fucking, bondage, slight slapping (with a belt, with his cock), hair-pulling, sexualising food?

SMACK, SLURP, POP. the sounds filled sam’s humid room. his brow furrowed further, a look of disdain washing over his pale features at the noise. the videogame in front of him needed all his heed, but it seemed like his brat, bambi, demanded some of that attention, too.

“stop that,” he groaned, frustrated. the sound of his thumbs assaulting the buttons on his controller should’ve been all that was heard, had you not been deep-throating the candy sam made the mistake of getting you. “what— i’m just having my candy,” you whined before continuing, “—and besides, if you have a problem, why don’t you let me sit away from you—” he was quick to shut down that idea, gripping the flesh of your thighs. maybe sam was in the wrong for getting you the cherry ring-pop, your favourite, and maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have you perched on his lap, sitting comfortably (cluelessly) on his aching boner, but in his defence, he just wanted to feast his eyes on the sight of your plump lips wrapped around the toy candy, sucking and slurping, just as you are now like the good girl you are, but once he switched his playstation on, the competitive side came out.

you shift to your comfort in his lap, feeling the tent in his pants poke directly into your mound. you had an arm crossed over sam’s neck, bringing the ring-clad finger to your mouth and sucking. at the taste of the sweet cherry juices dripping into your mouth, you groan in sam’s ear.

the sounds traveled straight to his cock, his mind tuning out his reality— the game at hand— just to focus at your skilful tongue, stained red by the candy. “if you don’t quit it—” he sighed, his voice strained. the next thing you know, his character is being obliterated by the enemy. you stifled a giggle, your plan worked.

sam had left you so, so worked up. choosing to take out his frustration with his family on some stupid toy, rather than your willing pussy. ever since that day at the playground, you couldn’t go a day without sam pounding into your drooling cunt. even if it was always him starting it, he got you to finish, and you were forever grateful for it. but today? when you dolled up in all black— tank top and skirt— with red lingerie, he decided to pick up that gaming console and not let go.

“alright, bambi, i’ve had it with you,” he gets up abruptly, causing you to hit the ground and land on your knees. you gasped, offended.

his hands, full of real, crude metal were quick to move, undoing his belt, unlike your delicate hand that was motionless with the toy ring perched on it. the leather of his studded belt flicked across your cheek, causing you to look up at sam through wet lashes. he only smirked at the sight. your eyes flicked to the bulge revealed in his boxers, and now your mouth watered for a taste that wasn’t cherry ring-pop.

“‘like to suck your candy, huh, brat?” he squeezed your cheeks together. “since you’ve been practising in my goddamn ears all day,” he continued, pulling out his cock, “let’s see how good you’ve gotten.” his cock was slapped against the same spot at the belt. you only stared at him through your long lashes, unwilling to satiate when you’re unsatisfied yourself. “come on, bambi, open up,” he squeezed your cheeks again, causing your mouth to gape open. “i can’t guarantee it tastes like cherries, but you’re open to trying sweet-n-salty, aren’tcha?” he giggled, amused at his own snarky comments.

the fat tip of his cock pressed into your plump, gape lips, and instinctively, your tongue stuck out to lick it. “there we go,” sam sighed, ready to return to cloud 9.

you sheepishly swirled your tongue around the bulbous tip of his cock, relishing in the taste of his precum oozing into your tastebuds. oh, yeah, you’ve found yourself a new favourite flavour.

“hands up for me, bambi,” he sighed, breathless already. you oblige, eyes widening when his belt snaked over your wrists, tying them in an unholy matrimony. your hands rested in your lap, preventing you from pleasuring yourself like you intended to. “now, open wide f’me.” you’re obedient, eager to please, for you know if sam’s satisfied he would overlook the ‘punishment’ and stick his cock into you. your pussy flutters at the thought of being full again.

as your throat relaxed around him, you started taking more and more of his length, looking up at him through your lashes to seek his validation, and the mere sight was rewarding. his brows furrowed, a pink flush crept into his pale skin, while his lips were plump and agape, marks of his teeth etched into the skin. “your mouth was made to suck cock, y’know that— my cock. you’re only gonna squeeze my cock with that fuckin’ throat, y’hear?” he nods, authoritative yet cooing, “is my girl understanding me?” so you bobble your head along with length. “fuck yeah, brat. going dumb on my cock,” he moans, and you were eager to illicit more of those sounds.

you relax your jaw, inhale deeply, and let him take charge. when sam realises this, the little devil smirks, running his fingers through your scalp to tug at your hair.

his cock pistons in and out of your throat, your eyes watering and your breath haggard. your pussy clenched around nothing but the flooded dampness of your cotton panties.

“oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—” incoherent grunts and groans filled the room along with the delirious smell of your arousals. “fuuuuck, bambi,” sam’s thrusts got sloppier.

“you know,” he spoke, breathless yet mischievously, “this candy comes with a creamy centre,” he chuckled, grunting as he came undone in your mouth. “sweet n’ salty, yeah?” he stroked his cock, relishing in the sight of his heavy load dripping down your plump lips. you were quick to swallow every drop, selfishly devouring your favourite candy. you wondered if this was gluttony or lust?

when satiated, sam pulled away, tucking his cock away. you, too, get up from the floor, wincing at the pain of kneeling down for too long.

you shimmy out of your clothes, making your way towards his bed. sam sees you in the corner of his eye, an eyebrow irking at your actions, “what do you think you’re doing,” he asked plainly, leaving you confused. “i- you’re fucking me, right?” you had a pitiful look on your face, so eager to chase your own release with his assistance. “like hell i will, dumb girl,” sam scoffed, “brats don’t get pleasure after punishment,” he shrugged coldly, grabbing his gaming console.

he pointed towards his thighs, “sit your ass back down,” you whine, “but i’ll be so boooored,” yet perch on his lap, still.

“—and i finished my ring-pop,” you sigh in frustration. sam chuckles, “don’t worry, i’ll have your new favourite out in a minute,”

“this flavour never finishes, just keeps on coming.”

THIS PUNK—

SEE ALSO. playground [PRELIMINARY FIC]. more of Sam Monroe [MEAN!SAM, BIMBO!READER AND OTHER TROPES].

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Hi Rae!! Congrats so much on the 1.5k!! Been a longtime fan of this blog and I'm always blown away by your works.

For the event can I ask for domestic life/married life headcannons? Or just hear you yap on how Jason and Arkham Knight Jason act in those situations? I personally think Jason would act as a doting, head over heels almost worshipping his darling spouse. Whereas Ak! Jason would kinda be the dark romance almost mafia archetype instead, but on the more quiet obsessive devotion and acts of service galore side with a dash of occasional bordering on if not yandere-ism because of his paranoia and being very overprotective but his spouse has a general idea of what their husband does.

Once again, congratulations and you deserve every follow and reblog and like.

- Rosa🧸🤎

Domestic Headcanons

Hi, thank you so much! Hope you enjoy!

Honestly, I could ramble about whether or not I think AK would ever get married, but it's not about that rn ~700 words

Jason

His favorite thing in the world is waking up next to you. Really, he doesn't think anything beats opening his eyes and seeing the morning sun glint off the metal bands around his and your ring finger. He'll ignore the growling in his stomach and the alarms about to go off for as long as he can, just for another moment to hold you in his arms, warm and tucked away from the world

Speaking of wedding rings, Jason is constantly twisting or fiddling with yours. It's mostly because he's just in awe that it's there, real and cool, and glittering on your finger. He likes to take the opportunity to tease you about buying a bigger rock, even if you tell him anything bigger would look ridiculous and just get you mugged. (He can handle a mugger– or five– so he doesn't think that should be an issue)

Nothing feels like a chore when he's doing it with you. Folding laundry to your favorite tv show, washing dishes while talking about everything and anything, making meals while your music fills the kitchen– he loves it all. Just being in your space, lingering in the mundane, day to day tasks feels special when he gets to see you smile and laugh at whatever joke he's made 

You share the same blanket when you're sitting on the couch, always. He made a point of buying the largest, softest one he could find in your favorite color, more or less for the excuse to have you close. Neither of you mind cuddling together, of course, but it's still an unspoken rule that if either of you comes to sit next to the other, you lift the blanket for them, even when you fight

Matching Fuzzy Socks for every occasion. Neither of you necessarily wear them out of the house, but when you're home and Gotham is cold, there are, in fact, heated debates and competitions over who gets to pick what set you're both going to wear that day. (Yes, his favorite pair are the Red Hood ones, and no, he doesn't think that says anything about his ego. They're just the fluffiest and therefore, the best) 

AK!Jason

The Arkham Knight comes from a crueler version of Gotham, but he is by no means cruel to you. There are nights where he's sharper, tensing at every noise and bump that sounds too close to your windows and doors, but it only serves to make him hold you closer, ever watchful for danger that could cause you harm– threats that would take you from him

He doesn't go out with you often, but he tries to make up for it in his own way. Public dates are rare, if they happen at all, but he doesn't hesitate to try and make you feel special when you do go out. Entire theaters are rented out in your name, museums and galleries are closed just so you can walk arm and arm through marbled halls without anyone else around 

When you're both together, he's always in your space, always finding an excuse to touch you. He only ever softens under your gaze, only ever feels at home when your hands hold his. He'll fixate on the ring you wear often. He likes pressing a kiss to the cold jewel that catches light so perfectly on your finger. It always feels so big, knowing you said yes, knowing you willingly tied yourself to him for eternity 

He constantly comes home with gifts– whether it be flowers, food, jewels, clothes, or trinkets– he rarely comes back empty handed. It's less out of a love language, but more out of a desire to show you he's worth being with. The Arkham Knight– before, during, and after he held the name– always has something to prove. But that doesn't mean the thanks you give, the kisses to his cheek and the smiles you offer, are any less special to him (or that his actions mean any less) 

He finds comfort in the long moments of silence. Don't get it wrong, he loves to listen to you talk, but there's something about just being in each other's presence without the need for words that soothes something fragmented deep in his soul. He likes to listen to you breathe, feel the rise and fall of your chest against him while he reads whatever book you're flipping through over your shoulder. Those are the only times he ever really feels peace anymore

[blackenedsnow]

Can you write me a Shadow the Hedgehog x Female Reader, but movie Shadow version and the reader has DiGeorge Syndrome a rare medical disorder that I have, idk about any prompts or summary atm, anything will do :3

a heart’s shadow

WARNING: Mention of chronic illness and medical trauma, implied violence

PAIRING: Movie! Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader with DiGeorge Syndrome

NOTE: I may have gotten his personality completely wrong (let's hope not) but I hope you enjoy anyway! Sending you lots of love <333

SUMMARY: Shadow abducts you as part of a calculated plan but soon discovers your health struggles, which remind him of Maria. This realization shifts his cold purpose into something else.

The hum of machinery filled the darkened corridor. Shadow’s red-tinted eyes scanned the area, unyielding, calculating. Dr. Robotnik’s orders were simple: take a hostage to ensure leverage against Sonic. Anyone nearby would do.

He found you on a bench by a park, bundled against the chill, your breath coming in slow, deliberate measures. Shadow had no reason to think twice about you, but when he closed the distance, a brief hesitance stirred within him. There was something… different.

“You’ll do,” he muttered to himself, voice cold as he stepped forward. Before you had a chance to scream, the world became a blur of black and crimson.

When you came to, you were somewhere unfamiliar, an industrial space with harsh lights and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Panic clawed at your chest as you tried to sit up, but a sharp twinge in your side reminded you why that was a bad idea.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice came from the shadows.

You turned toward the figure stepping into the light—small, black-furred, and with eyes that pierced right through you. Recognition struck. Shadow the Hedgehog.

“Why am I here? Why… why me?” Your voice trembled, but there was an underlying defiance.

His expression was unreadable. “You were convenient. That’s all.”

It wasn’t true. Not entirely. Shadow had noticed the slow way you’d been breathing, the way your hand pressed against your chest as if steadying something fragile. Something about it gnawed at the edges of his focus, but he dismissed it as irrelevant.

Hours turned into a day. Despite his original intention to keep you confined, Shadow had been uncharacteristically quiet and watchful, observing you from a distance.

When you tried to stand, the stumble in your step was enough to make him act. “Sit,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll hurt yourself further.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, though your trembling hands betrayed you. “I’ve been through worse.”

Something flickered across his face—a rare softness. “Explain.”

You weren’t sure why you did, but the words poured out before you could stop them. The surgeries. The way your heart worked harder than it should. The moments when simple things—like standing too quickly—felt like scaling a mountain.

Shadow listened, his arms crossed but his eyes filled with something akin to recognition. When you finished, you expected him to dismiss you or make some cutting remark. Instead, he just nodded.

The days stretched on, and Shadow’s demeanor began to shift. Where there had been silence, there was now a steady rhythm of his presence—a glass of water set beside you when he thought you weren’t looking, the careful adjustment of the space to make it more comfortable.

“What changed?” you asked one evening as he handed you a blanket.

Shadow hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor. “You’re not what I expected. You’re… stronger than you seem.”

“Strong?” You laughed bitterly. “I can barely make it through the day without—”

“Strength isn’t about perfection,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “It’s surviving despite everything trying to break you.”

It wasn’t just empty words. Shadow understood. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when he spoke, the unspoken weight he carried.

One morning, you woke to find Shadow in a room—not the cold, sterile space you’d been confined to, but warm place. He had taken you somewhere safe.

“You’re not taking me back to Robotnik?” you asked cautiously.

“No,” he said simply.

“But why—”

“Because I don’t work for him anymore.”

He didn’t elaborate, but you didn’t need him to. The walls Shadow had so carefully built around himself had cracked, just enough for you to glimpse the truth. He hadn’t saved you out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way, you’d become important to him.

Life with Shadow wasn’t easy—he was blunt, stoic, and often distant. But he was also fiercely protective, learning the intricacies of your condition without complaint. He’d carry you when you were too weak to walk, stand vigil during your worst days, and remind you in his own quiet way that you were never alone.

“Why do you stay?” you asked him one night, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to you, his gaze steady. “Because you remind me of her. Of Maria.”

You reached for his hand, resting yours over his. “I’m not her, Shadow. I’m not perfect.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re worth fighting for.”

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Overblot Universe (6) | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Part 1 • 2 • 3• 4•5

From the distance you were struggling to stand, watching gallons of ink warp and grow around the area Riddle had previously been imprisoned

Ultimately creating a giant overblotted depiction of Riddle as the twisted Queen of Hearts that he is 

Black Scribbly eyes searching frantically and maniacally as an axe began to form from the scepter he’d been holding 

“Guys he knows where we are!”

“(Y/n) why do you think that?”

Before you can answer the weight of the crown and the bodice of your inky outfit have you struggling to look up or even stand

And without looking you could tell that the inky rendition was looking in your direction

“REMOVE THAT CROWN AT ONCE. IT MUST BE THE CULPRIT!”

“It’s a little late for that genius.”

It took Jade and Sebek’s combined effort to peel the crown off your head 

The pressure of the inky band finally squeezing off your head was like undoing a stabbing migraine

You almost passed out at the relief you didn’t realize you so desperately needed

“(Y/n) are you alright?!”

“Y-yeah.”

Jack had left managing the mirror to Silver to scoop you into his arms

Ignoring the sneers on everyone’s faces you let yourself relax a little before looking past him

To see Ace, Deuce, and Cater running frantically 

Looking behind them was the hundred remaining blotted guards 

But even in their growing numbers that was not making giant thuds into the ground

That was the giant Riddle stomping behind looking as though he was about to cast a spell with the giant axe

Which would be ridiculous if it wasn’t making a giant glowing ball

“Guys! We’ve got to go!”

“Alright everybody let’s go! In the mirror now!”

“I agree. (Y/n) you first.”

“Wait, Ace, Deuce, and Cater have to get in. We are not leaving anyone behind!”

They all collectively groaned, scoffed, and kicked at the dirt

Thinking that this is something you have to stress from your friends boyfriends was certainly not the best situation 

But now wasn’t the time to unpack that 

Cheering over Jack’s shoulder since he refused to set you down

You tried to ignore the blue glow in the clouds

“Guys do you see that? It kind of looks like those robots that abducted our dorm leaders a while back….”

“(Y/n) was Riddle the only one you encountered?”

You slowly turned to where Epel and Jade were looking at the rest of the group turning that way too

The now visible brigade of Idia’s creations surging closer

Even from the ground you could spot the fiery blue hair at the head of the metallic flock

If that wasn’t enough in the opposite direction was another army the same one that was fighting the heartslabyul students at the very beginning of your journey

And above them was what looked like a green haelstorm but you knew better

A terrifying roar rang out and everyone reached for their ears 

You stopped searching for the other two overblots just focused on going into the mirror as soon as they were close enough

Unfortunately their frantic running wasn’t faster than the surging groups 

There was a red beam aimed at the mirror 

Silver, Epel, and Sebek saved it this time but you couldn’t tell if they’d miss it

“Come one you guys hurry!”

They were closer now just a few paces away before an inky arrow flew past 

A blotted version of Rook was somehow far ahead the other armies aiming with a bow on a nightmarish horse

If that wasn’t enough the ground underneath your group was falling out from beneath you all

Jack and the other’s figured it out quickly when they spotted the blotted trail to a stalking blotted Leona

Thankfully your friends were nearly there just in front of the electric storm beginning to just above you

“That’s close enough in you go.”

“Hey!”

Epel snatched you from Jack, holding you tight jumping into the mirror 

properly transporting you back to the twisted wonderland you know and love and that loves you back

You were safe...right?

7th and Final chapter: Coming Soon

[ciphersoi]

ME INTERESTED IN YOU ! ₊ ˚. 🕯️ ⊹₊ ⋆

content warnings: graphic descriptions, gore, blood, fighting, disturbing imagery (?)

summary: after a near death experience fighting mr. machete, he gets bored of you. but when he goes to finish you off—your tears bring him…enjoyment?

notes: first time writing for homicipher, hope nothing is too ooc ! also stylized version of the homicipher language to fit the characters more ^-^

“Yo!”

A gruff voice suddenly called out to you, freezing you in place. A cold sweat dripped down your forehead as your [e/c] eyes darted around—frantically trying to find the owner of the voice.

“Above you…” The voice jargoned sinisterly, a toothy grin appearing on its face as your eyes finally locked onto the mysterious entity.

There he sat, confidently resting upon a shoddy balcony against the wall. His gray skin was tinged with red markings, (much reminiscent of your own skin), and his head was wrapped with bloody bandages. By his side rested a large machete, which was currently dripping with a liquid you had no desire of knowing.

A shiver went through your spine as your body instinctively entered flight mode. Even without Mr. Crawling you could tell that this room was unsafe. That entity looked violent, and if you didn’t get out of here now—there was a high chance that he would kill you.

‘He can’t possibly see me with all those bandages…’ You thought to yourself, slowly reaching your arm behind you for the door handle as your eyes stayed trained upon him. ‘Let’s just try to get out of here—’

“Oi…” The mysterious entity’s voice takes on a more commanding tone as his mood begins to sour.

“Me not give permission leave.” The entity starts to rise, his arm reaching for his weapon. Meanwhile, you hurriedly turn the doorknob, a curse rising in your throat as you realize that the door is jammed.

“You leave…” The entity points his machete at you, a wickedly deranged look appearing on his face. “Me kill you!”

Without a second thought you darted forward, sprinting for the door on the other side of the room.

As you ran, your footsteps echoed against the cracked concerte floors. Behind you, the sounds of shuffling could be heard, along with the screech of metal scraping agaisnt concrete, the rustle of fabric, a jump, and a landing, sending vibrations through the ground.

Panic clawed at your chest, urging you to turn left, so you do—twisting your body just in time.

The air hissed as a machete sliced past you, its edge glistening in the faint light. Time seemed to slow as you watched it carve a deadly path through the air. It buried itself into the wooden door ahead with a sickening crack, the force splintering the wood and sending shards flying.

‘Just a moment later and that could have been me…’ You gulped, feeling your heart beat faster at the realization. But, he was now disarmed, giving you the perfect chance to stun him and run away.

Your body entered fight mode as you turned to face the entity. You raised your hand, fingers crackling with energy that shimmered and flickered like embers in a dying fire.

The entity looked at you, showing a brief moment of uncertainty before lunging at you. It was then your palm ignited in a blaze of destructive power, energy pulsing outwards towards the entity.

Dust and debris flew into the air, obscuring your view of the entity. You used the chance to open the door and escape, bolting down a long hallway.

Unfortunately, your moment of victory was short-lived. The door behind you crashed open and the entity’s heavy footsteps followed. They were faster, heavier and closing the gap with alarming speed.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever. Your muscles screamed in protest, not use to this level of physical exertion, but you didn’t dare look back. You could feel him gaining, the air between you shrinking.

And then—

A hand grabbed you, missing by a few inches. The sudden jolt made you stumble, and that split second is all he needed.

Pain erupted in your lower stomach, sharp and all-consuming. You choked out a gasp as the machete’s blade pierced through your lower stomach. The force of the strike sent you sprawling forward, collapsing to your knees.

You clutched at the wound, hot blood pooling between your fingers and soaking your clothes. The world tilted, vision blurring as your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Behind you, his heavy breathing filled the space. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was there, towering over you like a predator over his prey.

“You dead?” He asked gruffly, stabbing his machete onto the ground in front of you before crouching down. Although his eyes were covered, you could tell that he was examining you. Was it to see if you still had fight in you? Or maybe he was deciding how to deliver the finishing blow?

Your trembling fingers curled against the floor, lifting yourself in an attempt to attack him again with your power—but the searing pain in your lower torso was too much, so you crumbled back onto the floor.

“Tch…” An annoyed sound left the entity’s mouth before he roughly grabbed your arm and pushed you against the wall. You grimaced as your vision focused on the man in front of you. He appeared…angry for some strange reason.

“You not fight me.” He grumbled, his hand trailing down your body towards your wound. You flinched slightly. “You disappoint me.”

Before you could react, his hand slammed against your wound, fingers pressing cruelly into the torn flesh. A strangled cry escaped your lips as his weight bore down, forcing more blood to gush out, hot and sticky against your hands.

“S-stop—desire you s-stop…” You grunt out, struggling to formulate words that he would understand. At this rate, your wound would be infected, and you’ve already lost so much blood. Was there any way you could survive this?

The entity quirked his head to the side, his lip twitching upward slightly at the despair on your face. “You understand language?”

When you didn’t respond his grip deepened, every press deliberate, each second dragging out your pain.

You gasped for air, your body shaking violently as you tried to push him away. But it was useless, your strength draining from you at rapid speed.

Tears welled up slowly, blurring the edges of your vision until the world became a blurred haze. Thick globs of water clung to your lashes, trembling with the weight of emotions too heavy to hold back.

Suddenly you felt hot liquid against your cheek, causing your eyes to shoot open. It was the strange machete man, whose bloodied fingers carefully wiped away the tears that streaked down your face.

You took on a confused expression. ‘Was he…drying my tears? Why does he look like he’s enjoying it…?’ You shook your head, dismissing the thought. This must be your body hallucinating due to blood loss.

“Me touch you here…” The machete man hovered over your open wound. “You cry?”

He looked at you with expectation, a concerning grin stretching across his face.

It took all of your strength, but you managed to cough out a short: “You touch me here again…me kill you.”

The grin on his face widened as something akin to a laugh left his lips. “You enjoyable! Me interested in you!”

He tightened his grip on your torso and hurled you up, tucking you underneath his arm. With his other hand you grabbed his machete, dragging the heavy weapon behind him with a deafening screech.

You were too weak to fight against it, so you allowed him to carry you. But you wondered, what would he do with you? And did he know a way to heal you?

These questions would be left unanswered as your vision slowly faded to black.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 26

Robins look of utter rage fills Danny with adrenaline as he puts the petal to the metal to escape the stabby birds vengeance.

Danny wasn't too worried, after all the car he stole was the Batmobile and he was pretty sure Boy Wonder couldn't hurt the car without being grounded or something.

Whatever. He didn't really even plan to keep the car anyway.

He just needed a way to get them to Amity. Sam and a few other kids had gone missing after she lead a protest against the GIW over the anyi-ecto acts and thier treatment of ghosts and Tucker disappeared a few days later after he got back hacked while trying to find where they took her.

Danny wasn't stupid enough to go in as either Fenton or Ancients forbid, Phantom so he needed help. Unfortunately his track record for asking for help usually ended with him being talked over, talked down to, ridiculed, ignored, ect. So naturally he had to take things into his own hands as usual.

Thus stealing the Batmobile and doing the metaphorical equivalent or hitting a bat flavored hornets nest with a stick and hoping he doesn't die the rest of the way.

He is from the Midwest and this situation was awkward enough to activate his hospitality instincts so he offers to take music requests over the com lines (much to Red Robins bafflement). They of course have noticed a lack of Oracles involvement by this point and Danny informs them of his heavily modified Amazon fire stick and that he used it to not only knock Oracle out of the game -mostly to keep her from hacking into the batmobile and giving him a one way ticket to juvie- but also give him what was pretty much an hologram version of an instruction booklet for the fancy car hes driving.

Yeah, he doesn't know any of the bypass or security codes, but now he doesn't have to wonder that all the buttons do...and if they'll eject him.

Eventually they make it out of Gotham, the bats are miffed and tired. The sun is coming up and the fuzzy fighters break off to return to thier city.

They're likely going to use the trackers in the vehicle to find it once Danny parks so they don't end up chasing him all over the continent.

Good. All according to plan.

Except he waits a day after returning to Amity and hiding the car.

Then two.

Then four pass by without so much as a wing beat.

After five days Danny decides he can't wait anymore and goes back to Gotham to steal more bat themed items. That jet looked rather nice...

In the meantime the bats are flummoxed as to why they can't find this kid

Turns out large amounts of ecto radiation renders most tracking useless. Who knew?

Eventually Danny has a whole collection of expensive bat things and he, on the verge of a breakdown, drives back to Gotham in the GAV (bear in mind hes 14 and has no license throughout all of this) uses the GAV to kidnap Bruce Wayne. He apologizes profusely but explains the situation and that he really needs Batmans help but he seems to be refusing to get involved. So naturally he has to kidnap his sugar daddy to force his hand.

[antimonyandthyme]

carcar 28 if you are still doing prompts :)

carcar pt 1; curse of obedience/can’t disobey a direct order

“So,” Oscar says, “if I were to say—”

“Don’t,” Carlos says, all urgent, eyes wider than Oscar’s ever seen them. “Oscar!”

He’ll remember this moment after. Go back to it every so often, when his brain sees fit to carve out versions of himself to dissect. Savage, impulsive. Vindictive even. Couldn’t even have picked something non-life threatening, like Drink this drip coffee, which I know you’d rather die than put on your tongue. Had to go for this.

“—run out into traffic, without looking—”

Carlos stands up so fast the chair clatters behind him. Bit of a shock. Oscar looks around, waits for the crowd to laugh along, for him to be allowed in on the prank. The café’s busy, people rippling past them to get to where they need to be. Carlos turns toward the door.

“Carlos,” Oscar says. The vacant look on Carlos’s face scrapes against Oscar’s bare skin like a grater. “What are you doing?”

Carlos gives no response, eyes trained only on the door. Dimly, Oscar wonders if this is how he looks under the helmet.

No, no. Even while racing, Carlos wouldn’t look like this. Surely, his jaw would run askew, his teeth would find his lower lip, his eyes dance bright and hungry.

“Carlos,” Oscar says again. He barely registers his pulse spiking.

Two steps are all it takes for Carlos to get up to full speed, as if he’s got a rabid dog on his heels. He’s a bullet shot out the door, a blur of red.

Oscar’s supposed to have reflexes made from lightning. Fastest in the world, isn’t he? But he stares, uncomprehending, and stares some more through the endless bay windows, as Carlos, uncaring that the crosswalk’s sign is still red, dashes onto the road. He runs, cutting through the continuous stream of metal as if his body were made of something divine.

A car swerves violently, a honk sounds. The ignition Oscar needs to snap out of his daze. Combustion, power. He propels forward, mouth already formed around syllables.

“Carlos,” he screams. “Carlos, stop! Come back!”

He must not be able to hear me. That must be the only reason Carlos keeps running, narrowly avoiding a speeding motorcycle. What did he say, when Oscar was dismissing his confession as a joke? He said—he’s being made to listen, right? To listen and obey. Oscar just has to reach him, so Carlos can listen.

Carlos is too far ahead, outstripping Oscar with an unrecognizable single-mindedness. Oscar’s yelling himself hoarse, but it’s too loud all around them, tires screeching, tearing at his ears. Chaos around them, Oscar unable to reign it in. Even in the rainiest conditions, he’d been able to find more grip than this.

The crosswalk melts onto the sidewalk, and for a blessed second, Oscar thinks it’s over, that Carlos has done all he’s needed to do, carried out the cruel task Oscar’s laid out for him like the gods before Heracles.

Then Carlos turns the corner, still running.

“Carlos!” Oscar’s face is wet, for some reason. A flickering image of Carlos meeting a car sears itself into the back of his eyelids, spills more liquid out. “Come back, please!  Please, god. Come back.”

Clarity, even in panic. If he’s braved speeds most people can’t comprehend, forces that could bend and even break a neck, then what is running blind into traffic?

He doesn’t look as he steps off the curb this time. Adjusts his focus to match Carlos’s. Speeds up in a way that is second nature. A driver swearing at him, a blinding flash from a headlight too close for comfort, but Oscar keeps running. Slowly but surely gaining on his target, overtaking within his reach.

“Stop,” he begs. “Carlos, you can stop now.”

Carlos’s feet ground to a halt.

Momentum carries him to a collision. Oscar flings his arms around Carlos, drags him out of the way just as a truck blares past their intended path.

--

“Asshole, you fucking asshole.” Big, gulping, uneven inhales. “Why did I, why did I go to you, I’m such an idiot, why did I even think you would, ah, fuck. Fuck.” His voice cracks into tiny pieces. “Stupid, stupid. Such a fucking idiot.”

Oscar tightens his hold around Carlos. Dead man’s grip, he’s not letting go. Even though they’re both shaking so hard each breath feels like a bruise. Carlos’s shoulder knocks into Oscar’s teeth, hard enough to cut his lip. Doesn’t matter, he’s not letting go. Oscar tugs Carlos, still trembling, over to the wall of the deserted street they’ve found themselves in. He sinks to the ground, back against the wall, pulling Carlos down with him.

“Breathe,” he says, a little hysterically. “Carlos, come on. Breathe.”

Deep, deep breaths, swelling through both their bodies. Fuck, fuck. Was that also a command? Could he tell Carlos to stop breathing and would Carlos just stop—

“Breathe!” Oscar nearly shouts, to force all other thoughts out of his head. “Carlos, listen to me, you’re alright.”

“—hate you,” Carlos is saying furiously. Oscar squeezes his eyes shut against the pain that lances through him. Nothing like the sting of his bleeding lip; this settles far deeper. “I can’t believe I, you. You.” More air, sucked through rattling lungs. “I shouldn’t have come to you.”

“Why did you?” Oscar says brokenly. He squeezes Carlos to him, then even though he shouldn’t, shouldn’t be allowed to, buries his forehead in the dip between Carlos’s shoulder blades. Selfishly uses Carlos to buttress himself. “Tell me.”

Another command, he realizes too late. Can he not even be in Carlos’s vicinity without being such a dickhead, fuck.

“I thought you wouldn’t.” Carlos’s chest heaves, his throat forcing out words against his will. “Of all people. You wouldn’t use it against me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Oscar whispers, like the greatest hypocrite in all the earth.

Oscar’s never heard Carlos laugh like that, derisive, painfully disparaging. All those times before, when Carlos had teased him, even after a race mistake, he’s done so maybe a little mockingly, but gently all the same. Prodding at Oscar with his bared teeth, but carefully enough he never broke skin. And now he sounds like he would be happy to be wiped clean of Oscar entirely.

Oscar cringes, tries to hide by burrowing further into Carlos’s back. This must be what being flayed alive feels like.

“You wouldn’t!” Carlos says, voice raising high and thready. “After you tried to kill me. After you made me, made me run like a dog huh? Was that fun for you? You like that, huh?”

Carlos’s shoulders pull uncomfortably taut. His shaking slows, the drug of adrenaline siphoning away. The rhythm of his breath changes, stutters, then quickens. His throat releases something wounded. The arm Oscar has braced against Carlos’s chest catches stray droplets, running off Carlos’s chin.

Oscar’s never going to be able to forget the way Carlos sounds broken down. Can’t do anything. Can’t even say something like, Don’t cry, for fear of stuffing all of Carlos’s tears back into him like a botched surgery.

He holds Carlos closer. Lips on the back of Carlos’s neck like he’s allowed, like he can impart I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m so fucking stupid it will never happen again I promise. I promise.

“Breathe,” he says.

“Leave me alone,” Carlos says weakly.

 Nope, no. Never. “Breathe.”

“Just, leave me alone Oscar.” Carlos struggles in Oscar’s grip, a fish caught in a trap. He doesn’t have the leverage to break free, winded as he is, with one arm tucked under his own shirt, fingers pinching his side so hard the flesh’s turned white.

“You’re hurting yourself,” Oscar says softly. “Please let go, Carlos.”

Carlos’s fingers unclench. He lets out a low, hurt whine, frustration, anger at his own helplessness, at having to listen to Oscar. Of all people. “Fuck you,” Carlos says.

By the third time Oscar repeats it, his mind’s made up. “Breathe,” he orders. “Carlos. I’m going to fix this.”

(put that guy in a situation prompts)

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

It’s Not A Camera

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: You make Daryl regret bringing you back a gift from a run. This technically takes place in the same universe as my other fics “Your Fault” and “Meet Cute,” but it can be read as stand alone.

Tropes: Fluff, Established Relationship

Era: Alexandria, pre-Negan

Warnings: I mean, I don't think there's any? Daryl being super hot, working on his motorcycle, and being in love with you? Flirting? Honestly, if I’ve missed anything please let me know. ❤️

Note: This is written in a dialect style with Daryl's accent in mind so the misspellings are intentional. There is minimal use of (y/n). If any? Any references to the reader besides the (y/n) is done using "your" or "you". I tried to proofread the best I could, nobody's perfect. If you don't like, don't read, but if you do like you're my favorite!

Internal monologue is done in italics and is in first person.

A/N: Just felt like doing a little bit of Daryl fluff on this fine Thursday morning.

Main Masterlist

Walking Dead Masterlist

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"Alright, could you give me a more engaging pose?" You ask tracing the outlining shapes of the scene in front of you in a worn sketchbook that Daryl found for you out on a run last week.

"Wha are ya doin?" Daryl turns from the motorcycle rubbing his hands against the red oil stained rag that hangs from his back pocket.

"Capturing Daryl Dixon in his natural habitat." You stand up and move to sit next to him, crossing your legs underneath you as you go. "And now I'm getting a close up."

"s'not a camera." He shakes his head at you, but you can see a smile twitch on the end of his mouth before it fades. A reminder that he might act annoyed, but deep down you know he’d be lost without you.

"You can only blame yourself- you're the one that brought this back for me." You tease.

"Because ya begged me to bring something back for ya like a damn toddler."

"No no no. I think secretly you wanted me to capture just how sexy you are for prosperity." Your pencil scratches against the paper, tracing the smooth line of Daryl's strong jaw against the page.

Daryl huffs, but continues to tinker with the motorcycle with red tipped ears.

The sun was just beginning to set in the west, barely seen through the thin slats in the large metal fences that protected Alexandria from the outside world. A cool wind blew from the east, but it wasn't enough to wick the sweat that gathered on the back of your neck and soaked into your collar.

You sit in silence for a few moments together, your shoulder leaning into his arm, while you draw a cartoonized version of him holding a wrench leaning forward to fix a motorcycle that will never be finished, but it's nothing like the real thing.

Daryl lets out a sigh every few minutes adjusting and cleaning, adjusting and cleaning, adjusting and cleaning-

But he makes it look so good.

You think to yourself with a smile.

"Daryl?"

"Mhmm?"

"I love you."

He stops working to glance at you, quirking the end of his lips. "Wha’ did you do?"

"Nothing. I just realized I didn't get to say it to you this morning when we woke up. We were both in a hurry and I wanted you to know." You reach up with the eraser end of the pencil and push some of his dark hair out of his deep blue eyes that always seem to see beyond what everyone else does.

Daryl's hand comes to gently curve round your waist and land on the small of your back, bringing you closer to him. "I love you too.”

"Well I'm glad because if we’ve been together this long and you didn't-"

His lips brush against yours stopping you mid-sentence with a soft sigh as you feel yourself melt into him.

"But at least after all this time, you know how to shut me up." You mutter against his lips.

"Had tah learn pretty quick."

“You think you’re so clever Dixon.”

“Naw.” Daryl nudges his nose against yours with the same soft smile that always makes you weak in the knees. “I’m just happy.”

“Happy that no matter how hard you work on this motorcycle it never seems to get fixed?” You raise an eyebrow.

“No.” He chuckles, raising an oil stained hand to your cheek. “Just happy.”

You lean into the gentle touch of the man you love with all your heart tracing the familiar lines of his worn face and feeling the roughness of his fingertips against the smooth skin of your cheek. The hands that had done so much, both good and bad, and yet were only gentle to you and touched you only with love and care.

“Me too.”

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Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this fic please feel free to read the other two in the same universe:

Meet Cute: How the reader and Daryl met

Your Fault: Daryl and the reader navigate a delicate situation.

[cameronspecial]

I wanted to ask if you could write something with rafe where reader does selfharm and he finds out? Maybe with a soft version of rafe

Not Going Anywhere

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: SELF-HARM and Talks of DEPRESSION (Please don't read if these are a trigger).

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.1K

A/N: If you or anyone you know are experiencing depression, then please know you are not alone and there are people who can help. The internet has information on the best places for you to go to in your country. Not tagging anyone just in case this is a trigger for anyone on my tag list.

Masterlist

It isn’t for attention. That is one assumption most people make whenever they see the scars. It’s the reason why she hides them on her hips. She doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing it because no one sees her naked, not even her boyfriend. The only times the marks see the light of day are when she changes or showers. She makes sure the cuts made can be hidden by her underwear and any panties or bikini bottoms she buys need to pass that test as well. 

No matter how wrong she knows it is, she can’t help but hold the cold sharp blade against the tough skin. It is resting on top of a barely healing scar because she has no other place for it. Her breath hitches as she pulls the Exacto knife across her, going a little farther than the mark already made. Tears are running down her face. Her eyes blur as she repeats the motion below the blooming red line. Her breath is uneven and hitches every time the metal touches her skin. In some sick way, the pain gives her a small relief. It gives her a reason.

Most people wonder why someone would cause harm to themselves. They would guess that the despair is caused by a lack of food, shelter, money, clothes or love. However, Y/N doesn’t have that issue. How could she when she is a kook? No, she has never felt hunger or fear and that is the cause of the turmoil inside of her head. Nonetheless, ever since she entered teenhood, she would experience these months-long periods of extreme sadness. She would do her best to hide them from everyone by pushing herself to get out of bed and go to activities that she would normally enjoy. She would make sure to cry when no one else was at home and to track her family members’ phones to verify she was alone. It was a secret she kept so deep within her that she started to question why she felt this way. That is when the true problems began. She felt guilty for feeling this despair without a reason and it was furthered by the secrets she had to keep, so she began to self-harm as her reason. In her brain, partly because of what society has told her, she needed a reason for why she was melancholy because there are people in the world who were dealt much tougher times in life. 

So, that is how she finds herself standing in front of the mirror, holding down the right side of her underwear and dragging an Exacto knife along her skin. She has fallen into one of her episodes and this time, it is the worst one to date. She has never pressed so hard into her skin with the blade. It has never bled this much. She curses as the blood begins to seep into the cotton of her underwear. Her attention is on stopping the red from staining her clothes, so she doesn’t hear the front door open. 

Rafe whistles whilst he uses his copy of the key to open Y/N’s front door. People thought it was too early when they exchanged house keys after only six months of dating. They didn’t though. It felt like the next step when she told him that she was saving herself for marriage. They found a different way to reach a new level of intimacy and it worked for them. Her house is eerily quiet and dark. Normally, she keeps the hallway lights on when she is home and if she is watching TV/listening to music, it is so loud that it could make a deaf person hear. He doesn’t let the lack of normality stop him from making his way to her bedroom, thinking nothing that her door is closed. He uses the doorknob to push it open and he is surprised to see her standing in front of the mirror with her hands pressing against her hip. It takes him a second to process that blood stains her hand. His shock turns to worry as he rushes to her side. He trips over something in his attempt to get to her and looks down to see a bloody Exacto knife, like the kind she uses to cut things for her art. He kicks it away and removes her hand from her side. He curses at the amount of blood. This needs stitches. 

“My love, what happened?” he asks, hoping the theory he has isn’t true. He sees the tears running down her face and the way her mouth opens and closes. She has no idea how to answer. The hiccups of her crying make it even harder. Instead of waiting for an answer, Rafe washes his hands and gets the first aid kit in her bathroom. He uses the bandage wrap inside it to catch the blood, instructing her to use it to apply pressure whilst he guides her to his car. The drive to the hospital is silent. 

———

Y/N told the medical practitioner the truth as to how she got the cuts and scars. She couldn’t lie with Rafe in the room. He had offered to step out, except she asked him to stay. She was tired of lying. It only added to her exhaustion. Y/N didn’t have to say much before the doctor excused herself to get a hospital psychiatrist. Rafe said nothing as she described the anguish she felt. He felt a sharp stab to his heart at every word she said, criticizing himself for not seeing the mental pain his girlfriend was in. 

With the doctor gone, he speaks up. “Is there anything I can do right now that can help you feel more comfortable?” She appreciates that he doesn’t assume that there is an easy fix to this or that at the moment there is something quick he can do to make her feel better. His focus on her comfort causes a flutter in her stomach. She nods, “Can you just hold me?” He joins her on the hospital bed and pulls her to his side. The buzz of the lights is the sole thing that can be heard for a while. “This isn’t your fault,” she clarifies, concerned that he might think it. He kisses her temple, “I know. Thank you for trusting me enough to be in the room when you told the doctor what happened. This isn’t your fault either and you are so brave for asking for help. If you want, I will be here to help you every step of the way.” A different kind of relief comes over her. She feels a glimmer of hope that she doesn’t have to do this alone. “I want you here,” she whispers, pressing her face into his side. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

[atlasthegreatest]

Breaking the Chains / Natasha Romanoff x Brother!Male Reader

Which, the Avengers embark on a mission to dismantle a sinister facility—a male version of the Red Room, designed to turn young men into weapons. Natasha Romanoff leads the charge, determined to save her younger brother— Y/n, who has been trapped in this program for years.

Word count: 2191

Warnings: PTSD. Red Room.

A/n: This was requested by an anon. I hope you like it!

The facility was crumbling around them, fire and dust mixing into the heavy air. The sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed in the background, but Natasha Romanoff’s focus was singular. Her feet moved with purpose as she scanned the darkened hallway. She knew what to look for—the same signs she once wore on her face and carried in her posture.

In this mission, the Avengers were not after weapons or secrets. They were after people—boys who had been subjected to something eerily familiar to Natasha. A male counterpart to the Red Room, hidden deep in the underbelly of the world. They had lived in the shadows for years, unnoticed, until an intercepted transmission tipped the Avengers off to the existence of this twisted program.

She pushed through the shattered remnants of a metal door and stepped into a cold, dimly lit cell block. A dozen pairs of frightened eyes met hers, boys barely in their teens and men no older than twenty-five.

Natasha scanned each face until she found the one she had been looking for: Y/n.

He sat huddled in the far corner of the cell, knees drawn to his chest, body folded in on itself as if trying to disappear into the cracked concrete wall behind him. His clothes hung loosely from his thin frame, and his hands trembled as they gripped his knees.

“Hey,” Natasha whispered, kneeling in front of him.

At first, Y/n didn’t respond. The years of training had taught him to suppress everything—fear, trust, and hope. But when he finally lifted his gaze, recognition flickered in his eyes. Y/n knew her, though not personally. She had been the ghost story among the instructors. The Black Widow—traitor to the cause, the one who escaped.

“I’ve got you,” Natasha said gently, her gloved hand hovering over Y/n's but not touching, waiting for him to make the first move. “We’re getting you out of here.”

Y/n flinched slightly at the sound of her voice but didn’t pull away when she rested a hand lightly on his arm. Her touch was steady—grounding.

“It’s over,” she said, her voice low and sure, like an unbreakable promise. “No more orders. No more missions.”

Y/n's lips parted, but no words came out. It was hard to believe it was real after everything. Freedom was a foreign concept, a dream too fragile to trust. But Natasha didn’t rush him. She crouched there, keeping her voice steady and calm as the chaos raged behind her.

“I know it’s scary,” she admitted. “But you’re not alone anymore. I’m here, and so are the others.”

When he didn’t resist, Natasha helped him to his feet. Y/n was shaky, each step slow, as if his body had forgotten what it was like to move without orders directing his every action. Natasha kept a careful hold on her arm—not tight, just enough to remind him she was there.

Together, they made their way through the collapsing facility, the flickering lights casting erratic shadows on the walls. Outside, the Avengers had cleared the area, and a Quinjet waited, its ramp lowered. Steve Rogers gave a tight nod to Natasha as she guided Y/n aboard, but the others knew better than to approach.

Natasha’s expression warned them all: Give him space.

————————-

The Avengers’ compound was vast, bright, and open—everything the cold, sterile facility had not been. But for Y/n, it was too much. Too big, too noisy, too unfamiliar.

Y/n rarely left the room they had set up for him, and when he did, it was always with Natasha at his side. The others tried to welcome him gently—Bruce offered books, Steve always nodded with quiet reassurance, and even Tony kept his quips subdued. But it was Natasha who knew how to reach him, because she had been where he was.

She didn’t push. When the others asked too many questions, Natasha would step in, redirecting the conversation with a subtle ease. She became Y/n's anchor, a quiet, constant presence that didn’t demand anything from him.

At night, when the nightmares came—and they always did—Natasha was there. The first time Y/n woke up gasping, covered in cold sweat, he thought she might be angry at being disturbed. But instead, she sat on the edge of his bed, her voice calm and low.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

When Y/n couldn’t sleep, she stayed up with him. Some nights, she talked about her own past, sharing bits and pieces she thought he might understand. Other nights, the two of them sat in silence, watching the night bleed into dawn.

She never asked him to talk about what happened—not until Y/n was ready.

————————-

It was weeks before Y/n said more than a few words at a time. The trauma ran deep, and trust was a hard-earned currency. But Natasha noticed the small changes. The way he started sitting with the others in the common room, though he always kept a little distance. The way his gaze softened when Sam told a joke or when Clint teased him about beating him at chess.

One afternoon, while sitting with Natasha on the balcony, Y/n surprised himself by speaking.

“They made us fight each other,” He said quietly, his voice brittle and uneven. “If you won, you got food. If you lost… you didn’t.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. She just nodded, her gaze steady. “I know.”

“They told us it made us stronger,” he added, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Made us perfect.”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They were wrong.”

For a moment, Y/n looked out over the horizon, the sky painted in hues of gold and pink. He felt the weight of her words settle in his chest—not just the words, but the way she said them, with the conviction of someone who knew exactly what he’d been through.

“You’re not what they made you,” Natasha said softly. “You’re more than that.”

Y/n swallowed hard, emotions swelling in his throat, but for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the need to shove them down. Natasha’s presence was a reminder that he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

————————-

Day by day, the Avengers helped Y/n find pieces of himself that he thought had been lost forever. Steve taught him how to cook—simple things, like pancakes and scrambled eggs. Sam dragged him into a movie marathon, making Y/n laugh for the first time in what felt like forever.

And Natasha? Natasha stayed by his side through all of it, giving him the space to heal at his own pace.

One evening, after a quiet dinner with the team, Y/n found yourself sitting beside Natasha on the couch, Clint sprawled out on the floor in front of them.

“See?” Natasha said, nudging Y/n's shoulder lightly. “They’re not so bad.”

Y/n gave a small, tentative smile. It felt strange on his face, but not unwelcome.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice soft but genuine. “They’re not.”

Natasha smiled too—gentle, patient, and proud. And for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt like maybe, just maybe, he belonged.

————————-

The Avengers became a rhythm—steady, sometimes chaotic, but reliable. Y/n was still learning how to navigate the whirl of personalities and noise, but Natasha was always a steady guide. She seemed to know exactly when to push and when to pull back, letting him stumble without ever letting him fall.

The nightmares didn’t stop, but Y/n got better at managing them. On nights when the darkness crept too close, he didn’t feel ashamed to knock softly on Natasha’s door. Sometimes, the two of them talked. Other times, Y/n sat quietly on the floor beside her bed until sleep returned. It didn’t matter—Natasha was patient, always patient.

But adjusting to life with the Avengers was harder than it looked from the outside. Even though they gave him space, their camaraderie felt foreign. Trusting them—really trusting them—was an uphill battle, but Natasha reassured him that it was okay to take his time.

“You don’t have to be anyone other than yourself,” she had said. “They’ll wait.”

————————-

It was Sam who cracked Y/n's defenses first, though it took him weeks of gentle persistence. He had a way of being both laid-back and direct, not giving him much room to overthink. One afternoon, Y/n found himself sitting across from him at the compound’s kitchen island, awkwardly holding a controller as he taught Y/n how to play some old-school racing game.

“Don’t worry,” Sam grinned. “I’ll go easy on you.”

He didn’t. Y/n lost every race, but he didn’t mind. For once, losing didn’t come with consequences. Sam’s laugh was loud and infectious, and before Y/n realized it, he found himself chuckling along.

“See?” Sam said, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’ve got a sense of humor in there somewhere.”

It was a small moment, but it was the first time Y/n’d felt… normal.

————————-

Training sessions with Steve Rogers were a different kind of therapy. He never barked orders or pushed Y/n beyond his limits. Instead, he treated each session like a lesson in self-control—teaching him to use his skills in ways that didn’t make him feel like a weapon.

“Strength is more than just force,” Steve would say. “It’s about knowing when not to fight.”

At first, it was hard to fight the reflex to be perfect, to push through every ache and bruise just to meet some invisible standard. But Steve never expected perfection. If Y/n faltered, he’d just nod and say, “Good. Now let’s try that again.”

One day, after a sparring match, Y/n hesitated as Steve packed up the training mats. “Thanks,” he muttered, the word feeling foreign but genuine.

Steve gave him that easy, reassuring smile of his. “Anytime.”

————————-

It was during one of Tony’s infamous pizza nights that Y/n realized how far he’d come. The team gathered in the common room, laughing and teasing each other over slices of greasy pepperoni. Y/n sat between Natasha and Clint, feeling oddly at ease even though he hadn’t said much all night.

At some point, Tony tried to rope him into a debate about who the best James Bond was. Y/n blinked, unsure if he was joking or not.

“C’mon, kid,” Tony said, grinning. “Tell me you’ve got an opinion on this. You have to.”

Before he could answer, Natasha smirked. “He’s still deciding if he likes any of us, Stark. Don’t scare him off with your movie rants.”

The team burst out laughing, and to Y/n's surprise, he found himself grinning too. Not because he had to, but because it felt right.

Natasha glanced at her brother from the corner of her eye, her expression soft and knowing. She didn’t say anything, but her small smile told him she was proud—and she realized he was too.

Bonus chapter:

Not every day was easy. Some mornings, the weight of the past dragged Y/n down like lead in his chest. Y/n still flinched at unexpected noises. Some nights, the nightmares left him breathless and paralyzed. But with Natasha, it didn’t feel like he had to face it alone.

One particularly bad night, Y/n couldn’t keep it all bottled up anymore. It was late—well past midnight—when the panic took over. Y/n found himself in Natasha’s room, pacing back and forth as he tried to control his breathing.

“They made us hurt each other,” he whispered, the words tumbling out faster than he could stop them. “Every day, every mission. If you hesitated, they punished you. They—”

Y/n's voice cracked, and he clenched his fists, furious at himself for breaking down. But Natasha didn’t look at Y/n with pity. She stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

“They wanted you to believe it was the only way,” Natasha said softly. “But it’s not.”

The anger, the shame, the guilt—it all poured out in a rush, and Natasha let him feel every bit of it without judgment. When Y/n finally sank to the floor, exhausted and drained, she sat beside him.

“You’re not what they made you,” she repeated gently. “And you’re not alone.”

————————-

Months passed, and slowly, Y/n found himself carving out a place among the Avengers. It wasn’t perfect—he still had hard days, and some wounds ran too deep to ever fully heal. But he was learning that it was okay to not be okay all the time.

Natasha stayed close, always ready to catch him if he stumbled. But she also gave him room to grow. Y/n started spending more time with the others—training with Steve, playing video games with Sam, and even laughing at Tony’s terrible jokes. They weren’t just teammates anymore. They were friends.

And one day, as the team gathered for another chaotic dinner, Y/n realized something that hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken: he wasn’t just surviving. He was living.

The thought was strange, almost surreal, but when Natasha met his gaze across the table and gave him a subtle, knowing nod, Y/n knew it was real.

He was home.

Any grammar mistakes will be fixed later

[backseatsoldier]

My Favorite Story

Pairing: König x Reader/You CW: Nada~ this is just Christmas cuteness! Prepare for fluff! (Ok it's... kinda sad. At first. But for a very important reason. I PROMISE-) Author's Note: Merry Christmas and happy holidays, @machveil! Thank you so much for your Daily König doodles! They're the highlight of my day, everyday <3

He can still hear their laughter. The laughter of everyone who made fun of how he looks. Throughout his entire childhood, that's all they would do - laugh at how he looks. Children can be so cruel. But that's why Rudolph would always be König's favorite. Rudolph was laughed at, made fun of - hell, the poor deer was even shunned. König couldn't possibly relate more to any character.

That's why, with a copy in hand, König intends on talking to the author/illustrator of a version of his favorite Christmas story. He will walk up to her and tell her thank you for giving him a beam of light in his life again and ask for her to sign the book.

He will.

When the line dies down.

During tomorrow's market.

At this point, the poor man is shaking with nervousness as he tries to convince himself to just walk up to her and ask her-

"Hey there! Doing ok? I see you have a copy of my book," she calls to him with a warm smile.

Oh... wow, she's pretty.

König gives her a quick nod of the head. He was going to speak, but he's not sure he remembers how to right now. Instead he's standing there with a copy of her book clutched tightly to his chest and wishing that he'd either find his voice or that the ground would open up beaneath him and swallow him quickly.

Neither seem likely at the moment.

"Well, come on over!" She waves him closer and he obliges, stopping just to the side of her booth. "I mean in here, silly."

She giggled.

König might melt.

Yet he listens, hunching over to step into her booth.

"I saw you at the charity event."

He nods again, shaking even more now that he's so close to her.

"Would you like me to sign it? It's ok. I don't mind."

Gott, she's so sweet. She saw him at the chairty event that was intended for people to have her book signed which means she knew he didn't approach for a signature there. Now she's just... offering to sign it for him? How could he say no?

"Bist du sicher?" he manages to push out.

The author's smile turns a bit nervous.

"Ah... Ja natürlich. Es ist kein problem."

König can't help the little smile that creeps onto his half-masked face. Her pronunciation is a bit... wonky, but he thinks it's cute. So he nods and - shakily - hands her the book.

She seems relieved as he nods and hands her the book. Then she pulls a metallic silver Sharpie from her coat pocket.

"Who should- oh. Wem... soll ich das mitteilen?"

As cute as he finds it when she speaks German, he doesn't want to make her anymore uncomfortable than he feels he already has.

"It is alright," he says softly. "I speak English. But, um... me. König."

Hearing him speak English seems to make her shoulders relax a bit and her warm smile returns, reaching her eyes again.

"Alrighty!"

Without another word she skillfully flips open the book and uncaps her Sharpie with her teeth. As she writes, she starts to hum Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Hearing her humming the song has König relaxing too.

She suddenly scribbles something quickly in the book - her actual signature, he assumes - then passes the book back to him.

"It was nice to meet you, King. See you around the market."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise over her translating his name. König doesn't have time to respond as she's already back to the line of fans in front of her booth. Not wanting to hover, he silently steps out of her booth and begins walking away.

When he returns home, he opens his book to see her signature- and a message?

"I hope Rudoloph brings you the comfort he always did for me. Happy holidays, König~"

Below her signature is what König can only assume is her phone number. Without hesitation, he sends her a quick thank you text and apoligizes for being so odd at the market.

You're so welcome! I wasn't sure you'd actually text me lol but... odd? I figured you were just nervous - I have social anxiety and your mannerisms felt familiar so I did my best to make things easier on us both :)

König can't help the butterflies in his stomach or the way his heart seemed to flutter at her quick response. And maybe even the fact that she actually responded.

Maybe this will be a merry Christmas season after all.

Translations (per Google Translate so I apologize if it's inaccurate!): Gott - God Bist du sicher? - Are you sure? Ja natürlich. Es ist kein Problem. - Yes, of course. It is no problem. Wem soll ich das mitteilen? - Who should I make this out to?

CoD Christmas (Meet) Cuties Masterlist

[luveline]

Would you be willing to write a little blurb of Steve comforting reader who is in recovery from self harm? I know this is a very no no subject for some writers so I understand if this is a no!

fem!reader !! cw self harm (mention of the self injury, no active graphic imagery, but some details that could be evocative)

You’ve taken to curling up in whatever space he leaves. In bed, you sidle close to his side with your ear to his stomach. On the couch, you’re laying on his lap, every breath a press of ribs against his thighs. If Steve’s on a sun lounger in the backyard, you’re sitting on the ground next to him with an arm hooked over his leg and your cheek bitten by metal.  

It’s sort of odd to see your arms without red cuts and welts. Curled again, you and Steve are sitting on the porch watching the sun dropping lazily to the horizon, the sky a funny shade of blue. You’re actually turned away from the sun and toward the house, Steve to the sun, like inverted commas interlinked. Your hand is on his leg, and your arm is bare and starkly uninjured. 

That’s too generous, maybe. Evidence of a bad habit long to kick tracks the length of you, white and purple and red scars criss-crossed through your skin. 

He’s seen them thick with dried blood and sore to the touch. Your skin aflame. Not because you’ve ever showed him of your own volition, you wouldn’t. You’ve always likened your self-injury to a contagion. “I don’t wanna put thoughts in your head,” you whispered. 

It was a nice concern for you to have, but Steve isn’t at any risk of hurting himself (purposefully, at least). He has no urges. He didn’t even know people did stuff like that until he met you. Maybe that’s why it breaks his heart so much. You hurt so much. You feel terrible and you take it out on yourself and Steve just doesn’t get it, ‘cos you’re aces. 

He never shied away from it, even if he didn’t like that you were doing it. He still remembers the first time he realised what you were doing, his confusion, the immediate internal recoil. How could you do that to yourself? Why would you? You’ve always been prone to that awful persisting sadness under the skin, but Steve knows a lot of sad people. He knows what it’s like to wish vehemently that you were a better version of yourself, or somebody else, or just gone. 

But you’re doing better now. He resists the urge to kiss your hands whenever he sees you and you act like you aren’t doing a brave thing. 

Steve’s stupid but he’s not stupid. (Or, at least he feels that way.) He knows you’re finding it hard to stop, like an addict. It’s a habit. A behaviour that takes conscious effort to break until it doesn’t. The worst bit is that you never even asked for help. 

Your hand twitches on his leg. 

Steve curls a hand behind your neck, kissing you softly, the silky press of your lips to his. You inhale and cut the quiet buzz of cicadas, your breath surprised but not tight. 

“Sorry,” he says, “was that okay? I was just thinking about you.” 

“It’s fine.” You laugh against his lips and take a kiss, evening the score. “It’s always okay. Kiss me whenever you want.” 

“You looked mopey,” he says. Foot in mouth disease forever. 

“I’m not mopey, just distracted.” 

“I know, it’s offensive. You come over here to hang out and spend the last hour in deep thought.” He makes it clear he’s joking through his light tone and his smile, your eyes met, his hand sliding down your shoulder and your arm. He’s especially careful as his fingers run down your forearm. You watch the path of his hand as it falls, twining your fingers weakly with his. “You can tell me anything.” 

“I do tell you anything.” 

“Well, just telling you again.” He kisses your cheek, then, less gentle, your lips. 

You have this aversion to saying the worst part out loud. There’s always a metaphor or an omission. You can’t say cut, it’s too much, but you’ve said hurt. You’ll admit to self injury but not the action. “It’s fine,” you say now. 

“I think you’re doing a good job.” 

You laugh softly through your nose. “Thank you.” 

“I’m not kidding.” He blows a breath up his face. “Look, can I just be honest with you?” 

Your smile turns uneasy at his bluntness. “Um. Are you breaking up with me?” 

Steve shakes his head. “Never,” he says, pushing your sleeve up your arm slowly, and then faster when you don’t resist. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you without them.” He doesn’t say cuts either, mostly for your sake. 

“Sorry.” 

He shakes his head again. “For what? I’m just saying. You’ve had them this whole time and I’ve never– they’ve never stopped me from wanting to kiss your face off.” He probably shouldn’t make jokes. He backtracks. “I mean, they don’t make a difference to me, I like you even if you can’t, uh… Even if the impulse is too much. But I’m thrilled you’re, you know, not doing it.” 

“I know,” you murmur. 

“I love you.” 

“I know.” Your voice is nearly inaudible, “That’s why it’s easier now.” 

His heart swells with pride and love and an unfightable want to hug you. He slides his arms around you from under your armpits, forcing you to hug his neck, stealing a kiss to the cheek as he squeezes you forward. “I just want you to know that I get it. Like, how hard you’re working to not do it.”

“Steve,” you admonish quietly. 

“Sorry, I’ll stop talking about it if you want.” 

“I mean… It's kinda nice to talk about it. It’s not in my head.” 

“It’s not in your head.” 

“But it feels weird ‘cos it’s like, something I should be doing anyways. It’s like getting praise for washing your hands.” 

Steve thinks there’s a pretty big difference between wanting to hurt yourself but resisting it and washing your hands, but he knows what you’re saying. Doesn’t agree, but doesn’t want to invalidate you either. However you need to think about it to get through it is up to you. “I can praise you for washing your hands. I want to.” 

Steve encourages you to turn into the sunshine. You lay your cheek against his shoulder. “Love you,” you say, your hand on his leg. 

He stares right at the sun and blinks hurriedly. “I love you too.” 

[jaydedstories24]

For who YOU are– Michael Langdon AHS apocalypse

Summary: after Cordelia kills Ms mead Michael Langdon kills the other witches but takes the reader hostage when he sees that the others have escaped. For the first time in Michael’s life, someone wants to know what he wants.

Warnings: kidnapping, being held hostage, Burning someone at the stake, swearing, talk of abuse.

Word count: 1.6+

Tags: @ajokeformur-ray

Y/n POV

“where did you guys go?” I say to everyone that's just walked in the door.

“To take care of a problem, dear” Myrtle says.

“and is there a reason why you went without me but everyone else” I asked.

I take a look at Zoe, Madison, queenie, Mallory and Cordelia they're all dressed in black.

“ You burnt someone at the stake didn't you” I accuse.

“Yes y/n if you must know we burnt someone at the stake” Cordelia walked passed me.

“Who” I asked.

Cordelia hasn't really spoken to me or has been really arrogant since Michael came into our lives apparently I'm the only one here that doesn't see him what everyone else says he is.

“Who” I yelled.

“the old lady with the black hairstyle” Madison answers.

“Ms. Mead you killed Ms. why on earth would you do that” I freak out.

“To show Michael that I’m done messing around with him” Cordelia says

Taking her by surprise I put both of my hands on the side of her head and forced myself into her memories.

Flashes, the burning, the smell of charred flesh.

“I will kill you all” Michael promised.

I take my hands off of Cordelia.

“I am your supreme you may have gifts that the others don’t but you will not use them on me” she orders.

“Some supreme you are you’ve practically signed our death certificates with that you do understand right? At least Fiona would’ve made a truce with him” I yell.

“Do not use my mother against me y/n” Cordelia scolds.

“I have gifts you don’t that is correct it’s also why I told you not to attack Michael everything I saw everything I warned you about” I told Cordelia.

“What you saw maybe true but that side of Michael is long gone I gave him a chance today and he turned it down” Cordelia replied.

“Of course he did you killed the one person he thought who loved him what did you think that you were going to walk off arm in arm, embrace the coven that killed the closest thing to he ever had to a mother. I don’t think he would want to bake cookies with you Cordelia” I spat

“I’m strong enough to take him y/n” Cordelia says.

“That’s a laugh” I smiled.

I turned around to walk back up the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going Missy?” Cordelia questioned.

“To paint my nails so that they’re fresh for my inevitable death, are you coming Madi? I invite her.

“No, this shits crazy I’m out for what it’s worth y/n I hope you live you’re the only one I like around here.” She walks out the front door.

“When Michael comes here and trust me he will. I won’t fight him and I won’t protect you” I warn

I walked upstairs.

Red.

Red I think is a fantastic colour to paint your nails before you die. I think painting them black is just a little on the nose.

It has started my blood runs cold I can hear the witches downstairs especially the younger ones calling out for me. But if I have any chance of being able to really meet Michael for who he is I can’t do anything. So I put my headphones on and paint my last nail.

I look up when I smell the metallic scent that blood gives off.

Michael stands at my door my breath hitches. It’s different looking into Michael’s eyes they’re look hardened much unlike the sweet past version I saw him as in murder house. However they still have the Same jaded look on his face

He stands there for a moment before racing towards me I only flinch when he blows black dust into my face.

Floating? I feel I’m floating I don’t open my eyes I’m too tired and strangely I’m at peace.

I feel someone put me on what feels like a wooden chair and put something on my wrist.

My head rolls forward and I wake up.

“Thank Satan I thought you were going to sleep forever then you wouldn’t have been very helpful to me” Michael says.

“Yeah well that stuff smells like goats ass” I say half smart.

“No that would be me actually” he tells me.

Now that he says that it gives me a moment to take in his appearance disheveled, dirty but mostly he looks broken.

“Listen Michael I know you’re going through a hard time–“ I start.

“A hard time your witches killed my Ms mead and now you’re going to help me” he yells.

“I’m not going to be much help to you” I say quietly.

“You will help me whether you like it or not” he towers over me.

To my surprise I don’t quiver when he stands over me.

“You see when the witches when they notice you’re gone they will have to come out of hiding and look for you” he tells me.

“No they won’t we got into a disagreement. I’ve been arguing with the coven for months now” I disagree with him.

There’s a look in his eyes that proves he wants to believe me but some part that thinks he can’t after everything he’s been through.

I struggle with the rope’s around my wrists. They start burning.

“They’re cursed ropes they won’t hurt you unless you try to escape” he says.

In this moment I found that interesting he doesn’t intend to hurt me. I stop resisting and relax.

“You say that the coven has had a disagreement with you. What could possibly cause that much of a rift that they wouldn’t protect their own” he asks me.

Michael sits down on a wooden box waiting for my answer.

“You, we had a disagreement about you” I answered hesitantly.

He leans forward slightly, “what about me?”

“They think you’re evil” I answered.

Michael seems suspicious for a moment, “you don’t”

I shake my head.

“Why” he scoffs.

“Because after you performed the seven wonders and the extra challenges Cordelia made us look into you. She sent Madison and I to the house you grew up in”

“What did you find there?. Did you find whatever proof you were looking for?” He seems intrigued.

“The others found what they needed to crucify you but I don’t agree with them” I answered honestly.

“If you went looking then you would have also found that I am the Antichrist” he says.

“But that doesn’t make you evil Michael it makes you powerful. I know about your upbringing, about Constance’s abuse, trying to get to know Tate as your dad and your interesting relationship with Ben. Michael I know a lot about you and I understand it but everyone your entire life has done nothing but force their opinions on you” I say softly.

He takes a moment to comprehend everything I just said to him.

“So you know full well everything I am so you understand why I’m so upset about Ms. Mead she is the one person who didn’t force anything on to me” he says softly.

I sighed. He hasn’t realised it yet but she was using him too.

“Don’t suggest otherwise to me don’t lie to me” he orders.

“Michael I’m not I promise to you I’m not” I tell him.

He seems to be waiting for an explanation.

“I have a particular gift that allows me to adsorb a memory and share it with other people would it be okay if I could share it with you” I asked him.

“That’s a trick I know better than that do not take me for a fool. You just want me to untie your hands” he says.

“No, Michael I use touch to transfer the memory using touch. I don’t want you to untie my hands until you’re ready, until you trust me and only then. I’m asking for permission to touch you” I explain.

He walks over to me and kneels down to my level, “do whatever you have to do, show me”

I lean forward the smell doesn’t really bother me anymore. I lean forward far enough that I’m barely touching him. I just need confirmation that he’s okay with this.

He stares at me with his blue eyes that seem to be staring into my soul. “Y/n it’s okay, kiss me.” This is the first time he’s said my name.

My lips touch his and lock my touch is as light as feather. I whisper the spell I need to to show him the memory.

He stays there absolutely shocked for a moment tearing and shaking.

He quickly undoes the ropes.

“I don’t even know what to say as shocking as it is I am thankful for the truth how can I thank you,what can I do for you ” he tells me.

Tears slide down his face.

I hug him. “Michael I want to get to know you for who you are.

The end

Author’s note this is my first post on my new account hope you like it. Anyway this is inspired by a conversation I had with a friend sorry I didn’t get to it sooner I’ve been busy

Requests are open

[iamleesi]

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐓 ☠︎

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝'𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝟑𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟, 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟. 18+.

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤! 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 "𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄" 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!

-> [ 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 ] [ 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟏 ] [ 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟯 ]

𝐺𝐻𝑂𝑆𝑇 𝐺𝐼𝑅𝐿: 𝐻𝑢𝑠���, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝘩𝑢𝑠𝘩, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑑𝑎𝑚 𝑚𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𓃠 ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ 𓃠

It had been a few days since she first crawled through the tunnel and found him. The other Bucky. He looked perfect, like he always had - messy hair, soft stubble, the kind of smile that made her stomach turn in the best way. And the world he existed in? Flawless. At least, the small parts of it she’d seen so far. Every corner felt like it had been plucked from her happiest dreams and set up just for her.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t completely drown out the nagging voice in the back of her head, the one that whispered that this couldn’t be real. Because she’d seen him dead. His lifeless body, pale and cold. She’d stood there, trembling, as his casket was lowered into the ground.

So how? How could he be here now, smiling at her like nothing had happened?

Every time she tried to bring it up, he’d hush her doubts with a touch of his hand or a soft word. “Don’t think about that.” He’d say. “It doesn’t matter how. What matters is that I’m here for you. I need you.”

She heard that last part a lot. Almost every time she crossed back into this world, every time she returned to his arms, he’d remind her that he needed her. It felt like a lifeline, something that tethered her to this impossible version of him.

Every night, after the comfort of his embrace lulled her to sleep, she’d wake up in the real world again. Alone. The emptiness of her bed in the morning was a shot through the heart, and the loss would hit her all over again. Because that world without him was unbearable. It was cold, and cruel, and hollow.

But here, in his world, she could hear his heartbeat. Feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Smell the faint scent of his cologne on the sweater she never thought she’d touch again.

So she was torn. Every time she crossed back into reality, she hated it more and more. She hated how it reminded her that he wasn’t there anymore, that he’d been ripped away from her. But there was another part of her, the part that clung to her memories of their life together, that whispered that this wasn’t right.

She tried not to listen to that part.

Because, honestly? She wanted to stay. With him. The buttons for eyes didn’t matter anymore. That was her Bucky - her stubborn but soft-hearted Bucky. And in this world, there was no Hydra, no missions, no lives at risk for other people’s fights. Their friends lived carefree in cozy little cottages scattered around the area - as Bucky said. No battles, no sacrifices, just simple dinners and lazy afternoons. Even his metal arm was gone.

Now she knelt in the dirt, her knees on a foam pad Bucky had brought her earlier, muttering something about how “his girl deserves comfort.” He’d even tied her red apron for her, the bow sitting perfectly in the small of her back. It was a silly little thing, but she’d smiled like an idiot as he adjusted the strings, his fingers lingering for just a moment too long.

Her thoughts spiraled as she dug her hands into the soil, planting some cute flowers in a neat little row outside the house. As much as she wanted to believe this was real, a flicker of doubt still simmered under her ribs, she couldn’t help it.

“Hey, doll.” A familiar voice called out, breaking her trance. She startled slightly but smiled instinctively as she looked up to see him.

Bucky stood a few feet away, holding two glasses of lemonade in one hand and brushing dirt off the apron he wore with the other. It was a cheerful shade of green, smudged with grass, and tied a little too tightly around his waist. It looked exactly like the ones they’d worn together in the real world, back when they’d baked cookies during Christmas. Back when she still had him. “You’re overthinking things again, aren’t you?” He teased, a knowing grin tugging at his lips.

She chuckled softly, brushing her hands on her matching apron. “Maybe.” She admitted as he extended a hand to help her up. His grip was firm, grounding, and when she stood, he pressed one of the cold glasses into her free hand.

“Do you know how much I love seeing you out here, planting all these flowers?” He said, gesturing to the budding garden around them. “It’s like you’re giving some life into this place. And to me.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned her attention back to the flowers. “I’m trying.”

“You are, and I love the view. Double win for me and the place.”

She laughed, shaking her head as she sprayed a little too much water on the marigolds. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, finally looking over at her, and the warmth in his expression made her chest ache in the best way. “Impossible or not, I’m all yours.”

Her smile faltered for just a moment, and she swallowed hard, trying to ignore the lump forming in her throat. He had no idea how much those words meant to her - how much she’d longed to hear them again. She blinked quickly, pushing the emotion down before it could spill over.

“Everything okay?” He asked, tilting his head as he set the shears down.

She took a sip of the lemonade, its tartness cooling her throat, and smiled faintly. “I just… I do it a lot lately - thinking, I mean. This all feels so surreal. That I’ve been given a second chance. Why me? Why not someone else?”

“Why not you?” He countered gently, his tone warm and reassuring.

“But it’s just… why does it have to be like this?” She hesitated, her voice dropping to a murmur. “It’s beautiful, but it feels like I cheated. Like I’m running away from something I’m supposed to face.”

He reached out, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. “You didn’t cheat anything. You found me. This world - it only works if the person searching for it needs it more than anything. It shaped itself for you, based on what you’ve been missing, what your heart’s been crying out for.”

“What’s the price?” She asked, her voice low but steady, though the words felt like shards in her throat.

At that, he licked his lower lip, his gaze flickering with something unreadable - hesitation, maybe. As if he was weighing whether or not to tell her, whether or not she was ready to hear it. Or he was ready to say it.

“Bucky?” She pressed, her heartbeat quickening.

“It’s…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was nervous. “It’s nothing compared to how we’d live. Come inside with me, doll. I’ll show you.”

Her stomach twisted at the vague response, and even as she nodded and followed him, a cold, nagging voice in the back of her mind reminded her that nothing good came without a price. She knew it.

She trailed behind him into the house, her hands trembling slightly as they entered the cozy living room. He motioned for her to sit, and she did so reluctantly, sinking into the couch. Her nerves refused to settle.

Bucky crouched in front of her, sitting on the coffee table with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands firm on her thighs. The warmth of his touch anchored her, and yet she couldn’t shake the unease coiling in her chest.

“I want you to consider it, at least.” He began, his tone measured, his gaze fixed on hers. “I know it sounds… bad, maybe even awful. And it could scare you off. But the choice is yours.” His thumbs moved in slow circles on her thighs, as if soothing her for what he was about to say.

Her brows furrowed, and she leaned forward slightly. “What choice?”

He sighed, pulling a small box from his apron pocket. It was plain, unassuming, but the weight of it felt suffocating even before he opened it.

“You can go back to the real world, where I’m gone. Where I’ll never come back. Where you’ll grieve, and move on, and live without me.” His voice softened as he spoke, his eyes - well, his buttons - searching hers for any sign of what she was thinking. “Or…”

He flipped open the box with a quiet snap. Inside, on a bed of soft fabric, were two small, black buttons and a delicate needle threaded with dark, glimmering string.

Her stomach dropped. “No.”

“Think about it.” His response came immediately, his voice steady and calm as if he’d anticipated her reaction. He pushed the box aside and leaned forward, taking her hands in his. She flinched slightly, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened - not enough to hurt, but enough to keep her there.

“Bucky.” She whispered, her voice barely audible. Her eyes flicked from his hands to the buttons and back, her mind racing. “You can’t be serious. That’s insane. I’m insane for even being here, for…”

“For wanting this?” He interrupted gently. “For wanting me?” His hands softened around hers, his touch turning tender again. “I know it’s a lot. And I know it’s not what you expected. But this is the only way, doll. The only way we can be together - really, truly together again. Like we planned. It doesn’t even hurt, it will just sting a little bit.”

“This is fucked up.” She said. “The Bucky I know, the real you, would never ask me to do this.”

“I told you I’m not him. Just another version who loves you just the same.” His lips twitched into a bittersweet smile. “The real me is gone, sweetheart. This me, the one sitting here with you, the one who’s waited for you, who needs you… I’m the Bucky you’ve been praying for, the one you begged to have back. The only one you can have. Don’t you see? You don’t have to lose me again.”

She wanted to scream, to run, to crawl back through that door and never look back. But she also wanted him - to have him, hold him, hear his voice every day for the rest of her life. Just at the thought of living her life without him was enough to consider what he was saying.

Her gaze dropped to the buttons. “I don’t know if I can.” She whispered.

“You don’t have to decide now.” He said, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “But you will have to make the decision soon enough. This world may be perfect, but it has rules.”

After that, the day went on as usual, as if the conversation about buttons and impossible choices had never even happened. Bucky didn’t bring it up again, and she didn’t dare to.

Everything about the way he held her hand, kissed her temple, and leaned close to her when he told stories about their relationship, that of course she already knew, was so perfectly him. It felt so easy, so natural, but she couldn’t entirely silence the gnawing feeling in the back of her mind, the one that whispered about the things she was trying so hard not to think about.

The buttons. No matter how she looked at it, that was her main concern at the moment.

Would it really be so bad, she wondered, to do what he was asking? Was it really so much to give? If sewing buttons into her eyes meant she could stay in this world - with him - wasn’t it worth it? He had told her she didn’t have to decide right away, and yet she could feel the weight of the decision silently pressing her.

By the time evening rolled around, her head felt heavy with the back-and-forth debate she had been waging with herself all day. She was standing on the porch, slipping off Bucky’s boots with a scowl when the thoughts came rushing back again. The man, other Bucky or not, had a bad habit of walking through the house with muddy shoes, something that had annoyed her to no end in the real world, too.

“Perfect world, my ass.” She said quietly, kneeling to brush dirt off the porch. “After all this time, I thought you understood the phrase ‘no dirt in the house’, Barnes!” She said loud enough for him to hear.

“Sorry, baby!” His voice called from the kitchen.

“Idiot.”

She set his shoes neatly next to hers, brushing the caked remaining dirt off her hands when something in her peripheral vision caught her attention. A shadow, slight and quick, darting across the edge of the garden.

She turned her head, squinting into the fading light. It was a cat. A black cat, sitting just beyond the garden’s edge. The fur was very obviously unkempt, one ear ragged and torn like it had been in a fight. It sat there, still, its tail curling and uncurling behind it as its blue eyes were fixed on her.

It was the same black cat from the real world, she realized, the one that always seemed to prowl around her property at all hours of the day. She used to catch small glimpses of it lounging on her fence or slinking through the garden. Back then, she’d joked to herself that it probably had a thing for Alpine. And of course, it would be here. If this world was a near-perfect replica of the one she left behind, why wouldn’t it include the same stray animals?

But now that she thought about it, that was strange too. Where were the animals? She hadn’t seen so much as a bird or squirrel flitting through the trees. And Alpine - her beloved Alpine - was nowhere to be found. That absence hit her like a brick. She hadn’t even questioned Alpine’s absence. She cursed herself for it now. Bucky had consumed her thoughts so completely that she hadn’t had room for anything - or anyone - else.

“Hello there.” She said softly, stepping toward the cat. “You hungry?”

“No.”

She froze, her hand pausing mid-reach.

The voice was low and clear, but it wasn’t Bucky’s.

Straightening her back, she quickly glanced around, expecting to see someone else standing nearby. But the porch was empty, save for her and the cat. “Hello?”

“Down here.” The voice said again.

Her eyes darted back to the cat. It sat perfectly still, tail curling and uncurling lazily as it stared at her.

Her pulse quickened. “Did you… Did you just talk?”

“Yes.” The cat said, sounding almost bored. Its voice was smoother than she expected, tinged with a dry, unimpressed humor. “And no, I’m not hungry. But she is.”

Her chest tightened as she whipped around, scanning the empty garden for signs of another person - or something. “She who?”

The cat didn’t move, its eyes never leaving her. “You know who. You’re a smart human, don’t fall for this trap.” It said, the slow flick of its tail suddenly feeling less lazy and more menacing. “So leave, before she loses her patience and takes what she wants. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. This had to be some kind of sick joke. Or maybe she was losing her mind. Slowly, she turned back to the cat. “What are you talking about?” She sounded demanding, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound firm.

The cat only tilted its head, the corner of its torn ear twitching. “Tell Alpine I see the way she looks at me.”

Her jaw practically hit the floor as she watched the cat vanish into the shadows of the night, leaving her standing there dumbfounded. She stared at the empty space where it had been, her mind spinning. How the hell had her life taken this turn? A talking cat? Cryptic warnings? What was next? The Slender Man?

With a heavy huff, she turned on her heel and marched back inside, shutting the door firmly behind her. She padded into the kitchen in her pink, fluffy slippers, trying to shake off the surreal encounter. “The weirdest thing just happened, Buck.” She blurted as soon as she stepped into the room.

But then her eyes met his - well, his buttons. She froze mid-step, swallowing hard and clearing her throat. “Never mind.”

Bucky, standing by the counter with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow. “You okay?” He asked, his voice tinged with a soft laugh.

“Yeah, I think so.” She replied, walking over to him. The moment she reached him, she let her forehead rest against his shoulder with a deep sigh. Was it contentment? Was it exhaustion? She wasn’t sure anymore.

Bucky didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. The familiar warmth of his embrace, the way his hands rested protectively on her shoulders, sent a wave of much needed comfort through her.

“Why isn’t Alpine here?” She asked softly, her voice muffled against his chest. “She’s still alive in the other world. I can bring her here tomorrow morning.”

The change in his body language was immediate. His arms stiffened ever so slightly, and she felt the pause in his breath before he answered. “No.”

She frowned, pulling back just enough to look up at him, confusion etched across her face. His tone had been quiet but firm, and it threw her completely off guard. “What do you mean, ‘no?’” She asked, her eyebrows drawing together. “It’s Alpine. Our Alpine. What’s wrong with bringing her here?”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a thin smile - one that didn’t quite reach the stitched buttons where his eyes should’ve been. “I don’t like cats.” He said simply. Sternly. As if the thought of cats disgusted him.

Her frown deepened, the words making no sense to her. “What?” She said, blinking at him. “Since when? You love cats. You’re the one who brought Alpine home in the first place!“

His hand came up to cup her cheek, the gentle gesture disarming her even as his words made her stomach twist. “Not this time, doll.” He said softly. “We don’t need anything else. It’s just us here. Cats have a tendency to ruin everything.”

The words rang in her head for a moment, refusing to fade even as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and deliberate. It was the kind of kiss meant to disarm her, like he always did when he made her mad, to silence whatever questions were beginning to form on the edge of her tongue. She wanted to ask, to argue, but before she could even gather her thoughts, he was already gone. He was walking out of the kitchen muttering something about taking a quick shower.

She stayed rooted in place, staring at the empty doorway, her fingers curling instinctively around the edge of the counter. Something about the conversation, about him, felt off; she couldn’t deny that. But again, technically that wasn’t the old Bucky so maybe this version just hated cats?

She had no idea of how many red flags she was ignoring just for the sake of finding that happiness again. With him.

She shook her head sharply, trying to clear the haze. Overthinking again. She did that a lot here. It wasn’t as if the real world made any more sense (Wanda had a habit of doing weird things with her magic, lately), so why couldn’t she just… let go? Why couldn’t she accept that maybe, just maybe, this was her second chance?

Her eyes drifted to the pile of clothes near the doorway: that was gonna be her distraction from the mess in her head. Gardening with him earlier had been calming, grounding, but their clothes had the evidence of their afternoon - smudges of dirt, streaks of green from the grass. His apron was folded on top of the pile, wrinkled and stained.

With a deep breath, she made her way toward the basement door after gathering the clothes into her arms. It creaked as she pushed it open, revealing a small staircase that disappeared into the dark space below. She hesitated for a moment, her grip tightening on the clothes. Something about the basement always managed to make her uneasy, though she couldn’t explain why. Maybe she watched too many horror movies? Probably.

Even she had to admit the basement felt… off? Not creepy at all, though: no bad smells, no weird drips of water hitting the ground with a rhythm. It was just different. Cleaner, brighter, almost ominous how perfect it seemed. Oh, and that picture hanging on the wall of the staircase ? Yeah, it wasn’t the same either.

Back in the real world, that kid was crying, ice cream dripping down his hand like the worst day of his life. Here, though? The boy was smiling wide and the cone perfectly intact. It wasn’t like the rules of this place made any sense anyway. A “perfect reality,” right? So, of course, even random wall art was upgraded to match the vibe. Cool.

She forced herself to focus, dumping the gardening clothes into the washing machine and starting it up without wasting a second.

Good. Done. Get out of here before the imaginary basement monster shows up, she thought. It was a dumb fear - childish, even - but oh well. Basements always gave her the creeps. She turned toward the stairs, ready to bolt, when something caught her eye.

A splash of yellow sticking out of an old wooden chest shoved into the corner.

She froze - bad vibes coming from it. For a second, she considered ignoring it, pretending she didn’t see it at all. But curiosity always got the better of her, again. She moved closer, almost expecting a jump scare of some sort, her hand hesitating before finally grabbing the fabric and pulling it free.

It was just a raincoat.

Tiny, bright yellow, and smeared with dried mud. Her stomach twisted as she held it up, the sleeves limp in her hands. This wasn’t Bucky’s. It couldn’t be. He was built like a tank, and this thing looked like it belonged to a kid - a little kid.

Her mind raced. She hadn’t seen any children since she arrived. Not one. Just her and Bucky. And that cat, if that counted.

But there it was. The muddy raincoat of some kid who didn’t seem to exist in this perfect world. Or maybe it didn’t exist anymore? Or maybe it did at some point.

She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the fabric. “Shit.” She muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the hum of the washing machine.

“Doll? Where are you?” His voice floated down from the upper floor, pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts.

Her heart skipped, panic bubbling up as she quickly shoved the raincoat back into the chest, slamming the lid down with more force than she meant to. She bolted up the stairs, her breath slightly unsteady, and nearly bumped into him as he appeared in the hallway.

“What were you doing down there?” He asked, his brow furrowed, eyes - well, still those fucking buttons - narrowing ever so slightly.

“The laundry?” She blurted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It was true, but it came out sounding like a question.

“Ah.” His expression softened, the tension vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He smiled, bright and sweet, like he always did when she was close. “Thank you, doll. You didn’t have to, though. You know that, right? You don’t have to lift a finger around here if you don’t want to. I could’ve done it.”

“I know.” She gave a small shrug, her arms folding protectively across her chest. “I just thought… I don’t know. I don’t mind doing the laundry here.”

Her voice faltered slightly at the end, and an unwelcome thought crept into her head. You couldn’t even look at the laundry back home. Too many of his shirts still smelled like him. Too many memories. But she shook it off, forcing herself to focus on him, on the present - or whatever that world was.

Bucky tilted his head, studying her for a moment like he was waiting for her to say more, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked, a soft chuckle escaping him, though his gaze lingered. “Every time I leave you alone, I find you all panicked. And yes, I notice.”

“No, yeah, I know. I’m fine.” She nodded quickly. “I promise. Just… zoned out for a second, I guess.”

“Alright.” He leaned in and kissed her temple, his lips warm against her skin. “You’ve been through a lot. I just don’t want you worrying about anything while you’re here. This place is for you to be happy. To rest.”

She offered him a weak smile, and he seemed satisfied enough to let it drop.

But the coat was still on her mind.

. . .

After a few hours after that, they were sprawled on the couch together, her legs stretched over his lap, her body nestled into his side. It was late - later than she normally stayed in this world. Usually, she made sure to fall asleep next to him just in time to wake up in the real one at a normal hour and feed Alpine, but tonight… tonight she let herself linger. The air felt different.

He made it too easy. The way his hand traced absentminded patterns on her arm, the low hum of his laugh when something on-screen amused him, the warmth radiating from him - it was like he’d been plucked straight from her dreams. And maybe he had been. Like it once had.

“You sure you don’t want to head to bed, doll?” He asked, his voice quiet but gentle, breaking through her haze.

“Not yet.” She murmured, her head resting against his shoulder. “I don’t want to move at the moment.”

“Alright.” He said with a smile, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re lucky I don’t mind having you here forever.”

She curled closer to him, as if the simple act could keep her from thinking too much. But, of course, it didn’t. Her gaze flicked to his hand resting on her knee, his fingers so gentle, so familiar. And then her thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the basement. Back to the raincoat. Maybe she was being a bit exaggerated. Paranoid, even. But she was never good at keeping her mouth shut.

She bit her lip, her heart picking up speed. She didn’t want to ruin the moment, but the question was clawing at her insides. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Bucky?” She said softly, hesitantly.

“Hmm?” His eyes stayed on the screen, his hand stilling on her arm.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

At that, he turned to look at her, his brow furrowing slightly, though his smile stayed intact. “What’s on your mind?”

“In the basement…” Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat to steady it. “I found a coat. A little yellow raincoat. Who does it belong to?”

The change in him was instant. His grip on her arm tightened - not enough to hurt at first, but enough to make her notice. His body stiffened against her, and though his smile didn’t immediately fade, something behind it did.

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, his left hand began tapping his fingers against her leg, rhythmic and deliberate, his gaze drifting away from her and back to the television.

“Buck?” She prompted again, her voice quieter now.

Still, he said nothing. The tapping continued, a slow, unspoken signal that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Do you love me?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Do you love me?” He repeated, finally turning his head to meet her gaze. The smile was gone now, replaced by something completely different, something that made her stomach churn. “Because I’ve been wondering, doll. You keep questioning me. Questioning this.” His right hand gave her arm another squeeze, harder this time. “So tell me. Do you love me?”

“Of course I do.” She said quickly, her voice trembling. “You know I do.”

“Then why can’t you just trust me?” His tone was soft but charged, each word laced with a quiet intensity. “Why do you keep asking questions? Doubting me? Doubting us?”

“I’m not doubting you, Bucky.” Maybe she was. A little.

His grip on her arm loosened slightly, but it wasn’t the kind of relief she was hoping for. Instead, Bucky leaned back against the couch, his head tilting to one side as his hand fell to his own leg. His fingers began tapping against it.

“Mmh, mh, mh.” He murmured, shaking his head, like he was holding back laughter - or something else entirely.

She instinctively shifted a little further away from him, her back pressing into the armrest of the couch. The distance was small, but it didn’t go unnoticed. His sharp black button gaze flicked toward her, and the tapping stopped.

“Years.” He said suddenly, his voice flat but somehow seething underneath. “I’ve been waiting for years, doll. Patiently. Quietly. And you can’t even sew your eyes for the man you claim to love? It’s a tiny little thing.”

Her breath hitched, her heart skipping at the accusation, the venom in his words. “A tiny little thing? Do you have an idea of what you’re saying?”

“What kind of love is that?” He continued, ignoring her, his voice rising slightly, cutting through her attempt to interject. “You sit here, you say the words, but you don’t mean them, do you? I wonder if it was the same back in your world, too. You told him you loved him, but you never showed it.”

“This isn’t fair.”

“Fair?” He barked a humorless laugh, leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees. “Do you think this was fair for me? Sitting here for years, waiting for you, for this? Giving you everything you ever wanted, and you can’t even give me this one thing?”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her jaw tightening as she fought the wave of emotions rising in her chest. “I asked you one question.” She said firmly, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “A stupid little question, and now you’re standing here, making me out to be the problem? Because I want to know what’s going on?”

He tilted his head at her, his fingers still tapping against his leg, the sound grating on her nerves. “It’s not about the question, doll.” He said, his tone low, almost mocking. “It’s about the pattern. Always asking. Always doubting. You’re not happy unless you’re tearing everything apart to see what’s underneath. And that bothers me to no end. I hate curious little things, you remind me of a cat.”

“I told you I’m not doubting anything.” She said, stepping further back from him, her voice sharper now. “I just wanted to understand. And you’re acting like I’ve done something wrong for that. Do you even hear yourself right now? All worked up for a simple question - I just wanted an answer.”

“Well, what’s the saying?” His grin got wider. “Curiosity killed the cat. You should learn how to mind your business.”

She crossed her arms, her posture stiff but rooted, unwilling to back down. “So that’s it? You’re just going to dodge my question with some half-assed riddle? Maybe I wasn’t in the wrong for asking.”

His grin faltered then, just slightly, and his head tipped forward. He stared at her, the light catching the shiny, smooth black of his buttons. “You want to know about the coat so badly?” He said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Fine. Let’s talk about it.”

She stayed silent, her heart pounding in her chest, but her face remained steady - which surprised her.

“It was hers.” He said, his voice suddenly calm, measured. “Coraline’s. Sweet little thing. Full of hope, just like you.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion breaking through the tension. “Who’s Coraline?”

He leaned back now, letting out a long sigh. “She was the last one to walk through that door.” He said. “Her parents gave up looking for her after barely two months, then moved. I’m thankful they did, because just a couple of years later and you arrived.”

“The missing kid.” Her stomach twisted, but her expression remained firm. “You took her.”

“Of course I did. I usually only take children, they’re… better. Easier to control, easier to fool.” He let out a sharp laugh, the sound echoing in the room. “Did you really think this world existed exclusively for you? It has different shapes, and you surely were not the first to stumble across it. Hopefully not the last.”

She shook her head slowly, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “You’re not Bucky. Any version of him.” She said, her voice low and cold. Deep down, she had always felt it. It was too good to be true. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Took you long enough to understand.”

She swallowed hard, her voice steady even as her heart pounded in her chest. “Then what sort of thing are you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just watched her with a strange calmness, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh - and that was starting to piss her off. “I’m what you’ve always needed.” He said softly, his voice almost tender.

Her stomach churned, but she didn’t back away, didn’t falter. “That’s just bullshit, not an answer. I needed Bucky.”

“And I gave it to you, didn’t I?” He countered, his tone sharp now. “You walked through that door willingly, all of them did. The kids, I mean.” He paused before continuing. “Did you think it opened for just anyone? It opened because you were starving for what I could give you. And I gave it freely, to you and the kids. I gave you him, and I can still give it to you for as long as you want. But you’re too stubborn for your own good, aren’t you?”

“I can be when you just said that a kid disappeared because of you. More than one.” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to hold his gaze - or at least the empty, black gleam of the buttons where his eyes should have been. “What do you take in return? You create this illusion and for what?”

“Many reasons.” He tilted his head, studying her like she was an insect pinned to a board. “And I want nothing you weren’t already willing to give.” He said, his voice light, almost flippant. “You wanted to die, I wanted your soul.”

“Let’s not exaggerate.” She said sharply, though her voice wavered just enough to betray the panic simmering beneath her anger.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine!” She bit out, her tone sharp, defensive. “But it doesn’t mean I wanted to be trapped by some… thing wearing my Bucky’s face, for fuck’s sake!”

“And yet.” He said evenly, his voice infuriatingly calm. “You’re still sitting here.”

She pushed herself up from the couch in one swift motion, her movements stiff with anger and fear. “I’m leaving.”

He let out a soft snort, leaning back against the couch like he had all the time in the world. “You can’t.” He said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He gestured lazily around the room. “Once you walked through that little door, you became mine. Think of this…” He added, his hand sweeping in a slow arc. “as a spiderweb. You’re my insect, and I’m your predator.”

Her stomach churned at the analogy, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of showing her unease. “So sit, run, scream, do whatever you think will make you feel better.” He continued, his tone so calm it was maddening. “But it won’t matter. You can’t get out of here, doll. Not unless I let you. And I won’t.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms to keep herself grounded. “You’re sick.”

“No.” He said, his lips curling into a smile that no longer belonged to anything human. It was too wide, too sharp, and too full of malice. “No, I’m starving.” He tilted his head, his gaze crawling over her like she was a feast laid out just for him - and not in the sense she usually liked. “And I’m going to sew those buttons onto your pretty little eyes, tie your soul to me, and I’m going to do it wearing this face. Poetic, don’t you think?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I usually take my true form when I feast - it’s what scares the little ones most. But you? I like you better like this. It’s going to be so good.”

Her throat tightened, and she struggled to keep her voice steady. “Then why didn’t you just do it already? If this is your plan, why wait? Why let me stay here for days?”

“Because…” He said with an exaggerated sigh, like he was explaining something painfully simple. “when you’ve spent years waiting for your next meal, you get… lonely. Bored, even. It’s called savoring. You were just so delightful to watch - so ready to believe, so desperate to be loved. I wanted to stretch it out.” His grin widened, revealing teeth that didn’t look human anymore. “But now? Now, I’m tired of waiting.”

The weight of his words hit her like a physical blow, and her legs moved before her mind caught up. She stumbled backward, nearly tripping over her own feet, before turning and rushing out of the room.

Out of the house.

She didn’t stop moving, running as fast as her legs could carry her. Her breath came out in panicked gasps, her mind a storm of denial and realization. There was no way. It was too good to be true. It had always been too good to be true, and deep down, she’d known it. But he - or whatever that thing was - had been patient, deliberate, a master manipulator. Or maybe she was just too weak, too blinded by grief, to see the truth. Both could coexist.

The woods seemed to swallow her whole as she ran in there feeling like Snow White running from the Evil Queen. She pushed forward, deeper into the darkness, her lungs burning with every step. She wasn’t even sure if he was following her.

Eventually, her legs gave out, and she collapsed against a tree, trying to catch her breath. Her chest heaved, and her ears strained for any sound of pursuit.

And then she heard it.

A soft rustle, barely audible, coming from the bushes nearby.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She was ready to move and run again, thinking it was the Other Bucky, but it wasn’t. Not this time, at least.

“Relax, lady. You’re all in one piece, I’m glad to see it.” A familiar voice said, smooth and calm.

Her eyes darted to the source, and there it was: the fucking cryptic cat, sitting primly a few feet away as if this were all a casual stroll.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She panted, clutching her chest.

“What?” The cat tilted its head, unimpressed. “I’m a friend, in case you didn’t notice.”

“What the fuck is going on?” She demanded, her voice shaky but full of anger.

The cat blinked lazily. “If you don’t get out of here soon, she’s going to eat you. That’s what’s going on.”

“She?” The word slipped out before she could stop it. “The Other Bucky is a she?”

“That’s not even your dead human in the first place.” The cat answered. “She’s not what she seems, obviously. She’s a Beldam - a witch who eats souls, usually the sad and lonely kind. That’s her thing. She gets people - or kids, mostly - to come through the little door and then…” It mimed biting into something with a disturbingly human-like smirk.

Her stomach churned. “Why?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “How did she even know about Bucky? About everything? She knew things no one else did.”

“She’s a supernatural being, lady. She’s got eyes everywhere.” The cat said, gesturing to the woods around them with a flick of its tail. “And ears. She always manages to get everything right. She spies you, that’s part of the package when you move in the Pink Palace.”

She tensed, glancing around, half-expecting to see him - or it - emerging from the shadows.

The cat sighed, exasperated. “Not now. I’d feel it if she were here. She hates cats. Can’t stand us. And believe me, the feeling’s mutual.”

Her brow furrowed. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, no. Never said that. You’re kind of screwed.” The cat’s tone turned more serious, its blue eyes boring into hers. “But hey, you’re lucky you lasted this long. You were an easy target - grieving, lost, and desperate.” It stretched, its claws digging the ground. “She must have seen you as a feast that could last centuries.”

“She - he - whatever that is, said something about taking my soul. And my eyes. I don’t know which one is worse.” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to ask. “But why centuries? What does sewing buttons on my eyes even do?”

The cat tilted its head. “Ties your soul to hers, you just said that. Permanently. It’ll kill you, but she gets to keep you - well, your energy, your grief. It’s what sustains her. She’s probably been starving for years, so she needs you more than ever. She’s desperate to have something. Someone.”

“He mentioned a thing or two about a certain Coraline. I saw her yellow raincoat in his basement.” She said, her voice quiet but laced with unease. “Is that really what happened to her?”

“Ah, yes, Coraline. The Beldam made her believe she escaped, but…” The cat’s ears flicked, and his voice sounded like a mix of something between disdain and melancholy. “I tried to help her as best I could. I liked that kid.” He sighed. “But I’m just a cat, and she’s the closest thing to a demon I’ve ever seen.“

“Just a cat?” She asked, incredulous. “You talk. Why do you talk?”

The cat’s blue eyes narrowed, and he started grooming himself, licking a paw with a deliberate disinterest.

“Okay, no answer. Fine. Then how come you’re in this place if he hates cats?”

He paused mid-lick, one sharp claw resting just near his mouth, then returned to his task. “A magician doesn’t reveal their tricks.” He said smoothly.

“Right.” She muttered, rolling her eyes. “So helpful. Then how do I leave? I can’t believe I’m having a conversation with an animal.” She whispered the last part. “What’s next? I’ll meet the Mad Hatter?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” The cat stopped grooming and looked up at her. “And to answer your question, the only way out is the way you came in. You have to crawl back through the little door-” He froze mid-sentence, his fur suddenly standing on end, every muscle in his body going rigid. His pupils narrowing to slits. “Someone’s watching us.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “Is it the Other Bucky?” She whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m too young to die.”

“No, it’s… definitely not the Beldam.” The cat seemed to get chill again.

“Oh, for God’s sake, you stupid c-” A woman’s voice, thankfully a familiar one, rang out, sharp and frustrated, cutting through the oppressive silence of the woods like a beacon. “Finally. I found you. Can you hear me?”

Her breath hitched, and she spun around, her eyes scanning the empty woods. “Wanda?!” She called out, her voice a mix of disbelief and desperation, as if Jesus himself had just descended.

“Who else?!” Wanda snapped, her voice laced with exasperation. “If I could, I’d slap you repeatedly for being this reckless, but unfortunately, I have to save your ass first!”

She stared at the void around her, still unable to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. “You’re yelling at me from… where? Are you in my head? What is this?”

“Does it matter?” Wanda said impatiently. “Listen. You need to get back into the house. Now.”

“Get back into the house?” She repeated incredulously, her arms crossing as though Wanda could somehow see her defiance. “Oh yeah, sure. Let me just waltz back into the murder mansion with open arms. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Yes.” Wanda said flatly, with zero hesitation. “And since I think that, you better listen to me before you really get yourself killed. That thing - whatever it is wearing Bucky’s face - knows I’m trying to pull you out. It’s going to try to stop you. Probably in the most violent, unhinged, eye-sewing way possible. Or she’s gonna manipulate you, do not give in!”

“That’s not remotely comforting!” She said, running a hand through her hair in frustration.

“Let me finish!” Wanda said, her tone sharp. “You’re going to have to hold out long enough for me to open the door. The real door. She’s locked it tight, and I have been trying to break through for days. I’m close now, but I can’t hold her back for long so I need you to crawl in there as soon as it opens. Got it?“

The cat, who had been slinking around her feet with an air of casual disinterest, suddenly let out a small snort. Or the closest thing there was to a snort since that was still a cat. “Great plan. Perfect plan. Send the human back into the monster’s den. Nothing could go wrong.”

“Who’s that?” Wanda’s voice snapped.

“The talking cat.”

“The what? You’ve been ignoring me for months and now you found a new friend?”

“Focus!” She shouted, her voice bordering on hysteria as her pulse hammered in her ears. “Okay, okay. I go back to the house. Then what? Do I just knock on the door and say, ‘Hey, I’m ready for you to eat my soul now?’”

“You’re going to stall.” Wanda said firmly, ignoring her sarcasm. “Keep it distracted. I’ll do the hard part.”

“Distract the literal demon? Sure, I’ll just tell him a joke or two.” She said, throwing up her hands.

The cat leaped onto a nearby rock and flicked its tail, looking entirely unbothered. “Might as well. She’s got no sense of humor; could confuse her long enough for Wanda to pull her little magic trick.”

“Stop talking.” She snapped at the cat.

“Are you beefing with an anim- you know what? Not the time.” Wanda’s voice broke through again, her tone softening slightly. “I know this is insane, okay? I get that you’re scared. But trust me. You can do this. Just hold on a little longer, and I’ll pull you out. I promise.”

“Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting all of you.” She said. “You included.” She looked at the cat.

“Deal.” Wanda said, her voice tinged with relief. “I have to go now, do as I said.”

The cat yawned, stretching lazily. “I give you ten minutes before you freak out and bolt. And I’m being generous.”

“No wonder you’re a stray.” She hissed, shooting the feline a glare as she turned back to walk back to the house.

“Ouch.” The animal theatrically said.

She scoffed, heading back towards the house, perhaps slower than she normally would. After only a few steps, she turned around. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’m not suicidal.”

She bit back a string of insults. Picking a fight with a cat wasn’t exactly her biggest priority. With a tight shake of her head, she turned on her heel and kept walking.

That was gonna be a long night.