#they are Capable of working together well

[swtheartz]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson

Part two

Info : Reader is a healer, canon typical violence, slow burn, one sided beef to lovers type beat W / C : 1.6k.

A / N : silas actually uploading an entire fic??? this is unheard of!! uncharted territory!!!!! jk though. i was burnt out for NO reason and suddenly got a surge of spite against my depression and wrote this. lol. it WILL in fact be a series, this is only part one i fear

The first time Mark meets you is after the fight with his dad.

Cecil had told him he’d be fixed right up—in the physical aspect, at the very least. “The kid hates sob stories. Try not to say too much.”

So, he took the old man’s advice, and hadn’t said much to you while you were healing him. He’d argue that the silence was awkward. Foreign and strange, and he didn’t know how to not sit there and manage to not look out of place. The room you primarily worked in wasn’t like a hospital room, no.

It didn’t have those weird posters of kittens with something that said ‘believe in yourself,’ or something dumb like that, it wasn’t just pristine white walls with blinding fluorescent lights that gave patients headaches, and it didn’t smell like pure bleach and chemicals. No. It smelled of something floral and sweet, almost like fruit; but not quite there. The walls were more a peach color than anything, easier on the eyes than the standard American hospital. Not to mention that the walls were decorated.

All in all, it was strange. Like someone as bruised and bloody as Mark didn’t belong in there. Somewhere sweet and almost gentle, and the wounds that had made him feel as though they’d stay forever—stay etched into his skin, down to the bone, alongside the blood that wasn’t just solely his—mended themselves back together. The bruises and aches faded away.

The smell of blood lingered.

“Well,” the sound of your voice nearly startled Mark off the bed you’d had him laid across. “Take a shower and do a rain check with Stedman, and you’re all good to go, Invincible.”

“. . . What? Just- that’s it? That’s all?”

You’d stared blankly at him, arms crossed in the chair you were seated in. Though you were a healer, you did look as though you belonged amongst the official medical staff that’d be seen literally anywhere else. The slightest tilt of your head had him shifting uncomfortably.

“Did you want there to be more?” The question comes across as somewhat annoyed. Mark could see why you’d probably be agitated—but it was a genuine question!

“It’s just, uh,” he starts, swallowing nervously. “I expected it to take longer or something. Like an actual healing process, precautions I’d have to take and stuff.”

The hum of acknowledgment you let out as you nod your head makes him look at you again, and you speak. “Not when I’m the one healing you. My power is called that for a reason, and it’s so heroes like you can get back out on the playing field. To skip the healing process. If I hadn’t been here, it would’ve taken you months.”

Right. A healer. Mark himself had never really thought someone like you could exist. He’s seen powers like that only in his comics, and there weren’t any other supers capable of doing whatever you just did. The way you move is skilled and practiced, years of experience and heroes in and out of your ward showing through it.

“Huh. Okay, wow. Thanks?”

“Go home, Invincible.”

“Invincible.”

Mark grimaces. “I am begging you—literally just call me by my government name.”

He doesn’t miss the way your nose scrunches ever so slightly as your eyes never leave the clipboard in your hands, clearly focused; but not too focused. “You and I are not on friendly terms. We’re associates by definition.”

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up slightly in mock surrender, contemplating his response. Over the past few months, he’s noticed that you don’t quite like him. At all. You’re annoyed by how thick his file has grown in such a short amount of time, annoyed by all the times you’ve documented the amount of injuries he’s had, how much energy it takes you, and whether or not you want to quit working for the GDA after making his acquaintance all those months ago.

“. . . But hear me out.” Mark adds on, noticing the way your hands clutch even more at the wood and paper. “We’re associates when we’re on duty. By definition.”

“And I am on duty,” you retort, setting your papers down and pressing a hand to the bridge of your nose. “Constantly. The same way I’m on duty while watching you get your ass beat on live television, all because you seem to love pulling your punches. Like a fucking idiot.”

He winces at that, unable to deny the blatant distaste in your tone as you remind him of all the times Cecil has sent him your way, all the times you’ve scolded him and downright berated him because you watched as he actively held back.

“Your strength went up over one hundred percent, and you don’t even use it properly. Every fight you have, your file gets ridiculously thicker, Markus.” The way you say his name—

“Don’t say it like it’s a slur.” Mark pleads, a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, “and it’s Mark. Just. . . Just Mark.”

“Get. Out.”

“Markus.”

“Mark.”

“Why are you here?” You sigh out the question with exhaustion, annoyance, and a dire need to rip your own hair out as Mark sits there on one of the patient beds, uninjured this time—shockingly. He’s sitting there like a lost puppy, just. . . Much larger, more awkward, and disgustingly pathetic.

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his response carefully. “I’m benched for a while. At least until Cecil figures out what to do with me.”

The sound you make is unsurprised. “Good. Sick of seeing you bleeding whenever you come here.”

“I know.”

“So stop doing it.”

Mark’s lips purse into a thin line. You’re so mean, and it’s not like he can’t see why. But you haven’t asked him to exactly stop talking to you (yes you have), and it’s not like you genuinely hate his guts. . . At least, in his eyes, you don’t. The Teen Team would beg to differ after seeing the way you speak to him.

“I’m just wondering,” he starts, unwilling to leave. “Are there like, any other heroes you’re sick of seeing? Besides me?”

You pause at that, and turn your head towards him. As always, your eyes are narrowed and tired, a little scrunch in your brow and a slight frown on your lips as you look at him. He’d really give anything just to see you smile—just once. He wonders if you have dimples. What your laugh sounds like, what you look like when you’re peaceful and calm for just a moment.

“Why?”

“Morbid curiosity,” Mark states simply. And to be fair, it is just that. Surely you don’t just dislike him and solely him, there has to be another hero you hate. Maybe even multiple. Mark likes hearing your voice, even if you’re just talking about the things you dislike.

He wonders what you do like. What you find solitude in.

“Hm.” For a moment, you exhale, and push away from your desk to think about your answer. “. . . Immortal,” you hum, thinking about it. “Can’t seem to keep his head on. Or stop charging into fights he can’t handle.”

“Like me?”

“No,” you shake your head and go back to focusing on your work. “You can handle your fights. It just seems to be a deliberate choice of yours not to handle them.”

“Ouch.”

“I hate it when Rex comes in here.” You ignore his little comment and continue, actually giving some thought to your responses. Usually, your conversations with Mark consisted of you insulting him endlessly before telling him to go home and sleep it off. Rinse and repeat.

“He can talk someone’s ear off. It’s sickening, really,” the last part is a mutter as you sort through a barrage of papers, clearly going back to focusing on what you were doing before he’d come and interrupted your rather quiet day. He’s been dropping by more often, and over time, you’ve began to hold actual conversations with him that didn’t involve you telling him how you should let him heal on his own, and him begging you to not leave him stranded in such a state—

“What’s your favorite kind of food?”

You pause for a second, pretending to not have heard, before ultimately you set your papers down again and turn your swivel chair to face Mark. “What?”

“Your favorite kind of food,” he repeats, staring right back at you. “Like, do you like spicy, or?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.” You grumble, rolling your eyes as you shake your head. Just for a moment, you glance back up at him, watching him pout ever so slightly at your answer.

“I’m serious. It’s just a genuine question, y’know?” The two of you enter a staring contest of sorts when you glare at him, looking genuinely offended at the fact he was asking about something so minuscule and stupid. As though the two of you were friendly. . . .

“Fruit.”

Mark blinks at your response, opening his mouth to say something before closing it again, gears turning in his head. “Okay. . . So, sweet stuff?”

“Sweet stuff,” you mutter, turning back around. “Not artificial sugar. Natural. It’s better for my energy, helps me heal better.”

He nods as though that makes sense. You seemed the type to prefer natural things over the overproduced, sickeningly and overly sweet candies that left a bitter aftertaste. It makes sense in Mark’s mind—as though he should’ve known, should’ve been able to tell. The room you work in smells soft and sweet, just like honey and strawberries.

You smell like strawberries. Ripe, sweet. Tinted a dark red and soft when bitten into.

“Okay.” Mark whispers, more to himself than anything. A confirmation. A new alignment in the stars, the very universe itself as a whole. “Yeah, that seems like you.”

“Don’t stereotype me, Invinci-Boy.”

“Oh my god.”

TAGLIST : @lxluvsmoney @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha @koilikesthefishy @tokoyamisstuff @pookiei-bookie

[ovaryacted]

OFF THE LEDGE

─ Dr. Jack Abbot x fem! reader || WC: 4.6k

SYNOPSIS: Surviving is hard. You've become exhausted with the current circumstances of your life. When the pressure finally gets to be too much, you fall apart at the seams. Luckily, Jack is there to put you back together.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. ANGST. Hurt/Comfort. Age Gap implied [Jack is late 40s, reader is late 20s/early 30s]. Power imbalances [Attending/Resident]. Established “secret” relationship. Mentions of a drug overdose & medical treatment (patient in ED). Mental health triggers & descriptions of depression, suicidal ideation, and a mental breakdown. Reader is passively turned actively suicidal. Injury from self-harm/self-infliction using a razor that results in bleeding & stitches. Brief references to past sh attempts from reader. Mentions of Jack struggling w/his mental health in the past. Jack being a good partner and providing support.

NOTE: This fic contains explicit descriptions of self harm, depression, and mental health issues that may be triggering for some readers. If you or a loved one are experiencing this, please reach out to someone or call the corresponding crisis lifeline in your state/country. For the U.S. - Dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

A/N: I usually don't write things like this, and a part of me was scared to even upload this, but I’m gonna take the risk and do it anyway. I initially wrote this when I was going through something, especially this week, and just needed to release all of these built up emotions somehow and I created this, which was cathartic to write & read. We all deserve reassurance that we are still loved after our mistakes, and I hope those who are going through a hard time know that you are deserving of a long and joyful life and that you are loved. Thank you to @ozarkthedog for proofreading this and the constant encouragement, love you hun. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated! <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

You’d think by now things would get easier. That the ringing in your head would become more manageable; the noise would fade away, and the voices would quiet their chattering for once.

You thought wrong.

A part of you thinks you never should’ve taken the time to go through high school, undergrad, and medical school to enter a field where you were frequently reminded of how fleeting life was. No matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, the grim reaper was always there, breathing down your neck, watching the sand in the hourglass run out for those bound to leave the mortal coil. The emergency department was their personal hell, and you served as the angel of death, guiding them into the afterlife, witnessing the lights dim from their eyes and declaring the time they crossed the bridge like it was second nature.

It reminds you that it could’ve been you. Sometimes you think it should be.

Of course, that wasn’t rational thinking, was it? The constant nagging voice drilling into your head that you don’t belong here, you don’t deserve to be walking the earth alongside everyone else. It was painfully ironic working in a field where your hands were capable of saving lives, all while you constantly battled to validate your own existence.

A walking contradiction you were.

You hid it well from everyone around you, continuing with business as usual during your night shifts at the Pitt, working doubles just to get through the day, regardless of your body begging for rest. It wasn’t a problem; in fact, the staff were more than glad to have someone reliable to provide more support without asking, and with someone as capable as you, they had no qualms about adding overtime hours to your payroll.

But Dr. Abbot? He saw right through it, right through you.

He knows because he gets it.

You’re good at your job, almost too good, and nobody would dare say otherwise. Despite your talents under pressure and your quick reflexes, there was a darkness that hung over your head like a shadow everywhere you went. Your eyes were clouded over, trying to hide something; the curl of your smile was subtle—never too wide; and your laugh was too tight to be considered a chuckle but enough for an exhale.

Jack knows, because it’s him.

The next time he goes up to the roof for some fresh air, he isn’t entirely surprised to find you already there. You stood on the other end of the ledge, leaning against the railing, hands in your pockets as you stood straight, head held high to admire the Pittsburgh skyline. Jack doesn’t make a sound as he steps closer to you, discreet in his footing, careful not to disturb your moment of reflection.

“You’re in my spot.”

Looking back, he thinks his comment could pass off as reprimanding, spotting the same cues from you that recalls a version of himself he often tries to forget. The version of him that saw more men die than he can count, his past self that buried a piece of him along with his wife, the part of him that didn’t care to see another day in spite of how long he’s fought to be here anyway.

You don’t flinch when you hear Jack’s voice from behind you, tilting your head in acknowledgement and returning your focus to the buildings in front of you.

“Had to borrow it for a second. Wanted to take in the view.”

He only hums, arms reaching over the railing and clasping his hands. Leaning forward on the opposite side of you, he keeps his attention on the side of your face, observing you with keen eyes.

“Next time you’re up here, bring a drink. Really adds to the ambiance.” That got you to laugh dryly, and for a second, Jack considered it an accomplishment.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Unless you plan on joining me for that drink, considering this is your spot and all.” You turn to face him then, and the twitch of a smirk tugs at his lips, taking in your features before glancing down to the floor.

“I’ll put a pin in that for our next meet-up, kid.”

Jack was only half-serious when he said that, but your uncoordinated meetings became more consistent, the sight of Jack growing to be a welcoming one. Amongst the chaos of the Pitt, above all of the death and carnage that came through the ambulance bay every day, Jack was always there to keep you grounded in ways you didn’t know you needed. A pat on the shoulder, a hand on your lower back, a squeeze on your arm, and an expression that inaudibly asks, “You’re good?” To anyone else, they’d think he’s just being a good mentor and doctor as he always was, but you knew there was a secondary motive, not that it wasn’t reciprocated.

He made you stronger, better, and for the longest time you were okay, happy even. In a professional sense, he kept you on a tight self-care regimen, making sure you ate proper meals, slept a full 7 hours at minimum, and took supplements you wouldn’t admit made you feel better even after being more energetic and clear-headed throughout your shifts. He did you the favor of setting you up to get connected to his therapist, at least for a consultation before being referred to someone who was better equipped to handle your needs, going as far as being your sponsor if necessary.

You knew he was only looking out for you, but when the concern transitioned to desire along the way, it felt natural, comforting, safe. Jack welcomed you into his reality, made room for you in his home and his heart, told you his nightmares and the memories that haunted him while making new ones with you. He let you weave yourself around his very being and made you promise to never let go, whispering those three words without issue to cite that you belonged with him, that he wanted you here where he could love you the way you deserved.

But even Dr. Abbot couldn’t keep you safe from yourself.

He can always tell when your worst habits start to make a reappearance, when you have trouble sleeping and he finds you on the couch in the middle of the day, aimlessly watching something on the TV. You pick at your food more, no longer enthusiastic about your favorite lasagna he’s cooked for dinner, saying you’d save it for lunch at work and going to bed with a dwindling appetite.

You hide yourself from him, less receptive of his touch and affections; the kisses you returned were superficial at best, but it was better than nothing. The spark he adored was slowly dimming from your eyes, giving him a sad smile when he said he loved you, the words muted when they tumbled from your lips as if you were afraid of repeating it.

Back at the Pitt, your mask began to crack. Your laughs were minimal, your face permanently frozen and devoid of emotion, and your head tormenting itself as you strained to suppress your mood. You spend much longer on the roof during your shifts, and though he trusts you enough, he still keeps track of the number of times he spots you sneaking away and heading for the stairs. He’s told you so many times before—

“If you’re not back in 5 minutes, I’m coming up to get you.”

And Jack sticks to his word, running up to the roof and hoping he’d still find you on the other side. He always does, approaching you cautiously, talking to you in the same passive authority he uses in the ED. It does the job, bringing you into his chest and cradling the back of your head, feeling you grip onto him like he’s the only thing you had left. It does little to quell his own anxieties about your fraying state of mind when he finds you closer to the ledge every time he comes to get you.

He knows it’s only a matter of time before you fall apart, or worse.

Your shift at the Pitt was manageable for the most part until a case of a self-inflicted drug overdose came in at the wee hours of the night. An unresponsive teenager around the age of 17 came in through the ambulance bay with his parents, suspected of an extreme intake of Xanax, no reaction to pain or light, blown pupils, and weak pulse. Everyone knew there was limited time to bring them back from the brink, and the first attempt using Narcan was already unsuccessful.

The teen crashed in Trauma 1, you called for the crash cart and ordered two shocks before attempting compressions. You pumped the kid’s body full of atropine and epinephrine, cracked a few of their ribs and worked up a sweat giving compressions, but his overworked heart wouldn’t restart on its own. You kept going for another 30 minutes before Jack called it, and you noted the flatline on the heart monitor, spacing out as your ears rang and the walls closed in on you.

Jack took the responsibility of notifying the parents, suggesting you take five to cool off. When he found you in your spot, you were sitting down on the edge of the roof, feet dangling on the edge and looking down to the ground.

That was the closest he found you to the ledge.

The drive back home was quiet, the air rigid between you, but he knew well enough it wasn’t directed towards him. You didn’t bother to look at him for the entire commute, staring out into the window, counting the streetlights passing you by. Rolling into the driveway, you grabbed your work bag and made your way to the front door, Jack matching your pace behind you, reading your body language like a hawk. After unlocking the door, you were quick to walk past him and march to the bedroom, but he was faster than you, grabbing your arm and bringing you back into the foyer.

“Hey, hey. Talk to me.” He turns you to face him, one hand rubbing over your wrist and the other cupping your cheek. “I know today was hard, you don’t have to hide it from me, you know that. But please, just talk to me. I’m worried about you.”

“I just want to rinse off the day, Jack. It’s been… I’m tired, okay? Can we talk later when I’ve slept a bit? Please?” You held his gaze, his touches only unnerving you more, confused and struggling to focus. He didn’t believe you; he knew you weren’t okay, but the last thing he wanted to do was smother you when you couldn’t give him a straightforward answer.

“Alright, we’ll talk later. Go shower, I’ll make you something to eat before you sleep.” He planted a light kiss by your temple, breathing you in as if it were for the last time. “I love you.”

“I know.” It was the only thing you said, and he apprehensively let you go without hearing the sentiment returned to him, letting your silhouette disappear into the master bathroom.

It had been 40 minutes since he last saw you, and it was eerily too quiet for him to be tranquil. The hairs on the back of his neck stick up once he’s done packing away the food he made for you in hopes you’d be able to keep it down before heading off to bed. The danger senses that always protected him were firing off, and he knew you needed your space, but the urge to check up on you pestered him to the point of suffocation.

Stepping into the shared bedroom, you were nowhere to be found. The lights in the bathroom were still on, and the shower had long stopped running, but he heard the muffled sniffles, probably stifled with your hand covering your mouth.

Something wasn’t right.

“Sweetheart?” He knocks on the door, trying to get your attention. “Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, he thinks. He knows the answer is no, but when you don’t give him a response, his worry deepens.

He instantly thinks of the worse-case scenario, compartmentalizing what could be happening in the small room closed off to him. He knew from the moment you lost that patient a switch had gone off, that your subconscious roamed into the abyss you’ve been fighting to avoid. You’ve gone off the deep end, and he had to try to bring you back.

His trained ears pick up on the sound of something clinking in the sink, sharp and metallic, a hiss emitting from you followed by a restrained groan. You were in pain; something had caused you to react that way, and from the way you started to hyperventilate and cry, he can only imagine what happened.

“Baby, please. Let me in.” Jack calls out to you, reaching for the doorknob and twisting it open, but finds the door locked. He calls your name again, knocking on the door harder without trying to startle you further. “I won’t be upset with you, I promise, but I need you to open this door. You gotta let me in, or so help me, I will break it down to get to you.”

Your name tumbled out of his mouth in a plea, knuckles rasping harder against the wooden door, the knob rattling under his grip as he cursed to himself. He couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to help, of being kept in the dark while you do God knows what to yourself. Silence on the other end made his blood run cold, shoulder and head now pressed to the door, trying to find any sign of your presence on the opposite side.

Already in position to ram into the door, the click of the lock registers in his ears. Wasting no time to swing it open, his heart pounded in his ears at the display before him.

There you stood, tears streaking your face and eyes empty from the mess that was your psyche. His sight trailed lower, nostrils flaring at the sight of crimson pooling in the sink, surrounding a bloody razor. Your trembling hand swathed your wrist, the red liquid staining your palm and your fingers digging into your tainted skin in a poor attempt to manage the flow.

“I’m sorry…” You mumbled, your bottom lip wobbling as you refused to meet his eye.

He didn’t react or think about anything else; his sole focus was on you.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but he stayed collected for your sake. Coming into the bathroom, he held you by the hips, eyes anchored to your face because he knows he’ll lose his shit the instant he looks at your arm. “I’m going to sit you down for a second, alright? Just breathe with me, I’m right here.”

As much as your body could in its state of shock, Jack maneuvered you to sit on the toilet seat, keeping your eyes stuck on the tile. You could hear him moving around you, grabbing a boxed item from the cabinet and running the sink for a bit. Your breath lumped in your throat, lungs tight and wheezing on every exhale. It was a blur how you got to the kitchen, your feet moving on their own as you floated outside of your body, your cognizance wandering to anywhere but here. 

“Let me see your wrist, honey.” Jack advised, his voice unwavering despite the constriction of his pupils disclosed his panicked nature.

Carefully, you revealed your injuries to the veteran, blood streaming down onto the sterile procedure underpad he placed your arm on. He sighed in slight relief, thankful the two wounds were horizontal like the rest of the faded scars instead of the opposite, not deep enough for immediate concern, but you’d still need stitches.

“They’re not too deep, but I need to stitch you up so they heal, okay?” He was talking, you think he was, and despite not fully processing his mouth moving, you nodded anyway.

Placing the lightest kiss on your forehead, Jack promptly got to work. Opening the tactical first aid kit he kept in the bathroom, stacked to the brim with medical supplies, he found some gloves and got his station ready. He treated you like any other case in the ED, holding off on everything else going on in his head until you weren’t hurt anymore.

As serious as he can be, he numbed out the area for your comfort and flushed out the cuts for better visibility, taking hold of the suture and piercing the curved end to your skin. You didn’t jerk your arm away as he did so, looping the metal hook into your flesh a few more times before neatly tying the end and cutting the rest off. He double-checked to make sure the wound would heal properly with minimal issues and wrapped your wrist up in some gauze and a medical-grade bandage.

You were silent the entire time, the tension thick enough to cut through. He was figuring out the best approach to this conversation, to make sure he wouldn’t push you farther away.

“How’s the wrapping?” He started off with that, something easy for you to answer.

“It’s fine.” You shrugged, thumbing over the bandage. “Can’t feel anything.”

“Good, that’s good.” He replies, maintaining his analytical gaze on you. He plotted what exactly he could say, the right sequence of words that would put you at ease, but you got to it before he could.

“Jack…” He scanned your distressed features, never taking his eyes off of you. “Are you upset with me?”

“Why would I be upset with you?” The thought of your priority being his reaction to your behavior in such a high-stress environment ached him. “I couldn’t be upset at you. Not for this, not for anything. You understand that, right?”

“I just… I feel so fucking stupid. For doing this, after being clean for so damn long.” You stared down at your wrists with sunken eyes, the self-deprecating thoughts banging around in your skull doing nothing to calm you down, eyes stinging with residual tears that never seemed to stop falling.

He uttered your name softly, reaching out to hold your hands as if you were made of porcelain, making an effort to dodge the new bandages covering your wrist.

“You’re not weak, or any less deserving of a life worth living for repeating old patterns. We’re not perfect, and when your mind is your worst enemy, it’s a constant battlefield up there. You think I didn’t struggle the same way before? I still do sometimes, and I’m sure if there was a remedy to get rid of all of the bullshit in our heads, we would’ve taken it a long time ago. What matters is you’re still here, breathing, talking. You’re still here.”

A pregnant pause followed his words, your grip tightening around his, blankly looking at his digits and mindlessly rubbing over his skin.

“I’m tired, Jack. I’m tired of it all, of the noise, of constantly needing to fight everything, to find a reason to keep going.” The tears still pebbled at the corner of your eye, lids lined with red and irritated from the emotional turmoil you’ve been working through. “It’s all becoming too much, and nothing was working, so I just…needed something to release the pressure. I don’t know how much more of this I can take, and that scares me. I’m at my limit, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

It killed him to know you’ve been carrying so much pain. He already knows of your background, of your prior attempts, and the skeletons hidden in your closet. Jack understands the cards that have been stacked against you from the very beginning of your existence, chasing a calm reality you’ll never experience; the closest you got to that was being in a partnership with him. Jack loved you with every part of his soul, he’s told you countless times. He hoped his love was enough to nullify your suffering, but even he knew there was no remedy for being your worst enemy.

“You don’t need to have it all figured out right now, and you don’t have to tell me everything you’re thinking or are choosing to forget. But just know, I love you, and I want to be able to love you in any capacity while you’re here with me.” His voice grew taut as he spoke, the faintest tell that he was being strong for your sake.

“This doesn’t change that, and whatever comes, I will help you through it. You’re worth the fight, you always have been, and you’ve been fighting for your place here for so long. I’m not letting you go, not that easily, and I won’t let you give up on yourself either. You don’t have to do this alone, not anymore.”

His words struck a chord with you, feeling them reverberate through your body, shuddering as he said everything you needed to hear. You sat together in the kitchen, letting his declaration to you hang in the air and marinate, breaking the silence after some time.

“Thank you.” Your gratitude for Jack’s selflessness goes without saying, the hazel eyes that had been drawn to you from the start were kind as they always were, warm and full of adoration you’ve never felt with or from anyone else.

“Always.” His head tilts behind him, gesturing to the fridge. “Made something in case you still wanted a bite.”

“I don’t think I can stomach anything right now, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, I already wrapped it up in case you changed your mind.” Jack stayed quiet, pondering for a beat before talking again. “I’ll ask the other residents to cover your shifts for the rest of the week, and I’ll switch out with Robby so I can stay here with you.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You didn’t want to be any more of a burden than you already were.

“I know I don’t, but I want to, I feel like I need to. We’ll just take a few days, recuperate, get you out of the house for some fresh air and do something together, maybe coordinate next steps. How does that sound?”

For the first time in what felt like weeks, that spark that slipped away appeared in your eyes again. It was faint and fleeting, but you were still there underneath all of that baggage.

“It’s much better than being in the Pitt. I don’t want Robby on my ass for not showing up for a while.” He chuckles dryly, shaking his head in agreement.

“He’ll understand, trust me, and he loves being there with all of the rookies. Plus, the old man owes me, he won’t mind.”

Your shoulders dropped from their stiff position the entire night, your body language now more relaxed than before as the exhaustion from everything started to kick in.

“I think I want to go to bed now, sleep all of this off.”

“I’m right behind you.” He didn’t debate with you or ask for more answers to his questions; there was no need if he knew you'd come to him when you were ready to talk.

Packing away the rest of his medical gear and disposing of the hazardous material properly, he made sure the rest of the kitchen was cleared before meeting you in the bedroom. You stood awkwardly in front of the bathroom, the same place where the offense took place, losing yourself in the constricting tiled room.

“Do you want me to help you?” He lingered, as he usually did, and you’ve never been more grateful for his consistent support.

“Please.”

He put the first aid kit back where he found it and searched around the bedroom, finding his overworn Army shirt you claimed was your favorite. He approached you with a cool and collected attitude, gently asking for permission before he slipped your current t-shirt off of your head and dressed you in the olive green cotton, caressing the side of your jaw affectionately.

Letting you go to slip under the sheets and claim your side of the bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress to take off his prosthetic, placing it against the bedside table for when he woke up. Tossing the duvet cover over him and filling the empty space beside you, he angled his body towards you, head digging into the pillow under him.

You shifted to him in an instant, nestling your face into his chest. The scent of him hit your nose, overpowering your senses and soothing your nerves, leaning against him with your full body weight and seeking out his warmth. A thick arm shielded you from the rest of the world, winding around your waist and bringing you closer, resting comfortably on your backside. Your breathing matched pace with his, mimicking his inhales and exhales as he coached you to fully settle.

“Jack?” The hum he gave you vibrated underneath your cheek. “I love you, and I hope you know that, even if I don’t say it all the time.”

“I know. I love you too.” He kisses your hairline again, your face tilting upwards to meet his lips, soft and sweet, and just enough pressure to reassure him you felt the same. “You have me, sweetheart. Always.”

“Tell me a story. Want to hear you while I sleep.” You requested shyly, throwing your free arm over his waist, stroking the arch of his spine under his t-shirt.

As he retold another memory from his past, a fond one from his childhood, while his hand rubbed the back of your head, kneading the nape of your neck and running lines over your scalp. His words trailed off as your eyes fluttered closed, your hand ceasing its movement over his back, falling limp along with the rest of your body. You fell asleep long before his story finished, but Jack didn’t close his eyes just yet, he couldn’t.

It was in the stillness of the night that his trepidation creeped up to the surface, his mind running a mile a minute, overrun by all the protocols of the worst-case scenarios and their proper reactions. When it came to you, the same rules never applied, his sense of reason always flew out of the window. He released a quivering breath he didn’t realize he was holding; the thought of losing you, of not being there to save you, haunted him in his sleep. He never thought a part of his nightmare would manifest into reality, but he knows this was more than just him.

Whatever came next, however you wanted to handle this, he vowed to stick beside you, no matter the outcome. He was determined to prevent you from falling through the cracks, not if he could help it. You were worth the heartbreak and the sorrow; he’ll share the burden of your existence with you if it means he can keep loving you for a bit longer if you’ll let him.

In any way, Jack is here to stay like the loyal soldier he is, and he’s not planning on letting you go anytime soon.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[astroyongie]

🍃🪐 What Chiron Says About You 🪐🍃

-> Hey guys <3 a little astro post today! I haven't added the houses because I admit I felt a little lazy, hopefully you can forgive me <3 Please enjoy! this is my personal opinion too :))

⚷ Aries: If you have this placement (well we are together in this), our wounds are often rooted in our self identity as most of our life we had a feeling like we have to prove ourselves we exist or are "good enough." maybe some of us had early experiences that made us doubt our ability to be brave or take initiative (eg, however has this in a 9th house It can translate as trying to succeed in studies, 10th house in career, ect) . This often has ended up in inner anger, and some of us may have struggled (and still struggle) with it. it's okay to stand up for ourselves. However we also have gifts provided by Chiron. we have the capacity to teach others how to believe in themselves, take initiative, and be courageous.

⚷ Taurus: People with this placement often have to deal with wounds related with feeling insecure about self-worth and feeling like they aren't enough (eg. 1st house, 12th house), material security (eg. 2nd house, 10th house), body image which can often come from heavy wounds related to self image (eg. 1st house, 5th house, 6th house) or safety (eg. 4th house, 8th house). Despite all of that, they are the ones who are always helping others finding stability in their life and relationships. They have the right words to help others value themselves, and create abundance rooted in peace, work or any other area depending on the other person.

⚷ Gemini: Their wound is so deep, and often it comes from the constant feeling of being misunderstood by everyone around them which also is linked with the feeling of being unheard and silenced, or not smart enough. Depending on the house, this can translate a lot with carrying secrets in the family, suffering things and never telling anyone, or often being seeing as a liar or as someone who isn't honest. As their grow, people with Chiron in Gemini become a master communicator for others and they are often in careers related with teaching, writing, speaking and connecting with people across the world in general.

⚷ Cancer: I have noticed that often, people with a cancer in their Chiron have deep emotional wounds from their family, from childhood or like being abandon or have abandonment issues, or not feeling nurtured enough. This can often be empathized for people with that placement in their 4th, 5th and 8th houses. Having it in a 10th house for example could be translated as the family putting a lot of pressure in the studies or choosing their children path for them. Because of that, they are often people who have the capacity of healing emotional bodies, they are amazing therapists and doctors. they are capable of creating safe spaces, nurturing others, and teaching emotional security.

⚷ Leo: They bear wounds that often people don't understand simply because they are linked with the fear of not being seen, loved, or recognized for their true self. And yet they suffer a lot due to people not being genuine, because they seek love in places that bring only wounds and hurt. they are known to be lust over and not loved which is deep to deal with. their healing gift however, is the fact that the are able to inspire others to shine, perform, create, and love themselves fiercely which they after try to project on others since they have a hard time to grasp it themselves.

⚷ Virgo: Virgo's are often known to be strong facades and yet, Chiron virgo has deep wounds, and when they feel broken it's such with a depth because it involves feelings of being and feeling imperfect, never "good enough" no matter how hard they try and obsessing over their flaws. Depending on people and the house placements it can be translated in their appearance, in their job, in their selves as partners, parents, children, ect. Yet they are capable of teaching others self-acceptance through Chiron's energy. to others they also teach practical healing (they are good doctors), mind body connection, and sacred services for others and ourselves.

⚷ Libra: It's not an easy placement because most of people with a Libra Chiron will always have to bear wounds related to pain around relationships either they are romantic, family or social/friendships, but also they struggle with fairness and balance, often feeling betrayed, unseen, or unchosen by others. Chiron provides them with the healing gift of being able to guide others into healthy relationships, teaching fairness, diplomacy, and true connection. They make good lawyers, teachers and mediators.

⚷ Scorpio: They have such a deep fear of betrayal and depending on other placements some of these people can have never experienced betrayal in their childhood back ground and yet it's an unconscious hint to it. They also have wounds and fears around feelings of abandonment, they have deep emotional trauma often related with loss, issues around trust and radical changes. some people with a 4th or 8th house placement can experience harsh divorces of their parents or the loss of a parent when young. Despite that, they are able to become a powerful emotional healer for others, guiding people through shadow work, rebirth, and deep intimacy.

⚷ Sagittarius: They struggle with life in a general basis to be honest, but I also have notices that their wounds is often linked with a feeling of being disconnected from truth or betrayed by belief systems (many of these have issues with religion, spirituality or traditional settings in their family and culture). Because of that many of them develop wounds and pains by being stuck in a cultural or a philosophical confusion because of their roots. They have the healing gift of leading others to find their own personal truth, expanding horizons through adventure, faith, and exploration which is basically the core energy of Sagittarius.

⚷ Capricorn: Many people who have a Capricorn in their Chiron are really fighters in my eyes. they often have to deal with wounds of feeling unsupported by the people they love the most while also being burdened by responsibilities (eg. in the 4th house some of you had to grow up too quickly or become the parents. in the 7th house, you often are the caregiver of your partner). Because of that they often feel unworthy of success, or afraid of authority. Yet they have the power of teaching others how to build real success based on their talents, how to be patient, disciplined, and create structures that support dreams and ambitions

⚷ Aquarius: One thing I have noticed is that most people with this placement often struggle with the feeling of being like an outsider in their own home, their own country or their own selves which often can be troublesome or connected with some deep emotional trauma. Aquarius Chrison does not fitting in, in the traditional expectations, and they are usually rejected for being different or visionary. Many of them might have been bullied or kicked out of their homes or example. Their healing gift is the capacity of showing others how to embrace their uniqueness. many of these people create communities to find their own, and dream up of better futures.

⚷ Pisces: Finally we reached the Chiron pisces and of course their wounds are often so carved in their psych that it's hard to heal them. they often had to deal with feelings of being abandoned by the universe like they weren't supposed to be here to being with. they are feeling disconnected from the source and overwhelmed by collective suffering. Their empathy often make them create wounds that aren't even theirs and are transgenerational. Yet their capacity of becoming a bridge to unconditional love is just the most precious thing ever. they are good spiritual healers, they are artistic, and have transcendent compassion.

[lightlycareless]

warnings: fluff. naoya and you have a lovable, baby girl named naomi.

I like to imagine how small, everyday domestic things happen between Naomi, Naoya, and you.

The one I kept thinking about as of recently is Naomi and how she would most likely (just like any other kid her age) be afraid of the dark.

This evidently happens right after she begins to see curses, be aware of them and the world she’s now a part of. It’s uneventful most of the time thanks to the protective talismans around the estate and her parent’s guidance, slowly but surely, she seems to grow accustomed to them.

But after a particularly scary encounter this soon changes, leading her to tightly grip ger blanket and plushie as you tuck her to bed, fretful of the moment you leave the room.

“…Mama…” Naomi would whine. Her soft voice, alongside her puppy eyes, made it impossible to ignore her.

“What’s wrong, dumpling?” you worry, leaning back down again to her level to gently place your palm on her forehead. “Do you not feel well?”

“N—no, it’s not that…” she shakes her head.

“Then what is it, pumpkin?” As if it weren’t extremely preoccupying enough to see your little ray of sunshine acting so distraught… the last thing anyone needed was for her to be ailed by something even worse. “You know you can trust me with anything, honey. Mama is always here to help you.”

After a brief moment of silence… she confesses.

“I’m scared of the dark, mama. I can’t go to sleep!”

“Oh, why is that? What happened?” you ask. At least it wasn’t anything grave. For you, that is.

“N—nothing, but…” She whimpers, clutching to her blanket even tighter. “But—but what if a curse appears from the dark?! I don’t want that to happen, mama…”

“And it won’t. The estate is filled with talismans to protect you in case one managed to slip through our noses” You try to reassure her, help her rationalize that such thing was virtually impossible to occur—and even if it did, they’d be quickly surrounded by more than capable sorcerers.

But to her small, innocent mind, such explanations were redundant. Had to real purpose when battling her fear, for they’d somehow always manage to outsmart you or her papa.

However, that didn’t mean you were running out of solutions. Thus, after a quick call with Naoya and sleeping together to keep her mind at ease, you come back with what soon became her beacon of hope—a little something that helped her regained a good night sleep.

“What are you doing, mama?” Naomi curiously asks, trying to peak over your shoulder and see what you were diligently working on by the electrical outlet.

“The answer to all of our problems, princess!” you cheer, turning around to see her. “Ah, ah—no peeking! Or you’ll ruin the surprise.”

Naomi giggles, placing her hands over her eyes to anxiously wait for the reveal.

“You can open them now!” you cheer, and without time to waste, your baby peels her hands away to gasp at the sight of her favorite character lightening up the corner of her room; dimly to not perturb her rest, yet strong enough to scare away any dangers lingering in the dark.

“Mama!” Naomi gasps, running to your side to get a closer look of the newest addition to her collection. “What is that?”

“It’s called a nightlight, little mochi. Something to help you sleep at night while warding off all curses!” After the right adjustments, of course. They don’t offer these types of services in retail stores.

“Really?!” Naomi adds. “…Will it really protect me?”

“Yes, I promise! However, I do have one other thing to ensure it works just as intended.” You smile, looking over to the door as it slides open, making your daughter quickly swirl into its direction and squeal upon seeing who stood just past it.

“Papa!! You’re home!” she cries, swift footsteps making their way to Naoya, followed by a tight, warm hug that immediately makes him crumble. It doesn’t take much for him to understand how much she had missed him, but if there was any doubt, her quiet sniffles erased all uncertainties.

“You don’t need to cry, pumpkin. I’m here now.” He says, gently wiping away her tears. Your heart tightens at the sight. “Someone told me you were having problems with the dark, and I, being the strong papa you can always rely on, couldn’t allow that to happen any longer!”

“Papa…” she murmurs, leaning into his touch. “What are you going to do??”

“Well, aside from your nightlight, how about we do that thing… what’s it called again, my love?” Naoya asks, feigning ignorance.

“A slumber party.” You reveal, and Naomi grins.

To do one of her favorite things… With her papa? And her mama?? Sign her up!

“But, before we do that, I want you to know something.” Naoya says, gently cupping her face alongside his suddenly serious tone, effectively pulling all of her attention. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you and your mother. I would go to great lengths, to the end of the world if necessary, just to keep you safe and happy.

In other words, long as I am around, even afterwards, harm shall never befall you. I will make sure of that.”

“Even from the monsters in the dark…?”

“Especially from the monsters in the dark.” He chuckles, kissing the top of her head. “Think they’re too strong for papa to handle?”

Naomi firmly shakes her head, giving him another smile alongside a sweet giggle that makes everyone’s heart soar.

“No, papa. Don’t be silly!”

Because if there’s one thing she’s absolutely sure, beyond Hello Kitty being the best, cutest cat in the whole wide world…

Is that her papa was the strongest.

And that he never lies.

[gear-project]

Dual Rulers: Episode 4

Responsibility and the Shape of a Person

Spoilers (as if you didn’t already know!)

We start with a brief recap of everything that led to this point in the story, though it’s interesting to point out that the definition of those who wield Magic as Sorcerers (Mahotsukai / Houriki Magic Arts users) is already classified as something superhuman: beyond conventional Science.

Meaning, the standards and comfort people now enjoy in the 2180s is far and above our current definitions of strength, speed, and power, which explains a lot about GG’s Human characters, actually!

It is almost as if Humanity was headed towards the Crusades as some sort of dark logical conclusion.

Unika wakes up, replaying the events of the previous day in her mind, Sin’s voice having clearly shaken her resolve.

A simmering pot called breakfast presents itself (perhaps Bridget learned to cook from Jam?).

Unika turns to see Bridget quietly stitching her torn clothes back together, but is jolted from the pain in her chest from the bullet wound she recently received (cooking, medical care, AND sewing? Bridget would make a good Housewife!).

Despite the pain, Unika is met with a gentle smile, as Bridget hands her clothes back. Unika is soon surprised to learn that she had met Bridget previously at the End of War Commemoration Festival.

Unika is unsure why she was saved, but Bridget states it’s a matter of course. It’s just the right thing to do, even giving her food.

The scenery around them appears to be part of the old ruin from previous, though it appears to be a massive abandoned Liner Ship somehow caught on a large sand bar near the sea and left to rust away. Nearby the beach are ruined satellite dishes, broken and also abandoned. Did the Crusades merely reduce the Sea Level, or did Humans simply abandon ship in fear? No Man’s Lands are full of such mysteries.

Unika recalls when she activated the War Relic, and the massive destruction it caused, along with the long lines of Illyrian People held hostage to fate.

Sin’s questions play back in her mind, as fear grips her heart.

The voice of her “father” also haunts her memories, and she trembles, gripping the Access Key in her hands.

Back at the White House, U.S. President Vernon E. Groubitz reviews the intel they obtained from the events that transpired, along with Erica Bartholomew and Illyrian King Leo Whitefang.

Their attempt to retrieve the duplicate Access Key Unika had created had failed, and Leo says it’s still taking too long for citizens of Illyria to evacuate. Leo wonders who would want to make enemies of two giant countries.

Erica henceforth refers to the Terrorist known as Unika as “Agent U” under the assumption that she is working for a larger organization.

They begin to review the attacks Unika made both in Illyria and America, as well as the sabotage attempt on King Ky’s Barrier.

Vernon points out that it is extremely unusual to not have any background information on “Agent U”. Leo says there’s several existing Lone Wolf Sorcerers, but they usually leave a trail of rumors behind them. Erica observes that a powerful organization must be hiding Unika’s tracks that even exceeds American Intelligence capabilities.

They marvel at how small a time window it took for Unika to duplicate the stolen Access Key to the War Relic. Vernon says that even modern technology would make such a feat practically impossible (as if the technology was stolen from another era).

Leo understands her Anti-Gear sentiments towards Ky and Dizzy, but questions why Unika would declare an assault on the entire nation of Illyria (which is mostly human residents). He questions if it’s even worth it to make an enemy of the entire world (almost as if he’s familiar with Ramlethal’s past situation repeating itself). Vernon agrees, not sure what to make of Unika’s motivations in all this.

Erica points out Sin’s failed attempts to speak with Unika and convince her, only to get injured. Sol shot her, but Sin took control of a Dormant Gear to save her from falling off a building.

Vernon reveals the soldiers caught the entire fight on surveillance and it would have been chaos if the footage leaked. Vernon then revealed Sin’s power activation was a coincidence, as their real purpose was to show footage of soldiers shooting civilians.

Leo points out that even the payoff for scandalous footage of military killings civilians is too small for something like these events.

Just as they are about to conclude they know nothing about Unika, Vernon ponders what leads they may still have.

Back at the Beach of ruins, Unika steps out of an alcove to spy the slender silhouette of Bridget bathing in the waters near them off in the distance. Bridget’s silhouette appears to overlap with some of Unika’s memories of the past.

Later, Bridget offers her medicine for the pain, but she says she’s fine, except for the tightness in her throat. Her lingering feelings of failure.

Bridget then recalls memories of a certain failed Bounty from seven years ago (along with the fake bounties after that). It’s surprising Unika isn’t nervous over the revelation that Bridget’s a Bounty hunter in the first place.

Bridget sums up that everyone makes mistakes, but what’s more important is what you do “after”.

Unika is then troubled, not knowing what to do next. She hesitates when speaking of reporting back to her father.

After a Nightmare, Sin wakes up, wondering what has happened to Illyria. Pain lances through Sin’s shoulder, but a reassuring voice tells him to Relax.

It’s Johnny! And Illyia is safe. For the time being.

Sin’s first question is Sol’s whereabouts, but Sol simply stepped out for a bit.

Sin asks what face Sol had, and Johnny says he doesn’t memorize a man’s expressions, but asks Sin why.

Sin begins to dwell on his failure to listen to what Sol said, everything he did, and the prospect of Sol being angry with him.

Sin realized how little he really understood, how naive he was, but Sol knew it was not as simple as Sin first thought.

If Sin had failed even more, more would have been lost.

Sin feels he was in the wrong because it forced Sol to shoot Unika, and that it was all his fault for being idealistic, hoping they could talk things out.

Even the terror in the child’s eyes that he’d first met, he blames himself for all of it.

Johnny responds by flipping Sin out of bed by the bed sheets.

Johnny says young boys like Sin shouldn’t be moping around all gloomy. Johnny reminds Sin that nothing goes perfect the first time around.

He’s gotta have guts, especially when trying to win over a girl!

Sin yells that he wasn’t trying to hit on her, but Johnny says, even so, some of what Sin said DID influence Unika.

Sin’s not convinced.

Johnny replies, it’s because Illyria is still in one piece.

Johnny observes that despite everything Unika did, she wasn’t trying to hurt innocent people, even if she scared them.

Would someone like that be fine with destroying a whole country?

Sin’s motivations shift a little, as he begins to get back on his feet.

Johnny asks him if he’s ready to face Sol (not an easy question for anyone!)

Somewhat hesitant, Sin says he’s ready.

Johnny says Sol had the same face as Sin just a moment ago.

Johnny tells Sin to go, and as Sin runs off, he says those two really are a handful. (Johnny, you Million World Dollar Hero, you!)

Sol returns on the bike as Sin calls out to him.

Sin says he’s okay (even his wounds appear to heal as he says this).

Sin admits he messed up this time, but next time he’ll do things right.

Sol says that’s good, but that he shouldn’t carry the burden alone.

Sin throws Sol’s words back at him, with a smile on his face.

Sol reciprocates the smile with a small one of his own.

Sin asks Sol his motive for shooting Unika to protect everyone, but Sol responds by saying it wasn’t just everyone, it was to protect Sin in particular.

As they head back Johnny says a package arrived for them, and leaves, but the fact anyone knew where they were puts Sol on alert.

Sol draws his blade over the box, expecting a trap.

Just when they’re expecting an explosion, something “else” pops out!

An elderly voice yells at Sol to put the sword away.

It’s Doctor Paradigm. And he once more must remind everyone that HE IS A DRAGON, NOT A BIRD.

Sol demands to know why Dr. P showed up, but Paradigm says it’s quite obvious: to meet with the NEW KING OF THE GEARS.

Before we even had a chance to worry, Elphelt Valentine returns from a successful mission and avoiding a deadly trap!

Apparently the Killer Satellite barely managed to scratch Elphelt, let alone make her pink jacket dusty! (Goes to show just how powerful Valentines actually are compared to normal Gears!)

Elphelt continues to report to Jack-O’, and Elphelt reveals that it appears the lab she investigated was being used to develop bio weapons. Jack-O’ observes that even though the facility dates back to the Crusades, there was no official record of its existence.

Elphelt suspects the facility was being used to create Anti-Gear Bio Weapons (like Forbidden Beasts, known also as “Kinjuu”). However, Jack-O’ says that Gears originated from a wide variety of species, so it would be difficult to narrow it down.

Even making a universal Anti-Gear Virus would not be practical with the technology limitations from back then. It might work on specific strains of Gear genes, but there would be little time or practicality in making one.

Even if such a weapon was made back then, it would be incredibly classified, but just as Elphelt thinks to break in to the White House for answers, Jack-O’s says she has a BETTER idea!

Back to the conversation with Sin and Paradigm, Dr. P points out that because Dizzy was sealed, Sin is the Last Command Type Gear on the Planet.

Sin quickly passes on the responsibility, but Paradigm says it’s irresponsible of him (once more grumbling about Humanoids, an old habit of his).

Sin points out that he just messed up the whole Command Gear responsibility thing to begin with, when he saved Unika.

But, Paradigm reminds him, that’s EXACTLY why he’s here!

As of now, most Active Gears try to stay out of sight from humans, but if Anti-Gear Sentiment reaches a new zenith, it could break even THAT fragile sense of Peace.

Unika’s actions and movement she sparked can’t go ignored.

But, Unika is only the spark, and Paradigm reminds Sin that Humans CANNOT be trusted!

Sin is shocked to hear such words and bias from Paradigm, but then he remembers the animosity of the people he met at the old city ruin.

Whether the Gears rise or fall, lies on the one with the power to control them, the King of the Gears. That decision falls to Sin.

Sin gripes that Paradigm can’t just dump that responsibility on to him.

Paradigm offers him three Options:

One: Lead the Gears and Negotiate with Humans for the right to Exist, even at the risk of bloodshed. Sin argues it’s too sudden, but Paradigm says “better a struggle for survival, than silent extinction”.

Two: Sin could command all Gears to take their own lives, eliminating human fear of them (but this doesn’t account for Human Greed to make more).

Three: Sever all ties to Humans and leave for the Stars, or even another Dimension (very difficult, but still possible with Gear Technology and Ingenuity).

Sol gets pissed and tells Paradigm to cut the Crap.

This whole thing feels like a Con Artist Pressure Sale Pitch to Sol, and he doesn’t like it!

Paradigm says, however, want it or not, those with Power must take Responsibility.

That Fate of All Gears on Earth, now rests on Sin’s shoulders.

President Groubitz gets a call on Secure Line, it’s Jack-O’, saying she borrowed his number from Sol.

Jack-O’ reveals the intel she just got from Elphelt: and asks if they know of any secret weapons in development during the Crusades for fighting the Gears.

As far as American Intelligence history goes, they have no records of Anti-Gear Bioweapons in development from back then.

Vernon gets a confirming nod from Erica that what he just said was true to their knowledge. Vernon asks if what they found was just an outdated failed experiment.

Jack-O’ says it’s worth investigating further, and sends them an access code to the records they found from the facility.

Erica tries to access it, but the data was erased. The group behind these events got to the technology first. Based on residual data left behind from what got erased, Erica says it appears to be a wide-area Anti-Gear extermination weapon, with only cancellation records of it remaining.

However, the Lead Scientist of the Project: one Nerville Hammer!

Now acting as an American Senator and Ambassador.

Everyone is shocked to discover this information.

Sometime later, Jack-O’ arrives to meet with Sol and Sin.

Sol isn’t pleased to have Paradigm around, but Jack-O’ reveals the good news: they found the Mastermind!

Sin is surprised to learn that it’s Nerville of all people he just met.

Sol points out that’s not the part that matters: the real question they need to ask is how he obtained the military power to wage a war against both America AND Illyria at once!

And the fact he’s using technology that should not exist in this era, along with an untraceable agent in Unika.

Jack-O’ suspects it’s almost like Nerville can PREDICT THE FUTURE!

And, perhaps that Unika even CAME FROM THAT FUTURE.

Sin says he believes Jack-O’s Theory: Unika even said she saw the Future.

It’s now Jack-O’s turn to be surprised, and she proceeds to tell Sol off for not mentioning any of this to her earlier!

Sin suspects Unika is with Nerville, however…

Unika is with Bridget, and Bridget asks Unika the Shape of her Soul.

It is not easy to really ascertain one’s shape, or whom they truly are.

Bridget reveals a past that, while some assumed things about the shape of Bridget’s life, that was not the actual “shape” of that life Bridget was born in to. And this resulted in conflicts with family.

Bridget states: what others found “cute” wasn’t the same “cute” that Bridget discovered, even if the shape found was Bridget’s own, and sometimes “rough around the edges”.

There was a time when Bridget tried to impress family with strength and power, but even that didn’t feel right.

It was only after trial and error, and trying many things, that Bridget’s life took its “current shape”.

Even going against parents, your “shape” is something you can only find by yourself. That’s how it was for Bridget.

Unika then begins to ponder her own “shape”.

. . .

And so another Episode concludes. I did say beforehand “don’t say I didn’t warn you”. Some aspects of this story seem to widen the scope of GG by leaps and bounds, even if it’s within Strive’s canon for the most part.

I think many of us may suspect where all of this is going, but I still think there’s much to be resolved. Sin and Unika both have heavy fates tied to family and a rich past history.

But what about the FUTURE!?

We can theorize in circles for hours, but only the NEXT EPISODE will tell us more!

[xmads-omensx]

(soft saturday request 👀) would love a Matt taking care of an hurt/injured reader?? I fractured my ankle and am on bed rest and as a result have been ~thinking~ about soft thoughts with this man 🙏🏻😔❤️

Pairing: Matt Dierkes X Reader

CW: mentions of injury

Tags: @shayeanna-ashlie @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @dontwantthemoney @tosoundlessdarkistare @klutzy-kay24 @heyyoplayer @lacy1986 @thisbicc @collidewiththesav @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @dsireland86 @dominuslunae @rumoured-whispers @eclipseeetop @xxkittenkissesxx @theanarchymuse95 @blackveilomens @lilgarbitch @lil-garbitch @concretejunglefm @xxkatsatwatwafflexx @kissestomyomens @athenexe @oobleoob @astronoids

“No.” Matt said in a stern voice, not even having to look at you to know that you were about to attempt moving by yourself. “Do not even think about it.”

“But-“ you argued.

“No.” He finished, putting the tray that carried your lunch onto your bedside table.

“Maaaatt.” You whined, fed up of being confined to your bed.

“Baaabe. Not gonna work. Stay.” He replied sternly as he mocked your feeble attempt to get him to let you be free.

“I’m not a dog.” You huffed, crossing your arms across your chest as thought you were an angsty teenager.

“Let’s watch a movie? Take your mind off it.” He suggested, climbing onto the other side of the bed, stretching out above the covers.

You huffed once again at the idea of being forbidden to move.

Then you realised, Matt had to do everything for you.

“Baaabe.” You whined in a sweet voice, furrowing your eyebrows slightly and putting on your best puppy dog eyes.

“Yeah baby.” He replied sweetly.

“My foot hurts. The good one.” You complained, wiggling your toes.

“Well yeah I’d imagine. You’ve been putting all your weight on that one. Want me to rub it for you?” He offered, practically leaping at the opportunity to help you.

You nodded and he got to work.

As he massaged your foot, you began to plot all of the things that you could get Matt to do, even if you were perfectly capable of doing it yourself.

“Can you tuck me in? The blanket isn’t quite right.” You asked once he’d finished, and he leapt straight into action.

“Anything else?” He said.

“Fluff up the pillows a little? I’ll love you forever.” You sweetly asked. He obeyed.

You then curled up together to watch your comfort movie.

“I know what you’re doing.” He whispered.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You giggled.

“You know you don’t have to be injured for me to do whatever you say right?” He said, raising his eyebrow slightly.

“It’s more fun when I have an excuse not to move.” You giggled as Matt pulled you in tighter to his chest, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you, idiot.” He sighed.

“I love you too, dweeb.” You sighed, snuggling in even closer.

[darklambbandwolff]

𝔬𝔣𝔣 𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

SIREN, BE BOUND TO ME II, III & IV (collective) Dark Pirate!Bucky Barnes x Siren!Female Reader

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Part 2 Original Transcript ・6.1k Mature! Dark, pirate Bucky — possessive Bucky, also feat. possessive reader — profanity — angst! — mention of alcohol — pet names ("Siren") — SMUT 18+ Minors DNI — unprotected (given) p in v sex — mention of marks/hickeys — there be depiction of wenches/prostitutes — semi-exhibitionism — mention of memory wipe through magic — minor cigar consumption (not reader) — very brief depiction of harm against a crew member — Rumlow, he's a bit of a sly creep ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Dawn kisses the horizon’s rolling waters, erasing the wicked hue of intermingling black and blue with colours brighter, more promising, to bloom over sky and sea. A sight that portraits serenity in order to inspire a welling of hope. The flaming orb of heat commands to stir the once slumbering crew into action. Little does it work to awaken your captain, already awake and buried deep in the channel of your cunt, his cock surges forward aggressively, tip kissing your cervix with each powerful snap of his hips. 

  Relentless, he rolls in tandem with the rock of the ship, a string of grunted breaths and deep, stuttering groans thrum in the cavern of his large chest, heart hammering against his ribcage. 

  He pulls from you another countless orgasm to add to another countless hour of this tortuous bliss. A flushing, white and hot, seizes hold of you and beckons your body to respond accordingly, trained in his art of greed your legs drag over the terrain of defined muscle to bring him impossibly closer. Skin melding to inked skin, sweat laced bodies mingling in heated, frictional euphoria. 

  “Y’love that, Siren? Huh,” he pants on the shell of your ear, “love it when I have you full of me?”

  You mewl a small, whiney sound. 

  “Yes—” you intake sharply, “C-Captain…”

  “Aye, say it again.” He growls deeply, teeth nip the lobe of your ear, his nose buried in the crook of your neck inhales deeply the sweet dew of your flushed skin. Rough and strong, his hands have yours pinned, as he does your entire body, pressed against blood-red and snowy white velvets and silks and dark, exotic furs once belonging to pompous princes. Now, they belong to the king of the sea and his siren. Hips rolling together in time, fingers interlacing, woven together in bound strength to hold each other as guarded lifelines, the webbing between your slender digits draws and withdraws from their tucked beds of skin. Pupils conflict between dark, slitted lines and circular globes of blackness blown in pleasure. 

  “Shit… fuck– so fuckin’ tight, Siren!” he hisses, “mine… only mine.”

  Already your core burns enticingly, welcoming another orgasm that follows closely behind your one just prior. His navel arcs to brush your clit, the girth of his cock strikes true each time, he pummels harder and faster, his tip the only portion to remain before he thrusts forward with a moistened glide.

  Corded notes of pleasure are threaded into hitched knots, producing small, hiccuping whines as your abused, slickened walls constrict around his cock to milk him of every drop. The small bridge of your back arches, the smooth surface of your salty skin gliding over the defined divots and scars of his muscular front, inch by inch you feel him everywhere; both outside and inside. 

  He’ll never let you go. As a man who prides himself in the fine freedoms of piracy, he’s a blackened heart that guards you with vigorous possessiveness. Nor do you think you’re capable of ever leaving him. He is all you have. He is yours just as much as you are his. 

  The treasure he covets with unmatched greed. No woman on this earth could ever encounter what you have above you and between your quivering legs that loop tightly over his strong waist. And because of this, you equally covet this treasure of yours. 

  His cock ruts your cervix roughly, tugging forth a long, high noted yelp underlined with a breathy huff, the rhythm of his hips stutters at the sound. His pink lips find yours, tongue drawing over your own, your submission allowing him to do as he pleased. He feeds off the chorus of your breathless song, a song meant just for him. Because of him. 

  “Fuckin’ hell…” His voice rasps, teeth sinking into the bend where your shoulder and neck meet. “Love it when y’sing for m— me.” A gut-emitted groan reverberates in his chest, Skin meets skin in synchronised slapping, raw and primal with need. Wooden legs rub and claw the floorboards with heavy creaks. 

  “L–look atcha… huh, whiney and cock drunk– mmm, gonna make you scream for me, Love.”

  His thrusts grow as ruthless as the brewing storms of the sea, lashing and rocking you beyond the point of refusal. There is no denying, no pushing away. Not when it comes to your captain. 

  “C’mon, Siren—” He pants with a series of rushing thrusts that pin you down. “Sing for me.” 

  The erected peeks of your breasts are tender as they push against his chest. You whimper softly. 

  “Captain…”

  “Aye, louder,” he growls. Of his flesh hand, his knuckles whiten dangerously until the skin melts over bone. Another harsh snap of his hips sends you spiralling on the verge of your orgasm.

  “Captain—” you gasp and he bites down into the bevel between your collarbone with a rasping growl. “Captain!”

  Your velvety walls tighten around the hardened length penetrating you, filling you, his cock encumbered by the vice of your cunt. The blinding flash covers your vision and heat spreads through every corner of your body, leaving nothing but a siren blinded in lustful bliss. He groans with each drag and push, muscles glistening in the soft glow of the rising sun. The flowing wave of his precious seed finds purchase in your lower abdomen. 

  It’s not until he completely empties his hot load, does he finally slow his pace to a stop. Above you he pants heavily, each breath reminding you of the sea’s spray and sun-tainted breeze that tousles the darkened locks of his hair. 

  Your energy sapped from the unbridled temper of your beloved captain, you find reprieve in the gentleness of his tongue tracing the numerous dark marks covering your skin - his marks. 

  “Know this…” His voice rumbles lowly, his flesh hand harbouring the necklace dangles it mere inches over your parted lips. “There is nothing for you to find in a dried pearl, Siren. I am all you need.” 

  Metal squeezes your jawline, pursuing your understanding. The pink tip of his tongue wets his lips and he arches a brow.

  “Yes…”

  You needn’t be jostled twice by the threat of his grasp, you whisper, voice barely audible, “…Captain.”

  “Atta girl.” 

   Arriving at port in Nassau means safe haven for the crew of The Avenger, a chance to rekindle spirits with a few dozen barrels of liquor and a woman’s belly to keep any weathered sailor happy. In the Caribbean’s turning and heating morn, gulls scavenge for pickings of food, the white banks of sand converging with the blue tinged tide bathe the nudity of your feet with absorbed heat, it brings an irate wince to cross your features. Over the vast stretch of beach and headed further inland, the jolly tune of harboured pirates emit from the wooden, creaky shacks, if not counting the ruckus of noisy patrons enjoying their paid company. 

  Never did your captain have need for such sleaziness, such lazed women who lounge in wait for coins to fill the near-always empty drawstring bag tied to their thigh. He had you.

  To hold you close to the scorching warmth of his battle hardened body, to passionately entangle your limbs in an endless thread of desire, and to bask in the radiance that is one another; the possession of a companion no other can have.

  And your own guard for your beloved captain doesn’t go unnoticed, by either him or the hungering gazes of those women yet in wait, your arms encircling around the bulk of Bucky’s flesh arm, in your neck the muscles strain as your fangs become elongated in a threatening display, the disguise of your eyes falters into narrow strips of glaring obsidian. 

  These women are no strangers to the presence of sirens, in spite of the limited number of population, a siren’s prize is never to be taken from her. 

  “Easy, Lass,” Bucky coos, lips drawn on either side into a charming grin. “There’s none suiting my fancy but you.”

  His assurances brighten refocused pupils and the lines around your mouth pull into a smirk. The now scornful glares of ladies unworthy of his time burn into you, and you in turn purse the tip of your tongue between your lips in retaliation. Behind, you hear a few members of the crew huff in their amusement. 

  With the crew tailing loyally behind their captain, each body a weighted husk ready to drown themselves in all that Nassau offers, the striking colour of a scarlet coat saunters forward in the corner of your vision. In a briefly stolen glance to your side, the brilliance of her green irises invade you with a soulless engagement, full lips drawn into a thin line and below the crimson stripe of her bandana, her brows are furrowed. 

  It comes to mind Bucky’s attendance on deck to anchor the ship at port, and so too does the possible thought that during that increment amount of time, Bucky could have very well informed Wanda of your curious skirmish ending in upheaval, caught red handed in the act. 

  And yet the events, the memory of what you experienced - the estranged bond you shared with the necklace - all of it remains. No bouts of stomach churning nausea or blurred hazes that leave you to stumble on your two feet, abandoning you to the mindless plane of confusion where memory is your worst and forgotten enemy. 

  And you prefer to keep it that way. These invasions that leave you more curious, sensing something greatly amiss the more of its occurrence is known, perhaps it’s best if you surrender the search. Your captain is all you need. Nevermind the ghostly songs that haunt the realm beneath the surface. Maybe, just maybe, there is good reason why you don’t remember anything. And if you cease this affair, then maybe with the grace of your beloved, that there will be no need to be swallowed into the misty thicket of her dark, scarlet magic. 

  I am my captain’s siren. I must remain with him. He is all I have. All I want to have…

    ‘Mm hm, mm hm, mm~hmm~hm~mm… mhm.,.’

  The melody chimes to lure your attention, the trickery of the voices blooms thickly throughout the forefront of your mind. You press to ignore the empty promise of their secrets revealed. This search ends now. No more. In defiance to the woeful, bleeding song of murmured hums, your arms hold tighter to Bucky, his chin dips low as his blue eyes look you over, gorgeous eyes of the ocean, captured within the handsome sculpture of his visage. A forbidden make of marble, carven with perfection in mind. 

  ‘Mm hm, mm hm, mm~hm—’

  “Something the matter, Siren?” thrums the husky drawl of your captain. You turn your eyes - your entire form of attention - to him, devoting it to him alone, and not to the tune that wanes with grieving cries that drown in the mists of that plane. You shake your head with refined elegance and bring a smile to grace him with. 

  “Nothing, my Captain,” you purr sweetly. Voice soft enough to easily die in the crashing of heavy waves, but so throbbing to the heart that the lilted beat of your voice could never be lost to him. Bucky grins at your words, respite is found in the security of your vow. Not only does your answer satisfy him immensely, but it draws Wanda’s intense focus away from you. 

  The quartermaster, Steve Rogers, is met in an engulfing embrace by a striking brunette with bouncy curls, lips bright and red and grinning, brown eyes sparkling in the Nassau’s brimming sun. Truth be told, she was far too pretty to be a mere human, her beauty akin to a glistening ruby, and maybe it saddens you the littlest bit that she foresees you with eyes of weariness rather than friendliness. 

  Perhaps if she were a siren herself, you’d both have settled together rather fondly as friends - as bonded sisters. But alas, with her own treasure now ashore for now, she takes to him and welcomes him with moaning cords and absorbing kisses, Bucky chuckles slyly with a wink to his exhausted friend. 

  Weather-beaten tables score the large deck of the tavern, most of them being vacant outside, but given the beginnings of your skin drying out, Bucky takes care to situate you as close to a shaded spot. Something you are noticeably grateful for with your cheek nuzzling into the openly revealed space of his chest, the belted strips of leather strapped over his chest warm your skin as well as his skin. 

  Casting you in flittering shadows are the swaying palms, their long and prickly spine leaves howling in the sea’s constant winds driven ashore. While other members of the crew flee to their own affairs to relax, those of Bucky’s inner circle remain close, like cards held to his chest, and you being the winning ace of his games, are held the closest. 

  “Restock of the ship’s supplies will take all day, not to mention, the girl needs a few restorations herself,” says Bruce, spectacles resting low upon the bridge of his nose, eyes finalising his scrawlings as his voice confirms. His hand runs over the plump of his cheek with a drained sigh, middle finger pushing the brass loop of his glasses upwards. 

  “And that’ll spend us… half our funds.”

  “Wouldn’t need to waste so much coin on crackers ‘nd other shite, had someone not snuck ‘round like a rat.” Clint’s eyes squint in his accusation towards none other than the master of maps and navigation, Stark, who partakes in defending himself behind a weak shrug. 

  “There’s actual rats aboard. T’wasn’t me.”

Clint’s upper lip curls into a sneer, the ship’s cook primed to render Stark into salted meatloaf, a dullened knife he took to using in both battle and kitchen is held in his nimble fingers. 

  “Fuckin’ thievin’—”

  “Quit your squabbling,” rumbles your captain, “strike what isn’t needed for the voyage. Double on reinforcements and armoury.” His gruff voice sends tingles through your still connected cheek to his front, content in hearing its booming and steady beat. Bruce nods and returns his gaze downward to his leatherbound companion, quill resipping ink, he scribbles into his book once again, humming and murmuring to himself. 

  Bruce Banner, though quite brutal in the midst of battles, is a relatively quiet man who tends to keep to himself for most of his membership as a crewmate. Often he dwells below decks, counting stock, taking note of damages and overall engaging the skin of parchment rather than a woman. 

   Not to completely disregard the sometimes scarce glances between himself and the fiery, flintlock dancer herself, Natasha, eyes meeting between the wooden blanks separating their worlds from dark to light. If history is planted there, there is little to know in your knowledge - your hazy knowledge. From what you’ve gathered, Natasha has a tongue that leaves many of the males on board chest torn and heart bleeding, in dire need for her to bandage them with a moment of her time. Time that she rather spent either dancing in the heat of conflict, pulling the ship in order or occupy herself with you. 

  In comparison to the neighbouring woman often skulking silently by Bucky’s heel like a prowling animal on a leash, Natasha offered you what nobody else truly had; a connection. Someone you can maybe call friend. 

  By no means is she completely softened around you, she pushes you beyond your limits, but in her interactions with you, she layers herself with a bout of steadiness and calm to keep you level headed at best. She even takes the time to teach you letters and words of human speech. Too nervous to ask such a tedious task of your own captain, it had been Natasha called upon to teach you.

   Under her mentorship, she had governed you away from the native tongue of your sea dwelling folk, and what had at first been mistaken as the ship’s adored feline, Alpine coughing up a fish bone, had just been you taking the first step in learning to speak the language of humans. Only then and afterwards did your captain also take part in your teaching, albeit through a more erotic means of lessons behind the closed door of his cabin. 

  Steve returns with a sway to his step, Peggy held snug to his hip, the two bound by invisible, sticky sap that glues them together. “We’ve drinks comin’, Cap!” He laughs with a clap to Bucky’s broad shoulder, jostling you forward with a startled whine, eyes stinging and dry in alertness. 

  You miss catching it at first, the sharpened glare of ice in his eyes towards Steve for his abrupt disturbance of you, the blonde haired man, lass-drunken already, clicks his tongue with a grimace of offered sincerity, uttering a quiet apology under his heated breath.

  Bucky is only willing to let his scowl go after you assure the quartermaster that there is no harm done, excusing yourself that your fatigue had gotten the better of your guard. 

  Flared tempers now cooled, Steve leans back against the rickety stage of the deck’s plank railing. The ruffled skirts of his companion’s dress ride a little higher on her thigh as she rests it over his lap, drawstring bag visible… and fattened with coin. Paid very early in advance. Paid full with at least three weeks worth of salary strapped to her leg. 

  A chorus of cheers spill out into the open air when tankards of foam-headed refreshments are delivered. Tony’s chapped lips bend around a cigar stick, catching a flame to his match by the heel of his boot, he lights it and puffs a smog that brings your nose to wrinkle and lungs to jump. 

  “Right,” he says, the end of the word lost in its pronunciation, “Down ter business.” The master of maps of navigation procures from his coat rolled parchments and lays them flat to the wooden rot, he knocks a knuckle hard in indication of the pirate’s haven. 

  “We’re here, Lassy. Show us where it is.” Silence falls over those of the inner circle, each pair of eyes lace between the strewn papers and your expression, gauging the lines around your eyes that speak of your concentration. In wait for either your truthful answer or another lie. 

  The tips of your fingers run the inked lines that describe the landmarks of islands, points of interest, known ship routes and x marks, whilst your captain’s own fingers trace along the outer of your thigh teasingly beneath the cover of your robe and the table. His touch is distracting you, but could you be to blame for their failure in search of the ancient treasure? After all, your memory wasn’t of best quality these days. 

  Tony rolls his fingers in a drumming pattern, each minute it grows louder and pounds in your eardrums, the wafting curtain of thick, cigar smoke clouds your senses. 

  Your captain, scowling at this, shoots his metal arm forward and plucks the cigar from Tony’s mouth and pushes the burning ash and tobacco into the veiny hide of his bare hand. Tony bites a string of curses as his hand retracts. 

  “Next time, it’s shoved down your fuckin’ throat, got it?” 

  “Aye, Cap…,” mutters Tony. He shoots you a seething glare but nevertheless, relinquishes his attempts to intimidate you into answering. 

  “You forget, sirens speak a certain way.” Comes the low purr of his lilt, breath hot against the shell of your ear, the encouragement of his hand snakes your thigh over into his lap, leaving your core, though hidden to others, exposed to his addictive touch. Your breath becomes latched in your lungs, struggling to be free and your toes curl as his flesh hand slips between your parted legs. “You just need to know how…” 

  You barely hide the hiccup in your erupting breath. His thumb, rough and firm, toys with the delicate bud that spurs the welling of arousal to moisten your folds. Behind the sealed line of his lips, he breezes a rich chuckle that courts you with promised, devoting attention to your clit, circling it slowly as the long, thick body of his middle finger runs further down your folds. The chill of gold grinds into your skin gently, the pearl hums lowly in the deep reverie of your mind once more, grazing your skin with a harmonic resurgence against the combating of Bucky’s explorative touch. 

  If the air had been thick with the sun’s heat before, then it was downright unbreathable now, your skin aches and itches to be submerged in the tranquil waters. You all but claw a single rocky formation on the far edge of the map. All eyes zero in on the point, taking in the towering form of inked rocks. 

  “You’ve to be jokin’,” Clint hisses quietly. Sam Wilson is the next to speak with a sigh, “That’s a death wish, Captain.”

  “Siren, you’re sure?” Your head bows slowly to Bucky’s question and his thumb ceases its movement. Your finger situated over the landmark trembles, your throat is dry, saliva collects in thick rivulets and makes it difficult to swallow your despair. 

  Hushed whispers fall over the crew as Bucky’s smouldering eyes darken in thought, contemplating the high stakes. For your finger lands not just on the precise location of the temple harbouring the world’s greatest treasure horde any pirate or king alike could dream of. 

  It spans over into dangerous, uncharted territory. Territory that resides as a mass graveyard for ships and souls. The Misted Song Isles. 

  A bedded corner of the world untouched by sunlight, forever shrouded in a mist that never falters in its opacity, leaving many blinded to the ambushing predators that await them. 

  These cousins are the cause of your repulsion. They are not sirens. They do not possess the ability to sing beautifully anymore. That which haunts the mists are not curated melodies to turn a heart soft and a man stirred in longing, no, but devilish shrieks and wallowing howls that scream in revel of their kill.

  “Captain, think about this for a sec—” The quartermaster, as is everyone else, silenced within an instant. You yelp and pull your hand close to your chest as the sharpened point of a blade punctures right where your finger had been. Your heart races against your ribcage. 

  “We set sail at dawn.” 

  His command goes unchallenged and hangs in the eeriness of uncertainty. His lips formulate into that smirk, daring of the course ahead, ready to face whatever thrilling adventure awaits him and his hardened crew. 

  “Prepare yourselves. We’ll soon amass a fortune like no other. Riches beyond belief,” Bucky preaches with a deepened, growling cord, thumb reviving the pleasing buzz between your thighs. Your head presses back into his shoulder, arching your core slightly into his hand. “I’ve never known those of my crew to shrink away from glory and plunder. So what of it, mates? Are you lot ready to take what’s ours?”

  “Aye!” erupts a booming throng of cheers and hollering, tankards fly skyward with trickling, foamy ales, and fists pound the tables enthusiastically. From you, Bucky draws a softened, pleasured whine only captured by his ears, a musical note he licks his teeth in savouring delight. 

  “What a rousing speech, Captain Barnes. Touches my own heart.” The inner circle becomes disrupted, parting into a narrow corridor to give their captain sight of the outsider. Bucky’s thumb comes to pause again, much to the displeasure of your quiet grumbling, your eyes seek out the intruder and gape with widened eyes. 

    “Rumlow,” growls Bucky. His hand bares upon your thigh a tightening squeeze. 

  Brock Rumlow, captain of The Lady Strike, stands present, brown coat beaten and done in by the rough life at sea, tricorn equal in match to the rest of his dishevelled attire. Dark, matted and oily hair is swept behind his ears, stubble very much unkempt and in need of a shave. His brown eyes take in the near bareness of your form, your hand pulls the robe’s fabric over your already covered breasts, and Bucky curls you further inward, protecting you from the fowl leering of Rumlow’s dark eyes. His jaw is set hard as a deep, possessive growl emits from his large chest, the storm of his jealousy on the rise. 

  With a cock of his head, Tony shoves the plans back into the confines of his coat with a huff, missing the tangy flavour of his cigar.

  By now, those of Rumlow’s crew move in behind him, a battle of glares and curled snarls, only one amongst the opposing crew brings a grin to fall over your face, eyes brightened in relief. Long, raven black hair sweeping down the curve of her back, strips of plaits are decorated with beads and small shells, A tall and lean build of a woman a few years older of your age, eyes the shape of almonds and disguised as kindly, sparkling hazels of greens and browns. 

  Her thin lips form a smile to match her tender features. You barely have another chance to second guess your next move, taking care to keep the intricately patterned robe around to protect your modesty, you push yourself away from your captain and fly into her open arms, her embrace a welcomed one after all these weeks. 

  “Mina!” 

  She greets your name with a softened breath, the calming lull of a siren’s power. The prodding of shells poke into your chest, but you pay little heed to them, too much absorbed into a fellow siren’s hold. To be held and nurtured by one so connected to the sea as you, and who is also held prisoner above its beckoning tides. 

  “My dear, your skin!” she gasps. Her lithe fingers skim the lengths of your exposed shoulders, shoving under the flowy sleeves to do the same along your arms. “How long has it been since—”

  “She does not speak that way anymore.” 

  The voice of your captain is sharp, cutting right through to the bone, it chills you. You know you did wrong by your actions, caught in the flurry of your excitement to meet Mina. He hadn’t expressed his permission for you to leave his side.

  Her eyes forecast the irritated slits, the ridge of her mouth shifting. You shake your head quickly. “Don’t…”

  She listens to your plea and directs her gaze aside, retrieving back a more composed appearance. “Apologies, Captain Barnes. I forget her tongue falters and is now consumed by human speech. Please, forgive me.”

  His eyes stare point blank akin to the barrel of his flintlock, finger locked ahold of the trigger and primed to fire a metal ball right between her eyes. He takes into account that her voice is dry in its sincere case that begs forgiveness. A case he finds unmoving. 

  And so it falls to you. Her arms fall from around you reluctantly, you press on towards Bucky, hands caressing the carved shape of his jawline. “Please, Captain… forgiveness?”

  For a moment he is silent, his stare unwavering and unblinking, it churns your innards unassuredly. “Aye.” His response brings you to breathe again with a smile. You swallow thickly, steadying yourself with the words you have become accustomed to, at first rehearing it over in your thoughts before you speak.

  “May I go to the Pools? My skin… is dry.” As if to further accentuate, the inflection of your voice matches your statement, having to clear your throat gently. 

  He nods. “Very well, Love. Hour’s half.” Ingratiating yourself in his good graces, you capture his lips in yours, his own chase after your brief kiss but the embarrassment that they give away just how parched your body is steers you away quickly. 

  You are blind to the narrowing of cold, steely eyes following Mina who walks at your side, arms encircling around you protectively, her own eyes meeting the ferocity of Bucky’s glare, her own hardened stare watered down to save you from being caught in the crossfire for her temper. She knows that you would suffer just as well as her if Bucky turned his decision around. 

  The conversing crews are drowned out noise in the back of your head, Mina guides you along the dirt path towards the haven’s centre. 

  The Pools, a central hub that extends low into the island’s heart, and a system of interconnected tunnels for sirens to rejuvenate their exerted bodies, confining them to an enclosure with no means to swim directly back into the ocean. By all means, it was a natural formation turned into a cage. 

  Peering over the rocky lips, the inviting waters below reflect minute glimpses of the sun, a portion of it concealed under the shrubbery and towering palms. The hue of bright blue blankets the surface before the long stretch of abyssal black that cascades down the rock walls.

  The waters, as expected, are vacant of any other sirens, and those scarce few could only be seen in flashes of shining scales and shadows moving beneath, dipping into the mouths of the tunnels. Hidden from sight.

  You shed the covering of your robe and set it aside, its luxurious fabric smelling of yours and Bucky’s intermingling scents, the decorative stitchwork and colours flaunt it as one of a kind, a nabbed piece from a Japanese merchant schooner Bucky and his crew pillaged, and which your captain presented to you as a gift. The first of many he would later present. Intriguing artefacts.

  Mina didn’t have need to discard herself of human-given clothing, plunging into the heavenly waters before you, her attire made with the natural ingredients of the sea, leather strips and woven cords stretch around her chest and back with rings of shells to fasten over it, keeping her breasts pushed together. The wispy lengths of her skirt flows with sheeted seaweed, circling around her slim waist as a ghostly curtain. You follow not long after with an eager dive, your nude skin is soothed by the cool waters. Your legs morph together into the singular, powerful tendril of your trail, the webbed fins attached to your lower back flutter like the wings of a dove finding freedom on the winds. 

  Your bodies take refuge below the surface, skin no longer assaulted by the lacerations of the sun’s light and blazing scorch. How sailors could idle by whilst under the cruelty of it, you will never understand. Your back arches into a spiralling twist, a high pitched chirp bouncing from your throat and coursing through your gills. 

  You bask in the excitement with Mina who twists and bends, circling you with a teasing swish of her tail, she gargles a sweet note that bubbles around her lips, her forehead presses to yours affectionately. 

  She intends to regard you with the native speech of your kind but stops, brows falling into a firm, saddened line over her eyes. In shame, your head bows. 

  Those of your crew may have stripped you of your right to recollect the siren dialect, but if she can count on anything, it is the motion of her hands and arms. The common communication of one’s body. 

  In a sequence of expertise, her arms rotate and her fingers stretch and curl. 

  What do you remember?

  Your eyes analyse her movement, careful to decipher her code. Not as fluent, given the occasional puzzled twist of her head, followed by a nod of understanding and correcting signal, she encourages through your hesitation, wanting for your answer. 

  I… remember a necklace. Bound to my Captain’s wrist.

  And what did this necklace look like?

  Again, it takes you a moment to find the rhythm of your response, her eyes narrow in their deep seated concentration, almond curved eyes that widen upon realisation.

  You tell her of the golden chain, sleek and elegantly thin yet strengthened, the many, tiny crystallised pearls that line the gilded netting over one larger pearl, with a finer shaped one looped beneath it that dangles.

  Given her momentary pause, you nervously motion. 

  What is it? 

  She raises her hand over her head, webbed fingers fused together, she rotates her wrist in circles.

  Royalty. Pearls represent royalty. 

  The sudden confusion presently blinking in your eyes gives Mina reason to continue. She moves quickly, it’s hard to exactly understand, you motion for her to pace herself, that you’re struggling. With an apologetic chirp, she starts over. 

  You must get it back. That necklace is more significant to you than you realise. Undoubtedly, a gift from your late mother—

I don’t understand! What… of my mother?

  Mina truly sees the sickening infection of your hazy memory, all too aware that it’s the doing of that scarlet witch, tainted by the dark magics that spawn from the mangroves, the teachers there no strangers to utilising sirens as part of their rituals. And all by the order of your captain. A crew lacing you with deceit. 

  Her waterline is touched by tears that form into uplifting bubbles. She organises her words slowly. Each one brings a sharp pang to your chest and your stomach to drop further and further down into the abyss below. 

  Your mother - the Queen - is dead. 

  Your heart is scored by the penetrating daggers of Poseidon's trident, the creeping of unnatural coldness sweeps the back of your neck and down over your shoulders, you huddle into yourself. You shake your head and it ensues into a maddening display of denial, your body trembles, the water grows increasingly troubled, once a calm settlement over the surface now laps at the surrounding edges of the enclosure. 

  This cannot be right, this cannot be the truth. No, you don’t wish to believe it. A weight is crushing around your chest, you want to resurface. For the first time, you crave to be out of the water. All you seek now is the scent of your captain washing over you, drowning you passionately in his possessive devotion, to be treasured by him and him alone, bathed in his dominating presence. His shadow. 

  At this point, you’d happily let him fuck the knowledge out of you. 

  In your abrupt desperation you take to moving swiftly, your head breaches through the barrier with a sputtering fit of coughs and gulps, but Mina follows you. Her webbed hand catches your wrist, her voice plucks through the ripples like the baritone string of a guitar. She calls for you to wait. Gently, she coaxes you to delve below once more, her eyes imploring you to remain, to not go running off to the very same man who wants for you and holds you captive. 

  The milky glaze of your eyes brim with tears, tiny bubbles run to the corners before they float upwards. 

  She rests her head to yours, silky thumbs caring over the form of your cheeks, running smoothly under the bend of your tearful eyes. When she believes you have calmed, she asks another question. 

  What else about this necklace can you tell me?

  I hear… voices. A-a melody. I don’t– don’t understand the words. It plays faintly.

  If the crew who harbours you stays for the festivities tonight, get the necklace and bring it to me. I may be able to appraise it.

  A lump catches in your throat, eyes bearing your terror, the harrowing thought of being caught again. You aren’t sure if the potential of another scarlet mist is worth the risk. 

  Steal it? I-I can’t! He’d know if I stole—

  You cannot steal what’s already yours, young one. Besides, you know just the way to get it from him. I saw the softened regard in his gaze for you. 

  What she suggests is laughable, and your disagreement shows, your head shaking and throat bobbing in motion akin to a scoff. But still, her insinuation brings warmth to bloom in your cheeks. Her brows furrow at this display, tail idly swaying, the length of her hair creating a dark, winding halo behind her. She dissects the gestures of your words. 

  His gaze never softens to me…

  In spite of this, she rolls her eyes, but they are hopeful in their stare towards you. You were done with the search… before. Now, you want answers. 

  “Siren!” A familiar voice booms, tone muffled by the watery barrier. Answering his summons, you return to the world above, sighing a deep breath of air, the few faces you recognise are mere blurs, unfocused in your vision. Your eyes meet the wintery cold of his eyes, not softened, and clouded in their ever present desire to have you under him - pinned skin to skin to him - and his beautiful lips shaped into a smirk. His stance high above you dominates you in his darker shadow that casts over the water. 

  “Hope you’re in a festive mood, my little Siren.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Part 3 Original Transcript ・4.3k Mature! SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI — some profanity — oral (female) receiving — submissive reader — possessive/dark Bucky — usage of pet name "Siren"/"my little Siren" — mention of breeding (kink) — very minor fluff moment — depiction of violence ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The thin line of your slitted pupils blow outward, crafted into the circular shape humans find familiar. Hair now dry and groomed, you style it in a way you know Bucky can’t resist. Your goal to ensnare him purposefully, to conduct yourself properly as a siren, finally takes its mark. The task itself foreign and yet like you’ve done it before. The dark thrill of the hunt, the pleasurable anticipation to allow the song to lure in your prey, but it’s a song you cannot recall. It’s all a hefty risk that you fear outweighs the gain. Bucky is not one to be so easily fooled, always several steps ahead at every turn. 

   Your eyes take in the small details of your face, each curve, line and mark that define your features. You’d been resigned to taking shelter in your captain’s cabin until the festivities, the crew ordered to perform double time to meet their deadline, they too were also very eager to enjoy the night’s fun. 

  From your lap, the pure white feline purrs, eyes thinned as you delicately stroke her chin. Alpine meows, stealing your gaze from the nervous reflection and you feel the corners of your lips pull into a smile. 

  “Beautiful girl…,” you coo, voice barely above a whisper, “Who is a beautiful girl?”

  “Mrrow.” Alpine’s answer is louder this time, ears twitching at the sound of heavy, leather boots striking the wooden boards beneath his feet. 

  “Both my girls are beautiful.” He emerges from the near darkness behind you, candlelight stroking across his features, sharp and dangerously handsome. Blinking, you lower your head as you swallow, hand now faltering from Alpine. 

  Bucky’s flesh hand extends over your shoulder and with ease, lifts Alpine up from your lap, she meows lowly as he rests her over the massive territory of his chest, his tongue tuts soothingly, hand running up and down her back, the feline rubs her head against his stubbled jaw. How tender your captain could be always manages to astound you, these moments that allow him to show something soft lingering below the surface. His smile is infectious, leaving you burning in your core, both in nerves and desire. With his sights now set on you, he places Alpine aside, her sleek and elegant saunter moves out of the mirror’s perimeter, no doubt finding a small space to curl up into. 

  A dark and foreboding structure from behind, his lower half is pressed against your back, your lungs jump at the contact, lips parting with a startled gasp that now tremble slightly. Your eyes become wide, held captive by his lustful glare. The song plays quietly, tickling the back of your mind, its presence more ghostly than before, slowly succumbing to silence. Its tune haunts you with longing to be found before time escapes it. 

  His flesh hand runs over the column of your throat, able to feel every gulped breath and the quickened pulse of your heartbeat under his touch. 

  “I have something for you,” he says deeply, stirring you. “Been meaning to have my name on you for some time.” 

  Your brows form into a puzzled arch. From the leather strap of his belt, your captain’s metal fingers meet a cord of silver. The matching metal coin adorning the chain sways as he lifts it into view, and obediently, you sweep aside any lingering locks of hair and angle your chin. It’s cold against your skin, and in comparison to size, the coin nestles low between the valley of your breasts and down against the bottom of your sternum, covered barely by your robe that loosely sits around your shoulders. 

  “Fuck, you look so beautiful with my name ‘round your neck,” he groans, hand returning to caress your throat. His eyes admire the way your chest rises and falls, the engraved head of a snarling wolf reflecting in the soft candlelight. 

  You stare, eyes wide in your admirable study of the piece yourself, seeing how it… fits you, coldly and harshly and yet so rightly. “I do?” 

  “Aye,” he says with a grin. “And since I got a piece of you, may as well match.”

  Your fingers toy with the medallion, thumb rolling over the engraved markings on the side that kisses your skin. 

  J. A. M. E. S. 

 B. 

B. A. R. N. E. S

  Each letter is one taught and now known to you. One by one, you pronounce them internally, spelling the name of your beloved captain, a man whose name you’ve never once said aloud. Nor has he ever said yours. Does he even know yours?

  The tone of his growl betrays the cool of his demeanour, giving away the hunger of seeing you with your hair like it is, it has an unruly affect on him only he can understand. Could you do it now? Lure him in, satiate his carnal desires and take the necklace?

  Not likely. Not with his crew up and about with nothing to distract them enough, enabling you a given window to find Mina and have her appraise the necklace. Hell, you doubt you’d actually make it to the door before Bucky would have you back in his grasp. Those rare times he wouldn’t stir the moment you left the bed were saving graces.

   “You do things to me, my little Siren,” he purrs, lips leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses in their wake along the side of your neck and down over your exposed shoulders. With each laden caress to your skin, methodical and underlying in lust, he perverts your mind with needs only satiable by him, leaving you under the spell of no other choice. 

  Bound to him, you serve him. You need him. Nearing the curve of your jaw, your head turns until your lips ghost in the proximity of one another, every single breath mingling as if for the first time again. Enchanting. Hypnotic. It’s him who provokes with the first move, flecks of his stubbled jaw tickle your skin in the meeting of his hungering kiss, at first moving slowly as he draws you in. 

  And like many times before, you fall for him. You fall into his inescapable web. You moan quietly, softly just as the necklace’s fading song.

  “Like what?” Your voice dances with the invisible, soft ribbon of a whisper, a gentle request in rise to a challenge he has no capability to fail nor deny. 

  How aware you very much are of his sexual prowess. An undeniable magnetism. The pinkish contour of his mouth creases, moulded into a darkened smirk as his brighter eyes shine. Lit aflame as they only saw you. 

  Time has ways to fool. It can feel that the single hour of a day extends over the course of a thousand years before the sun’s slumber. But it can also move faster than you can blink. Your captain turns you to face him in the span of the latter and pushes you, now quivering legs knock the vanity against the wooden panels of the wall with a clunky thud, glass vials and exotic elixirs clatter together a dangerous symphony in warning to the haste of both your actions. 

  For in the tinted and crystallised fragments of each one of those bottles, you are just as guilty for their shaking by seduction. As per what a siren does. What a siren is.

  He moves with his tongue, mouth and teeth, gnawing and biting and reclaiming you, guided by the fever of his longing, hard against you do you feel his endowment pulse ragingly and your walls clamp tight around nothingness. Painful, it makes your voice shrink with softened, pathetic whimpers. Each one more needy than the last in tandem with the bloom of your core. 

  He groans behind a flurry of stringed curses, each one tying the noose of his sensual demise, his loss of demeanour with every moment he finds himself delving lower. From the base of your neck to the arching bridge of your collarbone, down further and over the mounds of your now exposed breasts that expand with quickened breath, your robe hides from him none that he has not seen before. Bare before him and following his lacing kisses that descend, your spine curls forward, arching under his command. 

  He channels his authority to dominate you until your will is naught but a broken form of submission, ready and eager to be used by him. By the time he reaches just above where you need him, he hikes you up until you're nestled atop the small, wooden slat of the vanity. Seated there on a makeshift throne. 

  “C-Captain,” you squeak, voice knotted and pleading. 

  He’s perched, a man dropped down to his knees in his reverie of aroused worship, he inhales the scent lingering between your thighs, folds slick and dripping into the wooden oak. He tuts his tongue teasingly. “Siren, Siren, my little Siren…”

  You feel the rasping growl of his drawled timbre right before his tongue lashes your folds, an attack so abrupt and astoundingly chilling to your core that lights you in shock, your legs jolt in surprise. Your left hand slides into the tousles of his brown locks, scrunched between your fingers to his roots, your other hand struggles to capture a hold of anything else. 

  “Captain Barnes…” 

  You moan under a gasping breath. Out of sheer desperation to ground yourself as your captain more than happily grounds himself in your cunt, your struggles end when you gain hold of the dangling pendant at your chest. Thumb toying with it, tracing the letters as if you were performing the act on your own sensitive pearl. 

  Each stroke is rewarded with a tune of euphoria, poured from the graces of your parted lips, akin to the pure waters of the falls nestled deep in the Caribbean jungles. He moves your legs to spread further for him and you obey, lost in the swelling passion of his heated tongue and breath spoiling you with the sweetened promise of release. 

  You don’t forget the way he teased you back at the tavern, the encouragement that raised roars and cheers from his crew, meanwhile his fingers were at play. However much you’d grown bashfully compliant with the idea your captain would take you whenever it suited him, be it in private confinement or in the view of those around him, you believe you’d have pathetically begged him in front of his crew to take you right there and then. 

  That is what the man between your legs did to you. Like stained blood to the watered cloth, he washed away all sense of reason. There was only him. Left behind were the stains to be recognised at a later time, to reflect what it was you put aside for your captain and his affections. 

  His stubble gently prickles and tickles your skin delightfully, a soothing massage to the intensity of his tongue now delving deep into the walls of your clenching cunt, mewling quietly for more. Your fingers, grasping both silver medallion and locks of hair, tug and tighten in your fight to keep your ever rising orgasm at bay. Not until he gives his command. 

  He makes a baritone sound that inflicts upon you a dangerous reverberation. Your spine is rattled by the onslaught to your core, your skin aflame and consumed wholly as your captain sucks on the sensitive bulb of your clit, teeth gentle yet primal with need; his declaration. 

  “C-Captain!” you all but sob quietly as the flat of his tongue presses firm to your clit, “Please! Let–let me cum…”

  Like the twisting of a rope, you fear the cord will snap any moment. He groans and buries himself furthermore between your thighs that threaten to constrict around him, muscles quivering with a painful, straining ache. But Bucky cares not for that, he wants you begging as a blabbering and moaning mess like every other time he has his way with you. 

  His tongue withdraws much to your verbal dismay. “My little Siren wants to cum?”

  “Y-yes! Yes!” The soft, slick-ridden form of his lips curl into a grin against your inner thigh. He lays a kiss to your pulsing clit, you gasp out of fear that he’d made you cum right there. 

  “Then answer me…” He growls and rises, his shoulders feel to cage you. His hands travel the natural bend of your legs until he grapples you towards him. Your hands fly forward to lay flat to his expanding chest, spanning over the dark printing of ink, your slickened cunt pitched right on the contour of his clothed, hardened cock. 

  “Who’s bastard will you carry in your belly?”

  The golden coin drops loudly, your walls clench hard around nothing and your chest holds the weight of burdened air. Captain James Barnes, the most infamously renowned pirate to ever sail these waters, desired to breed you. 

  The syllable of your response stutters on the tip of your tied tongue. 

  Over his eyes is the shroud of his growing and darkening impatience. He remains to hold you against him, grip sure in its resolution to keep you captive. 

  “Siren,” he growls, voice low and venomous with a rumble. 

  “I—” Words are stolen from you at the rapturing knock on the cabin’s door, stirring the attention of yourself and your captain. Through the wooden barrier, Roger’s voice is the grace that rescues you from answering Bucky.

  “All is done for the voyage, Captain.” Bucky’s wintery gaze slides away, glaring. “Shall we head off?”

  “Aye,” comes the swift succession of your captain. He looks to you again, fingers of flesh, bone and dominating power clutch you in his grasp by your hair.

  “When we return after, you’d better have the right answer on that tongue of yours.”

  You nod stiffly. Obediently. Only then does he release his hold. 

  Your hair unravels from its styled form, falling back into its natural state. But that pales in comparison now that you’re aware of your captain’s new obsession.   

  A crack of powder and a flaming spark ignites an eruption of cheers, silhouettes dance and gather around the bonfires lining the beach, acting as enlarged beacons in the night, from the old and famed forefathers of the code to the spry and fresh-faced lad who leapt off his officer’s ship in search of adventure. 

  Oh yes, you’d seen it happen. And only one young lad had lived to tell his tale. Innocently charming and boyish Peter recounts the details of his recently taken resume around the fire to the few elders of stranger crews who’d asked if he was too green to drink them under the table. 

  A young man who chose to make his fortune on the sea, a member of the royal navy if he was lucky, and only three months he’d been aboard before your captain descended upon the brig with a howling explosion and cloud of sabotage. 

  Callous and black hearted, the White Wolf had intended to leave no survivors; until you intervened on the boy’s behalf. Suffice to say, your captain was very well convinced that night. A few of the man huffed in laughter, one jabbing at Peter roughly and tossing the bottle into his hands, urging him to drink with a yellow and copper stained shout.

  Cliques of your crew were formed, either in familiar groups or with other estranged faces you can barely remember. Other than Mina, those unfamiliar faces remained as such, you didn’t take the time to interact with those not of your captain’s crew. The gathering is quite large - an unlawful ball - you often call these sorts of events. 

  Glancing around, you don’t find Mina anywhere close to the bonfire, and you turn your eyes to the terrain beyond the fire’s glow, at the sandy bank’s seam between light and darkness. Still, you don’t see her. 

  “Siren,” his voice beckons your wayward attention. Turning your head, he sees the unsure nature of your thoughts, able to read you like an open book. His flesh hand is held out, silent in his request, you step towards him and allow your smaller hand to meet his. His fingers are strong and sure as they curl around you and usher you inwards to him. 

  To his chest, he embraces you, hand in hand. Skin to skin and skin to metal. His forehead leans to press against yours and you’re absorbed by the magnetism of his charm, a siren beaten at her own game and by no less, your beloved captain. 

  He tilts the axis of his form and drives action to his left, taking you with him as he leads you, bodies swaying together to the instrumental play of strings and wind and song. 

  You come to forget yourself and your initial purpose to be so close to him. He moves back to twirl you before you’re returned to his closeness, a musical chord of a giggle erupts in the chamber of your chest, a feeling of giddiness fills you and makes your eyes seemingly brighten like stars. His grin infectiously rouses you in a sense that smothers all reason beyond that is not him; your love and adoration for him. 

  As you move with him, following his rhythm with a grin that forms from ear to ear, your bare foot bumps into the leather of his boot and you giggle again. “Drunk, Love?”

  “No!” you laugh from the heart and Bucky cannot contain his own amused enjoyment. Overtaken, he’s smitten by your eagerness to dance. 

  To be in his arms like this reminds you of your first dance with Bucky, on board The Avenger, after a particular raid. Spirits were high, roaringly so, and the crew were in a celebrating mood after such a feat. You’d not been on the ship for no more than two months and were still very much on the shy end in terms of engaging with the crew, Natasha being the only one you confided in.

  However, sitting on the sidelines with your back pressed to the wooden panelling of the ship served no pleasing sight for Captain Barnes from across the way, situated on a barrel with a bottle lazed in his lap. With a haughty and smug swig, he swaggered on over and stood before you proudly, a chest of inked muscle puffed out and extended his hand down to you. 

  “Come on,” he had cooed, much to your astounded horror. He’d spied you admiring the way the others danced about on the deck. Mesmerised by your morbid curiosity. 

  Man’s tongue still new to you, you of course fumbled over your excuses with muted mumbles and dialled expression that told of your reluctance. But he was adamant you accompanied him in the next dance. His hand took yours and hoisted you, up on your bare feet, he carried you on over the deck close to him.

  “It’s easy, Lass,” he chuckled as he looped your fingers with his own. “Like this. One, two, three… one, two, three…”

  Your eyes veered down to his feet to see whatever pattern he conducted and you followed suit. Or at least tried. Many times you hobbled and stumbled over his own feet. The water was all you’d known. 

  You would giggle and laugh, filled with an embarrassment that Bucky found charming, he accepted your apologies without so much as a desire to reprimand you. 

  It was rather exciting. Humans could be funny with how they danced and moved about, some able to glide so seamlessly; much like your captain. The grace of his strong physique unmatched prowess with the governing of his skill and technique. A sight one truly worthy to admire. Overall, your wonderment shone in your eyes brightly that night. And Bucky was struck by it. 

  Continuing, he guided you and you came to learn how he moved - how to move with him. Spinning you in a circle, tilting you back until a surge erupted in your stomach, and being in close proximity to him. Forehead heated from his exertions, he pressed it to yours as he swayed with you, chest to chest. His soft lips took a chance to ghost over yours. 

  A hand of metal ran down to hold your hip and fingers of warm flesh coasted your jawline, tilting your gaze just that bit higher to meet his eyes you’d regarded with a fearsome glare. But they smiled, the blue in them inviting, a connection that felt so right. 

  That was the night Captain Barnes made you his siren. 

  Alas, a cherished memory that is tainted within a moment. Eyes flickering over, you see a form loom in the shadows behind the rocky formation further down the beach. Mina. 

  It comes back to you. What it is you must do. The betrayal you have to enact to find the truth which Bucky guards from you. Tears brim in the line of your eyes and they glisten in the fire light at the thought that this may very well be your last dance with your beloved captain. Your captor, but no less, the one man you’ve come to believe possesses the power to mend and break your heart. 

  Capturing the expressive nature of your sorrow, Bucky looks to peer behind him. But before he has any possible chance to discover anything of your scheme, knowing that Mina’s tendencies oftentimes mean nothing but give cause of strife, your fingers catch the dark stubble of his chin. 

  “Kiss me.” It’s not common that you’re bravely forward in your demands. Yet from his throaty hum, you can safely assume he holds no qualms about it. 

  So long as he believes the portrayal of devotion you display, he is none the wiser. That is your hope as you submit yourself to him, allowing his tongue to run its dominating course and melting into the sweetened poison that beckons you to crave more. He pulls you impossibly closer to him. 

  It is your sole and waning hope as with one hand, you brace it to his muscular chest, whilst the other ghosts over the flesh of his hand and the gilded circlet of gold around it. 

  Almost. The chain slides quickly down the back of his hand and you flinch. A gasp jostles from the back of your throat in quiet alarm, which you act quickly, feigning a whimper he recalls as a plea for merciful breath. His mouth pulls away with a sigh, drinking in your essence like a drug he vies for without restraint. Your lips stretch into a bashful, toothy grin, one that Bucky endearingly smirks at. 

  Just in the motion Bucky intended to sweep you off your feet in lead to dance, a hand slaps the firm muscle of his broad shoulder. 

  “Fortune ahead, Cap’n!” hiccups Tony with a slight drunken slur, eyes hazed in his stupor. Bucky’s steely gaze falls from you to glare at his master of navigation’ hand, sneering like a disturbed wolf. 

  Your window. Fleeting as a sleek shadow, you cast your steps backwards until you near the further end of the gathering and away from prying eyes. Ducking into the darkness you chase after Mina who leads you along the beachside, the trickling cold of the water’s edge tickles your feet.

  “Here,” she directs swiftly and pulls you into the ankle deep water right in a small enclave of rocks. You hold up the prize in your hand in show and she nods, gaze firm in its admiration. 

  “In the water. Quickly, now.”

  You do as she instructs and with your hands cupped, you plunge the pearl into its mother waters, letting the small waves lap and roll it over your fingers. With a hasteful gesture, Mina urges you and you give it to her. She inspects it with an occasional glance over her shoulder and you do much the same. 

  “The voices… grow silent still,” you sigh, eyes cast with tears of defeat. But she lays a hand to your shoulder in comfort. 

  “The water is not enough, but there is another way, though one that shall ask for more risk.”

  Your eyes implore her to continue. You’ve come this far…

  “Blood is the only remedy to revive the song.” She watches you, eyes wide as you all but lay your palm flat to the caressing wind that sweeps up the sandy embankment, your other hand bearing your elongated claws.

  But she stops you. “A hex consumes the pearl, young one. Your blood alone won’t suffice. The blood of Captain Barnes is also required.”

“His blood?” you hiss. Your shoulders fall to a slump and your neck cranes forward, hair loosely falling over to hide your fearful dismay. Were you to resign to your fate, never to know the truth?

  The thought to draw his blood chills you just as much as the husky thrum of his voice behind you, summoning your fear and obedience to turn and look at him.

  In sync, both you and Mina turn swiftly to meet the gaze of your captain, eyes silently taunting your next move. Behind him, the barrier of scornful glares cut into you with the worth of a thousand daggers. 

  “What is your next move, Siren?”

  He stalks you into the water now. The ocean wraps around your waist, his form an apparition of terrorising beauty, waves thrusting into him as though to push him back towards shore. He scoffs at the defiance before him, arms held out in mockery that he contains no ill-mannered intent.

  “Come, Siren, you know me,” he purrs lowly.

  Mina pushes you behind her as the blinded allure in your eyes takes hold from his words, she utters under the harshness of her breath, “Go.”

  You move to turn and dive but Mina’s shriek stops you. Finding her trapped in your captain’s arms, her back pressed to him, his flesh hand brandishes a knife to her exposed throat, the shine of metal blinks carnivorously against the juncture between her neck and jawline; her face sprawled into a defeated wince. 

    His lips pull back into a menacing snarl. “The necklace or her life.”

Clenching the necklace in the basin of your palms, amidst your frantic, tearful gaze, you take a moment to study its worth.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Part 4 Original Transcript ・6.7k Mature! SMUT 18+ minors dni — oral receiving (male) — slight breeding kink — dubcon (imma just put this here just in case — possessive, dark bucky — dom/sub dynamic — minor profanity — secondary character death — angst — pet name usage ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

No. Its worth weighs not in balance with the shedding of her blood, her very life, and your captain knows he has won. Head bowed low until the tresses of your hair fall about to frame your face like a shroud, hands sheltering the necklace with uncertainty, you turn your head towards your captain and Mina. Your hueful eyes, expressive in their nature of care beyond your own preservation, you would never willingly put your dear friend in the midst of harm. So, with a shake of your head at Mina’s tearful glare that spurs you to flee, you reject your chance of freedom in exchange for hers. 

  Primed still at the exposure of her throat, he guards her while you approach forward, elegantly submissive under the wake of his darkened stare, the bright tinge of blue awaits you with lust and longing. Nearing his side, the golden chain runs over your skin, a strike of pure and cold guilt pushes a burdensome weight on your heart at the passing of sorrowful voices that vanish upon his imprisoning hold.

  “Good girl,” he purrs with a flaunt of his pleased grin. Teeth that render you with possessive marks on display, taunting you with what’s to come. It is with tenderness that the softened caress of your hands meet over the tanned muscle of his hand that harbours death at his whim, eyes pleaful and coaxing with a want for an end to this needless violence; to forget its happening and be in the smothered encompassing of your beloved captain. 

  His fingers curl tighter to the hilt of his blade.

  “Please…” Heaven pours the purest of waters into the goblet of a sinful man at the sound of such an angelic plea, fluttering from your parted lips his eyes cannot lessen his want for. As if entranced by the lull of your voice, he nods with a thinned smile of his plump, pink lips and withdraws the bite of metal from her throat. Mina lurches forward, stumbling with a sharp gasp, and you catch her a moment before she can find salvation in revenge. 

  “Young one,” she insists quickly as she latches hold of your wrist. Something resides in her face that pales, along the ridge of her eyes is a thickened beam of tears, but she gives you a smile. One she often adorned to banish your fears. In the etched lines of your confusion, she only smiles wider until the tears can no longer be held at bay, unleashing in finely thinned rivers. 

You mean all to me. I love you. 

  Her body succumbs and melts around you the moment you embrace her. Her arms are a haven around you, a blanket of safety you miss, a sensation you long to have. But she is sudden to pull away, holding her palm up and flat, she gestures for you to move back. 

Go. Now.

  In spite of their grievances and war over you, you see a mutual glance shared between Mina and your captain, her eyes firm in ensued silence but imploring something of him.

  “Come, siren,” says Bucky, his strong hands encase you and pull you from Mina, your outstretched hands graze her own that will to entangle with yours, but falter. 

  She nods at you to go with your captain and you allow yourself to sink into the muscled crevice of his side, his hand holstering you flush to him as he guides you back towards the shore. He gives you no chance to let your course of gaze to linger back towards Mina. The low hum of his voice mumbles something to Wanda and the witch grins with an all too eager nod of her head. Now with you in his grasp, he leads you back towards the ship with those of the hunting party following behind. 

  You’re pressed on to move with haste, the salty winds sweep up the sandy embankments with a fearsome bellow that hums deeply in your rings, your robe barely clinging to cover your modesty. Only just over the beach’s mounding crest and through the howl of Nassau’s haunting wind, your body flinches inward to your captain at the echo of a scream that cracks through the swaying palms and over the bounding waves until the sound can travel no further. 

  Your feet run the wooden boards of the cabin at the behest of his forceful hand that shoves you through its threshold, the warrant of his wrath, the price you’ll pay for daring to insult him through your little deception. 

  “You test the bounds of my tolerance and kindness, siren,” he warns behind a bar of gritted teeth, he hisses without remorse for your shedded tears that follow, “You are bound to ME!”

  With fear all-consuming, you fall to your knees, hands press to the scuffed boards’ lining and your chin bows low to levels of his preference. 

  You cry out, the profuse outpour of tears that line your face does little to quell the raging tide of his anger. “I-I’m sorry!”

  “Quiet!” he barks and you reply with naught but a trembling nod. “I’ve been merciful to you. I’ve given you belonging, shelter and security, and this is how you repay all that? With this insult!”

  His height that towers over you like a commanding shadow sinks to kneel before you, the musk of his scent wafts in lingering cascades upon you, encasing you in times that once were; without this consistent turmoil of your curious nature. 

  But that’s what you were: curious. Why your captain holds guardianship over this particular necklace, its mystery undeniable to lure in your want to know, its attention and the way it glimmers and shines in the sunlight’s light. And the now fading voices. This necklace is yours, at least it was at some point in time, a piece of you that now your captain harbours as his own. Through it, somehow, it binds you to him. The key to your imprisonment… but also your freedom. 

  “You’ve to be punished now.” His words spoken levelly bring a chill to wisp down your spine and needle through your skin, sewing a patchwork of unrest into the faint glamour of your receded, softened scales, and your pupils are blown dark and wide with your evident terror. Punishment is never struck on a whim when it comes to your captain. No, punishment is served at the wrong doings, and in performing poorly to his orders, that punishment can vary. But for you, it falls under the same cloth, a figment garment that never holds to you for long. For it is stripped from you as you enact yourself in service until he sees your crimes duly paid in full.

  And usually, it is after he has pumped you full, until your cunt is sorely abused and leaking with his seed. 

  Cool metal dances under your chin and before you can find a surmisable amount of courage to fight, he sharply upturns the tilted axis of your eyes to meet his. Ferocious as the battles he orchestrates at sea, and piercingly cold as the wintry peninsula of the arctic that your skin and muscle is butchered until your bones ache. Yet in the delicately lightened pools of his oceanic eyes, lies a strange tenderness. But it is one that never smiles. Never softens. Not in the way Mina implied. For your captain’s heart is a black one, guarded in the fortress of his cruelty. That which he holds you to the level of his eye is not a testament of love. 

  Captain James Barnes, the White Wolf, cannot love. Much to the naivety of your own heart, that soon after broke at this revelation of truth some time ago, you came to accept that in his darkened heart, yearns the ever hungry curse of lust. A hunger you must now feed or forever be enslaved, and mind erased at the coming of his witch’s scarlet magic. 

   “Yes… I do…”

  Your answer is met with a hum of approval, deep and throaty. Over the canvas of his features, there’s a smirk woven into his lips, sly and beautifully sinister in his internal fantasies he makes real upon the unity of your intimacy. You cannot help the blossom of need in your core upon meeting the darkened hue of his eyes that proclaim loudly through the veil of desires unspoken. 

  “Correct answer,” he applauds with another purr accentuating his deep voice, the flutter of your lashes a visible effect of his spell over you. But beneath his praise and all good words that come forth from his lips, you know what answer he seeks newly and intensely. At its mere thought, a power surges through you, a sensation that circuits through the tips of your fingers and down between your legs, gathering a layer of slickness that settles over the wooden floor. 

  “Your child,” you say, lips but a ghost’s touch apart, “your bastard…”

  “There’s a good lass,” he chuckles with a devilish grin and pushes forward, lips smashing onto yours with unparalleled force that drives your spine to curl back, at your hips he pulls you to him. His teeth gnaw and stab, his tongue roughly seeks out the delicate line of your mouth, priming it before his invasion that draws a string of quietened moans from the chasm beneath your breasts. Between them and the hardened peaks at their centres, the idle brush of silver reminds you of his name. Reminds you of whom you are bound to. 

  You whimper at the first lashing of his tongue that threatens yours in intimate combat, and with little will to fight and claim dominance, you allow him to defeat you. He is brutal in the carnage his wet muscle unleashes. Hungrier and hungrier. Closer, you pull yourself to the realm of his lap, crawling in the vice of his passionate indulgence. 

  He all but wraps you in the embrace of his arms and sweeps you up from the floor, pinning you to his hardened, muscular front with a long groan, the taste of your tongue coiling around his enough to make him delirious. Your robe falls from your shoulders and rests in the crook of your elbows, allowing your captain to ravish the nakedness of your shoulders and chest, marking your skin. He suckles, drawing dark pigments to form as a reminder of who it was that could only have you like this. 

Bucky’s quick to thrust you down on the bed. Forced at his will, you’re splayed upon your stomach and he forces your hips to arch up until the curve of your spine is perfectly at level to his liking. 

  “Are you goin’ to be a good girl for me, siren?” The question comes as a dark wave. The scent of his breath washes over you, you can smell the intoxicating flavour of lust. “Are you going to let your womb become swollen?”

  His metal hand comes to lift beneath the flesh of your smooth stomach, resting there. Ever gentle to tease, his fingers dance their way down lower, not quite gracing the needy pulse between your thighs, his cock hard and stiff against the apex of your arse, slowly he grinds up and down. 

  You give an obedient nod and a breathless sigh, “Yes, Captain…”

  He grinds further down against you, having all but ripped the robe from your body, the only barrier between your bodies is the tight confines of his dark trousers that do little to hide the body of his erected length. You shudder beneath the behemoth of his form, his heat poisonously soothing to the cooler temperature of your own. 

  His lips find the delicate, curved shell of your ear as he breezes with a husky hum, “There’s a good little siren.”

  His metal fingers prod at the sensitive mound of your aroused bud, pulling a string of pleasured hisses and whines like a musician plucking the noted hymn of his trusty instrument. His thumb rolls slowly to the rock of the ship as his other fingers toy with the moistened slit of your pussy that craves to have anything he’ll give. 

  You pant heavily, hair mused to falter in unkempt wisps that fall over your eyes. He whispers against the finery of your flesh, praising it over every inch exposed to him. His thumb now rolls harder and his metal digits push between your folds, ignoring the low whine and startled quiver of your thighs that bounce in their shaken balance, teetering over the bed’s edge only to be supported by the pillar of his waist that pummels into you roughly. 

Your eyes flutter to a close, engrossed in the motion of his fingers, the chilling kiss that smoulders the writhing waves of heat of your walls, your core now a blazing furnace that pleads for more. A filthy moan escapes you at the tugging of his expert technique, leaving him to chuckle darkly from behind. 

  “Dirty little whore, aren’t ya?” All you can do is nod in reply, wriggling in his grasp, your hips thrust down on his hand with feverish need. 

  His flesh hand punishes you with a slap, the echoing sound causes you to shriek. Frozen, he then stabilises you with his other hand that bites into the shape of your hip until he’s capable of leaving defined bruising. “You’re at my whim, Siren,” he growls hoarsely, “and you’re still serving your punishment.”

  He knows you near your orgasm. Your impatience to reach it noticeable and just when at the ridge of your climatic bliss, he withdraws his fingers from your cunt. It takes everything you have to not mewl and cry in protest. He turns you to lay on the flat of your spine, up into the glower of his piercing stare, and without so much as blinking, his flesh hand weaves to unfasten the buckle of his belt and tosses the leather strap to the floor with a metallic thunk. With a heavy knee that tips the scales, it pushes down on the mattress along your side with a muffled groan, his body hovers over you. Meanwhile, he invades your mouth with the numerous digits coated in your juices. You moan lowly at the taste that sizzles on your tongue, washing your buds with your sweet nectar. 

  With a simple rustle and tug, his pants fall loosely to gather below his strongly built waist, fabric bunching together to hold fast from falling to the floor too quickly. Free from the tight constraints now, his cock brushes over the navel of his abdomen, the long under-vein pulsing with heated pools of blood and his thick, pink tip oozing with need in the form of pebbling drops of pre-cum. Pushing his hips forward and tearing his metal fingers from your mouth, ignoring the connecting thread of saliva, he pulls your head until your lips bump plushly to his weeping head. His flesh hand traces the contour of your jawline with ghosting touch, your hair becomes ravelled tightly in the locked grip of his other.

  “Let’s see how well you sing when my cock is fucking your throat,” he says beneath a wheezing chuckle. He growls then, still humoured by his remark, “Open.”

  Your defiance to obey his command is futile. Somehow, you know this, though you believe you’ve never tried. Contact locked between your eyes, your pliant lips part and sink around his enormous girth, barely able to tolerate far before you’re already caught gagging. He laughs at your attempt to take him whole, always amused at the sighted struggle written into every inch and crevice of your face. Now that he thinks about it, it has been some time since he’s taken you down the throat, his flesh hand rolls from your jaw and down the side columns of your neck with the continuation to submerge his cock further in. Beneath his calloused fingers, your neck swells and the skin protrudes as his cock intrudes until finally, your nose brushes the dark curls of his base. 

  Your lashes are darkened and wet by the stream of tears lining the brim of your eyes, nose flaring aggressively for even a morsel of air. 

With a tilt of his chin he indicates for you to begin, his eyes warning of greater punishment if you decide otherwise. You slowly pull your head back, the stiffness of his hardened length running against the walls of your throat and mouth, covering every inch possible. As much as you can, you barely allow your teeth to tease him, fearful of what he’d do if you got any ideas with your sharp incisors. Rumbling with a pleasured groan, your captain snaps his hips sharply to sheathe himself again, much to a shattered, muffled whine coming from you. Your pace is too slow. And so, with a twist of your locks, he rolls his hips back and forth in a pace set to his liking, adoring the flow of tears streaming down your face. You continue to cough and gag, throat tightening in pulsing waves that quicken yet fade the longer you go without sufficient air. 

  “F-fuck, siren,” he groans as his head dips back, hair licking down the nape of his neck in long, dark tresses. His hips roll faster and his fingers hold tight to feel the quickened strike of his cock that surges back and forth inside you, your moans growing louder and lost in a whirlwind and blissful agony. 

  “Every drop, little Siren— sh-shit!” he thrusts harder at the filthy image of his spent spilling from the enclosure of your jaw and trickling down your neck in artistic rivers. The frantic course of his thrusts causes an obscene amount of sound to echo through the room, the slickened gargle of your hot, tiny mouth trying to accommodate his size through what little intake of air you can harvest, your cheeks flushed a bright hue of red that rivals that of the blood of his enemies. His lips part with a series of gasps and deep moans pumped from his chest, his release soon upon him. 

  “Drink— it all up– love,” he utters with a string of curses soon following his order. His grip seizes hold to the roots and your scalp burns, your discomforted whine drowned out by the flood of his seed that shoots past your tongue and straight into the bowel of your belly without restraint. His spent comes in tidal waves of hotness, unable to register his taste entirely, thick ropes of his cum paint and coat the walls of your mouth, leaving naught but a messy web of his release to coagulate once he withdraws. 

  In sight of you with your mouth full of him, he smirks, a dark and wicked thing to behold to and beneath the smouldering, glassy gaze that’s coal-like; fearsomely burning in his reverie of desire. He sighs a sound so deep it rumbles off his tongue like the fine course of a flowing river. 

  “How beautiful you are… on your knees and full of my love.”

  Love? 

  Is that what his seed is a representation of? You blink, wet and dark lashes beating damp markings against the undercurve of your eyes, he sees the surprise in your enlarged pupils.

  He cannot mean ‘love’. He is not capable of it…

  But how you wish he was. Oh, what you would give for this man to be able to love. To actually know the fine line between material treasures and true, unbridled and passionate love. Funny, how a siren wishes internally for the concept of love and to be loved, the very essence of that emotion only comes to that of the affectionate sisterhood of other sirens. A bond that envelops through both scales and soul. 

  A bond that, if severed, can have lasting impacts on the heart and mind. So much so, that a siren’s song can turn into one of longing sorrow and despair, and when that essence of love and lust is gone, there is no longer a song.

  Only the sounds of cries and shrill screams that echo in the mists, void of any emotion other than vengeance and rage. 

  He summons your attention with a sharp whistle that pierces the veil of your thoughts, ringing loud and clear in your ears. 

  “Eyes up, siren. I wanna see those eyes on me when I fuck you.” 

  Upon capturing the colour of your eyes, the casted amber glow from the candles reflecting in glittering highlights, his smirk only grows into a toothy grin that pulls the seams around his eyes to crinkle slightly. He watches with keen interest as you gulp down each swallowing of his cum, until the gaping blackness of your throat is all that remains, leaving a thin coating behind. 

  “How do I taste, little siren?”

  “G-good… Captain,” you answer, voice shaken. Broken in and slightly roughened. Something that stirs his pride greatly. His lips brush the velvety texture of your moan, memorising each stroke to memory with a drunken groan. 

  Intoxicated by the venom of his attention, you’re powerless as he leans over you, knees bent into the bed on either side of you, caging you beneath him. His hands, a mix of metal and flesh - a combination of cold and warm - follow the curvature of your jaw and sweep down your neck, following the natural dips and bends of your body. Over the linen of his loosely ruffled blouse, your hands are gentle in their tug, pulling at it. 

  Amused by your antics, Bucky leans back a moment and peels the shirt over his large shoulders, your eyes drink in the scarred field of his muscular body, the dark line of hair trailing down to the base of his cock that revives and flourishes with a heated, deep pink tint. 

  In your moment of jaw-slackened admiration, Bucky’s lips delve to the crook of your neck, nose nestling in deep to inhale your alluring scent that mingles and rubs with his own, husky growls emit from some deep chamber within him in his frenzy to claim every inch of you he can. With a pivot of his hips that move forward, he excites your weeping and desperately aching core with the enthralling length of his cock, a stone striking against stone to bring a sparking ember. 

  Your nails carve red streaks over his inked skin, muscle ripples beneath the pads of your fingers and he hisses deliciously, a sound you swallow with greed. 

  “Look at you,” he mumbles against your jaw, peppering your chin and the corner of your lips with kisses. “Taking what’s yours. You’re learning to be as black hearted as I.”

  Never has he applauded you in such a way. Not once has he rewarded this behaviour with praise and amusement. It’s always him that’s been dominant, to triumph over you. But not a moment too soon can you be lost to this idea that he wanes in his power, for his teeth sink deep between your neck and shoulder, enough to draw the bitter iron taste of your blood, you wince under the heavy pressure of his mark. “But I’ll always be the one on top.”

  “Yes, Captain,” you gasp quickly to the beat of his growl. His tongue soothes his bite before he takes one of your swollen peaks between his plush lips, tongue darting over it. Your moans are music to his ears. Granting the same treatment to the other before he turns you over, his actions rough with a grunt, he stares a moment upon the bareness of your spine, the ever-faint shimmer of softened scales reflect differing hues of greens, blues and pinks against the colour of your skin. 

  Your face brushes firmly over the furs and silks to peer past and over your shoulder, up at the darkened frame of your captain, eyes darkened and lost to the storm of his lust. 

  His large head spears teasingly at your entrance, lips quivering in anticipation and attempting to latch hold, to knock his tip within grasp. He scoffs at the pitiful display below him, your whines and broken mewls a song of your dependence on him. You’d never survive without him, he grins darkly at the thought. You rely too much on him now, stripped of everything you knew before, he holds you in the palm of his hand and at his tether. An obedient plaything.

  At the swift motion of your hips, Bucky dips back, your attempt failing miserably with an exasperated sigh. “Now, siren,” he coos, cocking a brow you barely see, you hear the infatuation that laces his tone. “I want you to beg for it. You sound so beautiful when you do.” 

  “Please,” you whimper that stifles at the reward of his tip brushing your aroused lips. You whine again, louder, “Please!” 

  The snap of his hips is quick and he thrusts hard, pushing the breath from your lungs in the form of  a breathless scream that winds you. Buried almost to his haired base within one go, he pushes what remains until his cock nestles snugly in your pulsing walls that constrict around his girth; choking in with dire need. 

  “Fuckin— hell–” he bites down into his lip with a deep hiss as he draws his hips back, only to then repeat the first slaughtering wave that penetrated you, another gust of breath pushed from your lungs. You cough, spluttering and moaning in muffled choruses when he picks up the pace, driving his cock in and out, the sound drowning your eardrums with only the backdrop of his voice threads through, you’re practically deaf to your own noises. 

  “So t-tight–” he chokes out, the impact of his thrusts increases until your body shuffles back and forth, his hands squeeze to your hips to keep you from moving across the bed from his ruthless pace. Arching himself that bit higher and angling you with him, your ears pop and ring with a scream that tears through your vocal cords, loud enough to be heard from outside the cabin, no doubt. 

  “Like that, siren? Right there, is that where— shit, where you— need me?” 

  You cry out in reply, voice barely able to form the words,   “U-uh– yes!”

  The tightness that ripples through your body and heats your skin begins to form, the weaving of your orgasm soon nearing, your only hope that he grants you it this time, you continue to appeal to him, begging him for more and more until your cunt aches from the constant pummeling of his drive. Each time your walls squeeze around him, it’s tighter than the last, a telltale that your body is ready to let go. 

  “Cap–Captain!” you gasp into the sheets with a deep, longing moan. “Please… oh, please…”

  His lips tug at the corners into a devilish grin, fingers embedding themselves to bruise your hips. “You want to cum?”

  You cannot bring yourself to answer lest you scream again and break your voice for good, he sees the intense bop of your head. 

  “Cum for me, little siren, cum on my cock,” he barks and you follow his command. Like the pulling current of the forbidden and dark maelstrom, you release yourself with a heavy and breathless moan as you cum. His own pouring of his seed follows within seconds of your own, your walls drinking every drop of him until he’s all but spent inside you. He grunts from behind, a series of laborious noises, he begins to slow his hips but doesn’t cease to a complete stop. 

  His hips roll slowly until he grinds circles, his cock still embedded deeply into your abused pussy that’s stuffed full of him and his cum, all but weeping around him in hopes of leaking out. Your skin is duly from the thin layer of sweat coating you like a second skin, your chest heaves for air after having been robbed of every single breath, but the trace of his lips brings you pause.

  He’s not done with you just yet. 

  Glasses of sand pass through hours of unrelenting torture, brought out through orgasmic bliss and pleasures and pain, all until both he and you were beyond another round. Your entire body felt broken in, shaking with nerves frazzled and your muscles tense after trying to claw your way out of his grasp - for even just a moment of reprieve - but he’d dragged you back to him from your ankles and pinned you down. 

  Left in darkness, the candles having lost their will and wick to burn,  you blink through the overhanging shroud of sleep that clings to you. Your body remains to recover and you struggle to crane yourself to even rest on your elbow and peer down at your captain. Asleep on the plane of his back, his chest rises slowly with deep inhales and breezing exhales. His metal hand lazily holds against the hind of your arse, every so often giving it a firm grip. His other hand rests on the rise of his toned stomach, the gold barely noticeable in the dark, the pearl emits a dim glow. The voices, however, sing a dying symphony that are barely heard above your breath. 

  You draw closer until you half straddle over his waist, your fingers comb over the veins of his hand and wrist, down and over his thick, strong fingers, ringing the chain loose until the necklace is held in your palms once again. You’d done all to tire him out to near completion so that he’d not be as alert as any other time. Now all you cling onto is hope that your plan is not one of failure. 

  Your nails grow from the beds and sharpen, eyes flickering between his sleeping features and the necklace, your hand hovers above him. 

  The air is thick in your lungs, tense as you scan for a place to safely gather enough blood that he won’t notice in his sleep. Your eyes and hand move down the length of his body until they reach the apex of his lower abdomen, grazing just near the trail of dark hair, your claws slash an opening. Pouring in thin, bleeding streams, you coat the pearl quickly. The pearl glows brighter now, the taste of crimson allows the white to fight through the hue of red, adorning a pinkish colour. You move to sit, balancing half way atop your captain, you next move to your palm, your sharpened fang punctures into the tender flesh of your other palm, you swallow a pained hiss. 

  With a final glance towards your sleeping captain, you’re aware there will be no going back from this. Mina’s sacrifice will not be in vain. You lay the pearl into the thin pool of blood, the pearl beats with glowing life that compares to that of the full moon, the song returning to levels now louder, revived from their near death. 

  Through the ripples of time, a white flush blinds you with a vision.

  Brightly, the sun lays high and over the ocean that moves in ever-rolling waves, the ripples form on its surface with unrest, a vast world of different shades of blue, all a-mingling together in harmony. The ocean envelops you - welcomes you - and your tail thrashes in excited beats that leave behind a fading cloud of bubbles. 

  Around you, faces greet you with fanged smiles, wistful and playful eyes that are soft in their tender gaze that hold to you. 

  Faces you find yourself remembering now, but their names evade you. 

  Breaking the ocean’s surface, the sun drowns your vision with bleeding heat, your brows scrunch but your grin is present and full. A sense of great excitement buzzes throughout your entire body, stomach alight with wonderment, you wonder… What is this feeling about?

  Then you see her and you now know. Her stature is grand and towering, she too breaks through the barrier between worlds with a hum of contentment, her features warmed in the blazing sun’s light. Her hair falls down over her shoulders in long, cascading tendrils, braided with dazzling ornaments and a variety of shells, each one a treasured gift presented, a crown forged in mystic metal shines. 

  Her eyes are giant pools of amber, a stark contrast when she resides in her kingdom below the waters and in the abyssal midnight. Eyes that are forever watchful and guarding, ever-seeing and always brimming with unfaltering love. 

  “Children,” she sings low and slowly, a note of adoration in her voice. All those of siren-kind are known as her children, but for you, you are one whose blood is annointed. From her womb, years ago, she shed tears of happiness. A child to whom she’d come to name Y/N. Daughter, and princess, of sirens. 

  Around her waist is the cycle of sirens that envelop her, circling her in their gladness to see her emerge from the depths below, every so often does she make her way to the surface, only for special occasions. Those who do not rush to swim circles around her, they gather onto the lagoon rocks. 

  “My beloved children,” again she coos soothingly with a rolling lullaby. But her eyes are sudden to sink, her smile is then to vanish as an abrupt wave of panic consumes her. Her amber eyes turn towards the horizon behind you and her form blacks out the sun, covering you in her looming shadow. 

“Submerge—!”

Screams of a thousand voices echo into the sky and ripple through the water as spiralling currents that pierce you like blades. Her body bends forward at the bombardment of fire upon her, her neck cranes forward with a reverberating cry, her pain is felt by all.

  Yet she pleads for her children to delve below, to hide beneath the blackened blue that no humans would dare to venture lest they succumb to their demise. 

  Ships break into view, bouncing on the waves as tyrants. Breakers of peace. “Mother!” you shout, a webbed hand outstretched only to turn swiftly at the ship headed straight for you. The sight of a carven lady poised at the hull’s front, adorned in a skinned pelt of a wolf upon her head, you’d recognise it anywhere. The Avenger. The ship continues at you, leaving you no choice but to dive out of the way just before her front could bruise and slay you bluntly. 

  Your vision succumbs to a flurry of bubbles and darkness, only to re-awaken above the waves, the sky now traded for night. The moon is full, clouds unable to restrain its light for long in passing and the inky black canvas is riddled with sparkling, silver gems. 

  The Avenger’s anchor is reeled in with haste, panic ensues within the form of night and battle commences between that of your kind and the species that dwells on land, that which you prey upon: Man. 

  Those of your small clustered hunting party are hunted, spears puncture through the water until they sink into flesh or fall to the trench’s deep. You swerve, turn swiftly to be missed, but some aren’t so fortunate as you. 

  You came here to hunt and your quarry is what you’ll drag to the depths. Barreling upwards, a tunnel of water sprays about you as you launch yourself airborne, high and overarching towards the helm where you’d last seen him. 

Fangs bared into a hissing scream, slitted eyes of a predator bear into the frame of a tall man with dark, long hair and your clawed hands stretch out in your attack. A voice of one of his crew yells for his attention a moment too late. His blue eyes come to find yours just as you land atop him, pinning him to the wooden railing before pushing him overboard. You have him pinned, your grasp tight on your prey that escaped you just a few moments ago in the disturbed peace of his cabin, he struggles against you. 

  You immediately begin to burrow your claws into his shoulder to fight him, teeth gnawing on his flesh and through bone, but still he fights back with waning strength and breath, eyes a pure kind of blue that outmatch the palette around his soon-to-be grave. A whirling of crimson follows him down, his weight shifts in the balance to your favour at the loss of his arm that sinks into the depths below. 

  His lips part and pockets of air come from them in large bubbles, his lids begin to close and you grant him a sweetened smile, eyes half lidded in your victory that is sudden to end at the grasp of his hand around your throat and the cutting robe of a net that encompasses you both.

  In your battle to wriggle free, his arm wraps around you as the net is dragged upwards and towards the hull. Air from the world fills your chest and the once dark sky of a starlit night is returned to day. Around you, ships blast cannon fire and the air is polluted by smoke and the overpowering, scented winds of gunpowder. 

  Those familiar faces now are lifeless, eyes dull and lifeless and staring as blood poisons the sea around them, turning into murky clouds of crimson around you. It forces you to the surface and the moment you do, a voice shouts through the fabric of slaughter, the screams of your pod an orchestra of death and torment. 

  Your head turns to the direction of your mother, who battles the fleet of ships, a brutal display of annihilation only to then be fired upon and lurch forward, the being of her wounds worsens under the attack. Her eyes find yours amidst the chaos and you begin your way to her. 

  “You must flee!” she yells, a hand stretches out for you in warning to then shield you from a dozen harpoons with a harrowing call of whistles. Tears mist your vision before a spray of more fire separates you, driving you under the water and occasionally leaping through the air momentarily to avoid getting lost in the tainted, bloody waters. 

  You dare not look back, not as smoke rides over and veils your mother, not as her cries of battle turn further into the pain she’s subjected to nor the crashing wave of her body that falters and ripples through the ocean until it shudders the earth’s core. 

  But that same ship hunts you, the carven lady with a wolf’s pelt chases you over the unending sheets of raging waves, driving you further and further away from your family, your friends; all that you held dear. The many newborns that were attending the grand ball of daylight would never come to know their second. The choir would never sing your harmonic tunes as the sun faded over the ocean’s horizon. Never would you see your mother’s loving gaze attend you or her other precious children. 

  Never again would siren society be the same, without its queen, and without its people. Launching yourself out and into harm’s way to avoid another blooded cloud, you hear his voice shout, “Alive! I want her alive!”

  Your head turns and your eyes widen at the flash of scarlet that comes towards you, rendering you unconscious. 

  Him. It’d been him all along. Him, as he now stares at you with eyes a fearsome burn of darkened blue, awake and alert to your doings. You hardly come to realise the soaking streams of tears that run down your cheeks and drip onto his stomach, each one shed in the regaining of your memory. Remembering that which was all lost to you. Taken from you. By him.

  “Y/N, my love,” he affirms with a raise of his hands, each one cupping the wet curve of your jaw between them, the ominous and often looming storm in his eyes lays distantly. He coddles you now with his affections. “Pearl… I did it all for you. Because I love you.”

  Your head bends forth to rest in the crook of his neck, chests bare and pressed together, your breaths are shallow tremors that turn into muffled chords of weeping sorrow. Come morning, scarlet will rot your knowledge and turn you blind once again. But for now, you relish in his confession whilst you ponder: does his love justify his means?

For now, you will bide your time. Live another day… and sate your everloving vengeance.

[starlight-archer]

Hi, I saw you were taking DBDA requests. If you’re feeling up for it, could you do a little fluffy, domestic payneland fic where they’re cuddling on their couch and “sleeping” (since ghosts can’t really sleep). Thank you so much!

Sorry this took so long!! Life and some other stuff got in the way, but here you go! I hope you like it!

Sleep was a funny sort of concept for a ghost. It was sometimes possible to remember what it had felt like to fall asleep, or to dream, but the older one became, the more those fragile memories faded away into the past. It was a distant remnant of mortality.

Edwin hadn't dreamed of anything in a very, very long time. Not since the night that he had been sacrificed to a demon by his classmates and had been sent headlong into the depths of hell. Sleep was a memory further still from his mind than the dreaming. To curl up in the place where he was supposed to feel the safest of all, the place where he was supposed to be able to let his guard down completely and fade off into slumber. He had not put his guard down so completely - even for a single moment - since his admittance to St Hilarion's.

His sleep within the confines of those stone walls had been light, drifting along the edge of consciousness, enough that he had woken the moment a hand was laid on him. He had been jolted so unkindly into wakefulness that night that he doubted he would know how to sleep again even if he had somehow managed to survive the ordeal.

It was unfair. It was unfair beyond any measure.

Which was why Edwin was so sceptical when Charles had come to him one evening with the proposal that they should attempt to rest together. He hadn't known how exactly to respond to the suggestion. It had been well over a hundred and twenty years since he had last rested and longer still since he had rested peacefully. He wasn't sure that he knew where to begin.

Still, he had not wanted to disappoint his best friend with any sort of outright refusal or dismissal of the prospect. Thus, he had agreed. As soon as they had worked through their current case load, Crystal and Niko would venture back to their shared apartment while Charles and Edwin would retire for the evening in the office.

When the night came, it was safe to say that Edwin was experiencing some jitters. He didn't want to let Charles down if he couldn't do it. However, a larger part of him knew that Charles would not judge him for not being capable of following through. He would try, though. He would always try for Charles.

"You ready mate?" Charles asked when the night came.

The pair of them hadn't been quite so nocturnal as nice the girls had joined them, so on occasion they would end up with the night off. Seemingly, the stars had aligned just well enough for them to be able to finish their cases just in time for one of said nights.

"I suppose... Though I must confess, I am not entirely confident that I will be able to rest as I once did when I was alive. I am not certain that we even can, as ghosts." Edwin replied, fidgeting with his hands as he circled the desk.

"Might as well give it a go, though, yeah?" Charles grinned over at Edwin.

He was currently in the middle of fluffing the cushions and folding a throw over the back of the seat. It wouldn't do either of them much good of course, being unable to feel it and all, but it was the thought that counted. It made Edwin's heart tingle in that all too familiar way, to look at Charles as he made a space for the two of them where they could feel safe and comfortable.

Safety and comfort were two things that Edwin Payne did not take for granted.

Feeling a burst of bravery well upon his chest, Edwin took the initiative to sit on one side of the couch, swinging his legs up so that his feet and ankles hung over the other side of it as he sank down a bit farther. The cushion behind him thankfully prevented the odd angle from becoming unpleasant.

Charles looked down at him, mildly perplexed. "Mate... You're taking up the whole couch like that. What about me?" he asked with a lopsided smile.

"Whatever do you mean? There is plenty of room for you to join me." Edwin gestured to his own chest and lap with a sweeping movement of his hand, as though it should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

Charles felt his face warm at the implication; at the invitation.

He had known Edwin for going on forty years and yet he never failed to surprise him. He was always revealing new parts of himself, always so brave in taking the first steps to close the gap between them, to move closer even when Charles was sure that there was no space between them at all.

It had taken Charles longer than he liked - in retrospect - to figure out how he felt about Edwin. Looking back, it probably should have been obvious. He had always been incredibly fond of Edwin, more so than of anyone he had known before him. It wasn't just that he had stayed with him as he died, and had made what should have been one of the coldest and scariest nights of his life into something warm. He hadn't even noticed that he was dead at first, but when he had, it had only made sense for him to follow Edwin wherever he wanted to lead him. It was also something intrinsic, something that became inherent the moment he had scene Edwin approach him with that lantern.

Carefully, Charles settled on top of Edwin on the small sofa, the confined space feeling cozy rather than cramped once he had settled into it. He rested his head on Edwin's chest and the latter's arms came up to wrap around him, one hand gently cradling the back of his head. Edwin's presence was like a warm blanket. Sure, ghosts couldn't feel warm in a physical sense, but the warmth that started in his heart travelled through each of his limbs and poured out of him, seeping into Edwin as well. He was sure he could feel it flowing back into him as well.

Perhaps it hadn't been sleeping, but it had been restful nonetheless. The ache from bones long buried slowly melted away, leaving only comfort and an encompassing feeling of safety.

[waitineedaname]

I think the funniest way to spin Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng's dynamic is if they work really well together, but they fucking hate it the whole time. these are two guys who know how to Get Down To Business when the situation calls for it, and when they have a common goal, they can work towards it efficiently. they just can't stand it the whole time

[iwoulddieforienzo]

Something really great about the persona 2 cast is that they all individually fucking SUCK to talk to casually. Every single one of them. They are all infuriating. We have:

Tatsuya, who will stare at you blankly if you try to initiate conversation (IS) and will dip without saying a word afterward (EP)

Batsuya, who will scoff and brush you off/otherwise act dismissive

Eikichi, who might honestly be the best to talk to in the IS crew and that is not saying much, who WILL talk extremely loudly over you (probably not on purpose?) and will not be paying particularly close attention to the conversation beyond whatever he wants to say (gets points for talking about his gf. gets points taken away for constantly talking about his gf)

Lisa, who will automatically assume bad faith and will be rude to you the entire conversation unless you manage to defuse her temper (good luck)

Jun, who is uncommunicative at BEST and requires an encyclopedic knowledge of flowers, metaphor and body language just to get a HINT on what he’s thinking, and who will be extremely polite but completely unhelpful. If you tried asking him what he wants for dinner I guarantee it will be the longest 30 minutes of your life as he goes “oh I have no opinion :) whatever you want. :))” EXCEPT HE DOES HAVE OPINIONS. He has SO MANY OPINIONS. He is Expecting you to be able to pick up on his “obvious” clues. He will be passive aggressive if you don’t. (Jun babygirl you suck so bad I love u)

Maya, who is a delight but will very quickly become grating if you try to talk to her about anything serious as she hits you with the white suburban mom's "how to live a happy, healthy life" lifecoach slogans. You can’t even mention, like, stepping in a puddle or something without her hitting you with the positivity beam.

Yukino is great actually. 10/10. She’s fabulous we love her. Incredible conversationalist, chill and fun and easy to get along with. But she’s from Persona One, she doesn’t Count.

Ulala, who WILL bring up her relationship problems in every conversation within 10 minutes at least once. Any longer and she will start talking about Maya.

Do I even need to explain Baofu. Have you seen him.

And finally, Katsuya, who is a cop and a kiss ass and Very Obvious about these things. Also he can't talk to women. He can barely talk to men. Help Him.

And yet they all work wonderfully as a group. They are so annoying I love them

[frauleiiin]

4 and 10 for Yuthuura from the love asks? <3

hihi thank you for the ask! <3 these are very interesting.

Ask

4. Does your OC consider themselves to be attractive? Do they put much effort into achieving this?

I have yet to see an ugly Twi'lek but she does perceive herself differently from reality. For a long time, she thought she could never be loved, that she'd always be seen as a lesser being.. A slave. And she thought that if she couldn't be loved, then she would be feared. Despite her undeniable beauty, her tattoos and scars definitely make her look intimidating. As for her own perception of her physique, she doesn't hate what she sees but doesn't love it either, she definitely doesn't stand infront of mirrors often. In terms of effort, she doesn't actively make herself "prettier" but she does dress herself well! She often prefers robes and dresses because she's kinda self-conscious about her legs (she's quite skinny). With time she does battle her insecurities and start seeing herself as the beautiful woman she is <3

10. Does your OC have a type? Have they ever been surprised by their feelings for someone who doesn't fit this?

Due to her past as a slave she built a lot of distrust for humans (men specifically), so for a while she was mainly attracted to aliens or Twi'leks. I guess she does have a thing for complicated men lol, she's complicated herself so she needs someone who's unapologetically flawed too. "Have they ever been surprised by their feelings for someone who doesn't fit this?" Yes, Mr. Nikos wins that prize LMAO. He does fit the complicated man category, however he does NOT fit into the alien one. She 100% never thought she'd be able to be loved, at all, but even less by a human. Falling in love with him was unexpected but after getting to know him better, she had no doubt he was the right person for her 🥹 (I'm like so normal about them)

[daincrediblegg]

My dad seems to think that it’s a problem that slow horses is now the metric by which I judge all other tv shows I watch with him but what he doesn’t know is that I’m right

[quietwingsinthesky]

i know what tattoo millie doesn’t have, because during the short period where lucifer’s possessing her, she keeps taking the wheel of the vessel to go and get herself the ugliest cartoon devil tattoos money can buy. lucifer is wasting precious grace getting those off of her body because he can’t stand them, and then she just goes and gets another one in a couple days time.

[dirtyassvoiceactors]

Oml ok Raven Queen coming in with a 2 for one boons on the menu kkkkk

Shes like “why these level 15 are fighting a godeater level creature, the last party i talked to who were doing that were level 20 wtf?! There’s a level 20 party on the moon, jeez you poor newbies here a free lvl up fuck it 2 for one”

RQ: “My life is in the hands of an idiot”

BH: “nonono, two eight idiots”

[emioliravioli]

Do you like Gold X Blaze from the Archie comics?🍀 (Otherwise feel free to do them for Blazamy)

23, 33 and 43!

wHAT OH MY GOD ahem um, hi blue!!

ok um, just dived into her wiki and binge read sonic universe #79-82 and woah? i love gold so much?? she's such an interesting character!

23.) who said "I love you" first?

technically, gold! they were having a nice date, and it was pretty late in the evening. they were on a balcony in the sol palace, the setting sun making a beautiful backdrop behind them, and the thought was so strong, so sudden, that gold didn't even realize that her telekinesis had sent it over to blaze. she said it back almost immediately.

33.) which one of them gives "that look" when they other is acting like a fool?

neither of them act like a fool too often, but blaze does it more frequently, if gold ever doubts herself, calls herself an idiot, or gives up.

43.) who gets up early? who stays in bed late?

they both get up early, for uh, not so fun reasons! blaze, because she's been taught to rise with the sun and get straight to her work, and gold, because the council trained her to wake up in a timely matter, to obey their strict schedules.

[wildstar25]

What physical part(s) of Arsay does her partners find the most attractive! Is it the same for all partners or does it differ between them?

(also optional bonus ask of what part(s) of/about Arsay generally do they love the most, physical or not!)

Meanwhile, if you were to ask the same of Arsay: