#yes and there are posts out there on the subject

[delicatebarness]

Extremely cracky but I am cackling at the thought of Thunderbolts endcredits(/Doomsday?) Bucky and pregnant reader hanging out with other heroes and the topic falls on everyone's hero suits and someone asks reader what she thinks of Bucky's new suit and she goes "Well, does this answer your question?" and points at her belly because he absolutey knocked her up when Bucky fucked her still wearing the fit.

If you want to make it smutty it can always include a flashback. 🤷‍♀️

in the suit?! | bucky barnes

Summary: ^^ Request

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI | Possible Thunderbolts* Spoilers | Smut | Detailed Open Door | Dirty Talk | Innuendos | Are we still saying John Walker as a warning? | Choking | Pregnant Reader | Mild Language | Alcohol Use | Suit Kink

Word Count: 965

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this. And getting to stare at clips of Bucky in the suit as references. Thank you. Ps-Gif has nothing to do with the one shot, but fuck.

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

Present:

Your post-mission debrief had somehow turned into a party—beers around a bonfire, with s’mores. Yes, someone had brought s’mores. It was Bob. You half suspected that he’d googled ‘what do friends do for fun?’ on the way back to the tower.

You were sitting on a lawn chair, mocktail one hand, the other absently rested on your stomach—the baby bump very much obvious at this point. Behind you, Bucky stood with one hand on your shoulder and his vibranium hand wrapped around a beer while he looked like he wanted to re-enter the void any time anyone got too loud.

And naturally, Yelena got loud.

“Okay, here’s the real question,” she called out, waving her beer bottle around the team like a sword. “Which one of the ‘new’ Avengers has the best suit?” 

“That’s so subjective.” Ava groaned.

“Exactly my point,” Yelena replied. “Subjectively, it’s me.”

Puffing out his chest, Alexei snapped. “I will ignore this insult and remind you of this iconic design!” 

“You literally squeak when you move,” Walker said. 

“You squeak emotionally.” Ava scoffed, taking a swig of her own beer bottle.

Walker pointed toward Bob. “What about him? Dude’s got like, three different fits.”

Bob smiled politely, yet his hand visibly trembled. “Thanks… I’m molecularly unstable.” 

Then suddenly, all eyes turned to Bucky.

Including yours. 

How could they not? The matte black suit. The red star. The arms. 

After a beat of silence, someone—you think it was Ava—looked at you and said: “What do you think of Barnes’ new suit?” 

Bucky froze. His hand tightened against your shoulder. Slowly you lowered your mocktail, raising your brows toward Ava.

“Well, Miss Starr,” you gave your swollen stomach a gentle double tap. “Does this answer your question?” 

In surprise, Yelena dropped her beer into the grass. Alexei smiled, until the realisation flashed over his eyes and he clutched his chest like he’d been shot. Bob blinked rapidly in your direction, as though he was running a diagnostics. Walker let out a bark-laugh, quickly turning it into a full wheeze. 

“No. Nooo,” He shook his head, the laughter still ringing through your ears. “Are you saying—Wait—in the suit?!” 

You smirked, and shrugged your shoulders slightly. “Didn’t even take the glove off.” 

Bucky’s eyes widened. 

Three Months Ago:

The safe house door slammed behind you. You barely crossed the entryway before Bucky had you pressed against the wall. His breath was hot, his body humming with some leftover tension from the mission.

He was still in his New Avengers suit—matte black kevlar clinging to his body like a sin, his dog tags swung with every move, and his arm plates clicked together.

You barely had time to catch a breath before his mouth crashed into yours. 

“Are you going to keep the suit on?” you murmured between kisses, fingers tracing the lining of the red star embroidered into his right arm. 

His teeth pulled at your bottom lip. “Are you complaining?” 

You weren’t.

Instead, you desperately tugged on his belt.

He growled.

And before you knew it, your legs were around his waist, his arm braced under your thighs. His vibranium hand reached up to cup your cheek, trailing his lips over your jaw with a ragged breath.

“You’ve been staring at me in this thing all damn day,” he hissed against the shell of your ear. “Did you think I didn’t notice, babygirl?” 

“Maybe–Maybe I wanted you to.”

In response, he ground his hips against you—still dressed, but the feel of him had you clenching around nothing. Bucky didn’t rush. He never did. He made you feel it. He made you feel him. And every ridge of his suit, the inches of him still layered between you.

Finally, he freed himself, and you let out a sharp gasp at your underwear being shoved aside. “Don’t hold back, sergeant.” you breathed, fingers entwining in his hair, pulling the strands. 

And he didn’t.

With one hard thrust, he was buried to the hilt—dragging out a broken moan from the back of your throat. He was rough, relentless. His hips snapped into you, driving you like he was proving a point.

He let your name fall from his lips. 

The suit creaked with every movement, and his gloved right hand tightened around your thigh. His grip was bruising. His left hand found your throat—firm, grounding. Just enough to make your vision blur—not enough to lose control.

“You take me so good, baby,” he panted. “Fuck—you’re so tight, can feel you everywhere.”

Unable to form words, you gasped. High-pitched, wrecked whines of: ‘Harder—’. Pushing your chest out, you felt his dog tags swing between your breasts with every thrust.

Bucky’s fingers found your clit—still gloved, the textured leather moved over your skin toward the sensitive nub—rubbing tight, delicious circles. 

You screamed his name.

Your body shuddered against him, vision turning white at the edges as your orgasm washed over you. Bucky’s hips stuttered, groaning deep from his chest as he spilled into you. His forehead pressed to yours. 

He didn’t let you go.

Breathing hard, you clung to him.

Present:

“So, just to confirm,” Walker continued to laugh. “Bucky Barnes, the Winter freaking Soldier, turned into a thirst trap and you said ‘yes’ without any hesitation?”

“I said ‘harder’, actually,” you corrected, taking your mocktail straw between your lips.

Bucky muttered under his breath, looking up to the sky, up to the stars. “You tried to, at least.” 

Yelena collapsed into Ava’s shoulder. “I never want to see that suit again.” 

“I’ll be seeing it again, tonight,” you said sweetly, standing up to make your way toward the bathroom. Patting Bucky’s chest as you pass. “Pizza first, though. I’ll need the carbs.” 

Bob blinked. “Should–Should I get more s’mores?”

“Yes, Bob,” the New Avengers said in unison.

___

[bloodyfries]

So, I love post cannon fics but I want to see more of cqm/the peak lords actually figuring out that Bingqiu married. I'm guessing they announced it, essentially Luo Binghe, and then they went on their honeymoon... but I also think it'd be very funny if they just didn't(forgot) and everyone just thought: wow, Shen Shixiong and that demon have been gone for a while. I wonder if it's something kind of holiday in the demon realm?

I also think it'd be very funny if they found out in a really stupid way ex, doing a trade deal with a demon (ik that's probably sqh's job but just suspended your belief, maybe it's a demon noble so the sect leader is there for some respect reason idk)

YQY: You mentioned earlier about a library that you might share?

Demon: Oh yes, there's plenty of topics that will appeal to all different of subjects. While this might not appeal to all peaks I have heard that...

Demon(internally): wait, since I'm talking to his martial sibling should I just say Peak Lord Shen... no, I'll just go with the title with the most power cause humans like respect

Demon: Consort Shen enjoys literature and that his peak-

YQY, who stopped listening after 'Consort':

[saintsylestine]

Pit-Born

Angron x Unamed Person (2nd person POV)

Authors note: Angron/World Eaters ≡ New Hyperfixation. This was kind of a "character warm-up". I wrote a 3rd person perspective too (〃ω〃) will probably post it on here or on AO3...

Chapter 1: Old Blood

It started the same way it always did — with screaming and metal.

The forge-pit echoed like a tomb full of dying engines. Down here, sound didn't travel clean — it rattled, bounced, came back wrong. You could hear a chain whip crack a hundred meters away and still not see who screamed.

You didn't look anyway.

That was Rule One: Don't look. Don't listen. Don't care.

You shoved another data-slate into the auto-filer, its screen cracked, half the glyphs glitching. It smelled like promethium and charred bone.

Not the worst thing you’d filed this week.

The Overseer's boots scraped overhead — heavy, servo-reinforced. You tensed on instinct. Not because he always hit people.

Because sometimes he didn’t.

And that was worse.

You could still feel last week’s bruise where he’d leaned in real close and whispered, “Got a sharp tongue on you, scribe. We'll see how long it stays attached.”

You hadn’t flinched.

You just smiled, right in his rebreathered face, and said, “With respect, Overseer, I’m the only one here who can read the requisitions. Unless you’d like another thousand barrels of corpse starch instead of ammo.”

That had earned you a full day scrubbing latrines.

Still worth it.

---

Your cot — if it could be called that — was a sheet of rebar strung between two rusted wall-beams, up in the tech-shed above the arena. The pit was always visible. Always audible. The noise of violence was your lullaby.

You'd long since stopped waking up at the sound of bone breaking.

You'd been born on a ship like this — or maybe it was a hive, or a mining rig. Honestly, it didn’t matter. They all smelled the same. Sweat. Shit. Cheap oil. Despair.

You had no family. Just bruises with dates on them and the memory of learning to dodge a fist before you could read.

Your first language was Low Gothic, spoken through cracked teeth.

Your second was silence.

Your third — learned in the shadows, in whispers — was High Gothic.

You memorized texts like other kids memorized the sound of their mother’s laugh.

You didn’t have one of those.

But you had a perfect copy of the Imperial Hymn etched into your skull, and you could translate six dialects of tribal war-speak from memory.

That made you useful.

And in this place, useful was the closest thing to safe.

---

You were hunched over a dataslate when the click-hiss of metal toes on steel drew close.

You didn’t look up.

Most people looked when Astartes entered a room.

You’d learned early that looking just made it easier for them to decide where to hit you.

The voice that followed was dry. Precise.

A vox-filtered growl wrapped in High Gothic.

"Subject Delta-9-Zeta. Report."

That was you.

Not your name, of course. You didn’t have a name — just a tag on your dataslates and a serial number on your file.

You didn’t stand.

Just looked up slowly, let your gaze drag over the towering figure in red and brass plate. He wasn’t a full Astartes — not anymore. An old veteran, maybe. One eye augmetic, one hand missing.

More administrator than killer now.

That made him almost tolerable.

"Yes?" you said, dry as reprocessed rations.

"Your assignment has changed," he said, ignoring your tone.

Your heart ticked faster — just once.

Reassignment was never good.

"You’re being deployed with the XII Aggression Fleet. Oversector Caduceus."

Your stomach twisted. That was Eater territory.

"Interpreter-class auxiliary," he went on. "You’ll serve under Primarch command."

Silence.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

"I’m sorry," you said, voice flat. "I thought you said Primarch command. I must’ve inhaled too much ceramite dust. Would you mind repeating that?"

He didn’t.

He just handed you a slate with the orders stamped in blood-red ink.

You read it once.

Twice.

Then let out a low, bitter snort.

"So what was it, then?" you muttered. "Did I piss off someone important? File the wrong report? Fuck the wrong officer?"

"Your reassignment is classified," he said. "Report to Dock H in one hour. You will be armed with a Rosette, an auto-transcriber, and a field lexicon. May the Emperor protect."

He turned and left before you could ask what language the Eaters even spoke.

---

You sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing, the data-slate still clutched in your hands.

You felt nothing.

Or maybe everything, just compressed into a needlepoint of white static.

You’d survived pits. Overseers. Starving.

You’d survived Astartes who treated mortals like flies.

You’d survived by being small, useful, and forgettable.

And now they were throwing you to him.

Angron.

The Butcher.

The Warhound.

The broken thing the Emperor couldn’t fix.

You laughed.

Just once.

Short and sharp and not very sane.

"Fuck me sideways," you muttered, dragging your hands down your face. "Guess it’s a good day to die."

You stood, grabbed your satchel, and walked toward the last job you’d ever take.

---

There was dust in the air, curling like smoke, even though nothing was on fire.

Not yet.

The forge-hold always looked like it was dying, but it never did. It just sagged. Creaked. Bled from its vents like an old animal too stubborn to fall over.

You walked slow, hands in your coat pockets, head down just enough to avoid notice — but not enough to look weak.

The air was thick with machine oil and ash. Someone was getting beaten two corridors over. You could hear the crack of a fist. The small, wet grunt of impact. The quickening rhythm. Then silence.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t even turn your head.

That was just Tuesday.

---

You passed the med-station loading vent — the one that smelled like shit and boiled antiseptic — and nearly missed him.

Small thing.

Pit boy.

Maybe twelve? Maybe less. Hard to say, when hunger took years off your face and added ten more to your eyes.

He was crouched under a rusted console unit, shirt drawn tight to his ribs like it could keep his bones from falling out. His mouth was open a little — not begging. Just breathing wrong.

You walked past.

Then, without looking, reached into your coat and palmed two protein tabs from your stash.

Nothing fancy. Just dry, chalky, corpse-reclaimed synth meat. The kind that kept your stomach from eating itself.

You dropped them by his foot as you passed.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t look.

Didn’t say a fucking word.

He wouldn’t either.

Not here. Not if he wanted to keep them.

But as you turned the corner, you felt it —

that burning little spot between your shoulder blades, where his eyes were pressed like a brand.

You told yourself it was nothing.

That he'd sell them.

That he'd die soon anyway.

You didn’t stop walking.

But your jaw was tight when you reached the lift.

---

The locker room was empty when you slipped in.

Good. You hated witnesses. Especially the quiet ones.

The overhead light flickered, casting sharp silver across rows of dented lockers, a cracked tile floor, and your rust-stained cot wedged up in the corner where the wall never quite stopped leaking.

You didn’t sit.

You just pulled your coat off and hung it on the dented hook that barely held weight.

Your fingers worked on instinct — removing your worn gloves, checking your satchel’s seals, running diagnostics on your auto-slate.

Busy hands made a quieter mind.

But it crept in anyway — the thought you’d been avoiding all day:

You were leaving.

Soon.

For the XII Aggression Fleet.

For him.

The Butcher.

You exhaled through your nose. Rolled your eyes at nothing.

Then you moved toward the locker.

The back one. The one no one else touched.

It took a kick to open.

You liked that about it.

Inside:

One clean dataslate

A bent stylus

Half a rag stuffed with inksticks

A folded rag you sometimes used as a pillow

A shard of mirror, metal-backed, scavenged from an old downed servitor casing

You pulled it out and turned it in your fingers.

It still had a little rust at the edges.

Still smelled faintly of oil.

You raised it.

Looked.

Your reflection was...

Fine.

You looked fine.

Sharp face. Straight mouth. Dark-ringed eyes. Scar across the bridge of your nose where someone had slammed your head into a filing desk last year.

You didn’t remember what for.

You didn’t wince.

You adjusted your sleeves.

The red thread peeked out — fraying, thin, wound twice around your left wrist.

Not a bracelet. Not anything.

Just… there.

You didn’t remember where it started.

You’d replaced it years ago, probably.

But it was the same color. Always that color.

And it stayed.

But your eyes drifted — just a little — to the hollow under your collarbone, where the skin still bore the ghost of a branding scar.

They’d burned the designation into you at seven.

Later, they reassigned you. Gave you the Rosette.

They never scrubbed the mark.

You ran your fingers over it, once.

Then opened your satchel and pulled out the chain.

The Rosette gleamed, faintly. Cold.

You slipped it over your head and let it settle against your chest like a second spine.

Interpreter.

Liaison.

Disposal.

You smiled at yourself — a tired, crooked thing.

"Dead girl walking," you murmured.

The mirror didn’t argue.

--

The walk to Dock H felt longer than usual.

You told yourself it was the weight of the satchel. The ache in your calves. The extra rations you slipped into the locker for the kid — even though you knew he’d be robbed by nightfall.

It wasn’t the fear.

You didn’t do fear.

Not anymore.

Just… managed expectations.

The corridors stretched on, pipe-lined and blistered with rust. The scent of blood and reek-oil clung to everything. The walls sweated moisture that wasn’t water.

You passed two tech-priests arguing in Binaric over a servitor with a bent spinal frame.

You nodded. They didn’t nod back.

Good.

It meant you were still invisible.

---

Until you weren’t.

The World Eaters came around the corner like a pressure wave.

There were four of them — no escort, no fanfare. Just blood-steam and footfalls that shook the grating under your boots.

They didn’t march.

They stalked.

Armor painted in drying gore. Symbols carved into shoulder plates. Chainaxes clipped at their hips like talismans. Helmets off. One dragged a flayed corpse behind him, trailing blood like a bridal train.

You moved to the wall automatically — you weren’t suicidal — but you didn’t shrink.

Not anymore.

Just… still.

Small.

A shadow in the oil-smoke.

And then one of them looked at you.

Long, slow.

His head tilted, like a predator seeing a noise, not prey.

His face was war-scarred, with ritual cuts down both cheeks, teeth filed into points.

He didn’t snarl.

He smiled.

Just like he was already imagining how you’d look when you stopped breathing.

It was worse than a snarl.

The one behind him said something low — in a dialect you almost recognized. It sounded like Low Gothic, if Low Gothic had been spoken underwater by a dying god.

You caught a single word:

“Pretty.”

Your jaw locked.

You didn’t blink.

The third one — older, scarred across the throat, with a chainaxe in one hand and a ribcage strapped to his back like a trophy — let out a low chuckle.

It rattled your bones.

None of them stopped.

They passed like smoke through flame — too big, too loud, too close.

And when they were gone —

when their scent still burned in your nostrils like hot metal —

you realized your hands were fists.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears.

Your throat was dry.

And your left hand was pressed to your wrist.

To the thread.

Still there.

Still tight.

You released it.

And breathed.

Once.

---

The dock loomed.

Metal towers stretched overhead like broken ribs, lights flickering red in the fog. Servitors clanked in dull circles, unloading crate after crate of munitions, medicae supplies, and human bodies wrapped in tagged cloth.

No one greeted you.

A grox-skinned quartermaster waved you toward a loading bay with a metal stylus like he was swatting a bug.

You stepped into the hangar’s belly.

And froze.

The ship squatted on the far platform like a beast half-woken from hibernation.

Brass-plated. Bladed. Covered in kill-scars.

The hull was decorated in chains. Bodies. Rusted prayer plates hanging like teeth.

Red banners snapped in the oil-wind, each one stamped with a single glyph:

XII. AGGRESSION.

And there, carved deep into the prow —

etched like a curse into the bone-metal surface —

THE WARHOUND.

You felt your stomach curl.

Your knees didn’t buckle.

But they wanted to.

You adjusted your satchel.

Pulled your coat tighter.

The chain around your neck was cold.

The thread at your wrist, warm.

You took a step forward.

And the doors swallowed you whole.

---

The air inside the Warhound was colder than you expected.

Not freezing — just sharp.

Sterile.

Like someone had cleaned it, but only after too much had already rotted inside.

The ramp sealed behind you with a hiss and a hydraulic moan, drowning out the dock’s chaos.

You stood there a moment, letting your eyes adjust, heart pounding too close to your throat.

No welcome party.

Just the groan of metal bones and the sound of your own breathing.

---

The first corridor was long, narrow, barely lit — a transport vein designed for bulk cargo and soldiers too massive to care about human comfort.

You walked it like a ghost.

Boots too light. Shadow too small.

The walls were not quiet.

You could hear them.

Something. Someone. Screaming.

Deep down in the ship’s gut.

Not pain.

Pleasure.

Or whatever passed for it here.

Metal screamed too — engine parts groaning in their sockets, servitors shuffling, plasma lines weeping gas like breath.

You passed a hanging banner — black leather, red ink, stamped with the sigil of the World Eaters.

A single glyph burned into the surface beneath it, carved with a blade instead of inked:

OBEY.

You didn’t stop walking.

But your pace slowed.

---

They didn’t bother showing you to your quarters.

Just dumped coordinates into your slate.

Barracks wing. Deck 7C. Assigned scribe’s cell.

You found it after two wrong turns and one narrow hallway lined with skulls that might not have all been decorative.

The door didn’t open until you swiped your Rosette — and even then, it groaned like it hated the idea of letting you inside.

You stepped into a box of cold steel.

No bunk.

No blankets.

No personal effects.

Just a hard floor, one wall-plate for filing, and a single fixture: a half-broken shrine to the Emperor of Mankind, blackened by smoke.

You looked at it.

Didn’t kneel.

Just stood in the center of the room, flexing your hands.

The floor still smelled like blood.

---

They fed you twice over the next two days.

You didn’t sleep the first night.

Too cold. Too loud. Too full of footsteps you didn’t want to track.

No one spoke to you.

Except one of the ship-serfs, a half-bent wretch with broken fingers who shoved a tray toward you and muttered:

"Don’t look anyone in the eyes, not even the humans. And if he calls for you — don’t run. Just go."

You didn’t ask who he was.

You already knew.

---

On the third day, the vox pinged.

It wasn’t a request.

Just three words:

REPORT TO PRIMARCH.

You stared at the screen.

Then glanced at the door.

Your hand almost lifted — a half-reflex — but didn’t reach for anything.

Instead, you exhaled.

Flexed your fingers.

Rolled your neck until something cracked.

No ritual this time.

No satchel clutching.

No thread-check.

Just you.

And the sound of your own breath.

Then turned toward the upper decks —

and walked straight into the jaws of the Butcher.

---

You expected a throne.

You weren’t sure why.

Some leftover delusion, maybe. Some half-remembered pict of how a Primarch should sit — tall, clean, golden light behind him, banners fluttering.

What you got instead?

Chains.

Dozens of them.

Massive iron lengths suspended from the ceiling like a meat hook cathedral, half-rusted and rattling with every engine groan.

And in the center — seated on nothing, slouched against a pillar of blackened steel —

Angron.

No armor.

Just blood-washed skin and scars that didn’t look like they’d healed so much as calcified into the bone.

He wore a shorn-off crimson wrap around his waist, a torn pelt thrown over one shoulder like a trophy.

The Butcher’s Nails gleamed in his skull, still hot — you could smell the metal.

Smoke curled from where some of them met bone.

He didn’t move when the guards ushered you in.

He didn’t even look.

You had the brief, surreal thought that they might have brought you to the wrong place.

Then he breathed.

And the chains shifted.

---

You didn’t bow.

You didn’t salute.

You just stood there, coat grimy, Rosette heavy on your chest, arms at your sides like you were bracing to be hit.

Not for show.

Out of habit.

You weren’t afraid of dying.

Not in the normal way.

You’d seen death.

Served it coffee. Filed its reports.

What scared you was what was behind those eyes — the not-rightness, the way he looked like a man who had once had a name, a face, a soul — and someone had taken all of it and left the shell walking.

You knew that feeling.

That was the problem.

---

After too long, he looked at you.

The weight of it landed like a slab of stone between your lungs.

Not heat — not rage — not at first.

Just pressure.

Like the whole ship was holding its breath to see if you’d break.

His eyes were red.

Not glowing.

Just… raw.

Like something had been scraped out of him that was never supposed to grow back.

“Interpreter,” he said, voice low and rough, like every word he spoke clawed its way up from somewhere unwilling.

You didn’t answer immediately.

Not to challenge.

Just to remind yourself you still could.

Then:

“Sir.”

The word tasted wrong in your mouth.

---

He pushed off the pillar with a sound like a mountain shifting —

his weight slamming down into the metal with a shudder that echoed through the chains.

He didn’t walk toward you.

He didn’t have to.

He just stood there. Massive. Half-naked. Covered in old warpaint and fresh, flaking blood.

“You spoke to me,” he said.

Not a question.

“Yes.”

“You mocked me.”

You almost smiled.

“Yes.”

A sound broke in his chest.

Not a growl.

Laughter, maybe.

Ugly. Unused.

“And yet you live.”

You tilted your head.

"Not for lack of trying. Sir."

A beat.

No reaction.

Then —

a step.

Just one.

And it was too much.

Your back straightened. Muscles tensed. You didn’t move. But every instinct screamed animal. Run. Kneel. Disappear.

He stopped inches in front of you.

Looking down.

Heat coming off his skin like a forge.

Scars close enough to count.

He didn’t touch you.

Didn’t lean in.

Didn’t snarl.

He just looked.

And you felt it.

The way his eyes moved — not lazy, not leering — but scanning.

Like reading a battlefield.

Or an old map he used to know by heart.

Your face first.

The scar across your nose —

A rough line where bone had nearly split skin.

Then your neck.

The spot where your coat gaped open just slightly — not salacious, just exposed —

where the edge of your brand still flared faint and red under pale skin.

He saw it.

You knew he did.

You didn’t flinch.

Then your arms —

the sleeves too light, the shadows too obvious.

Old lash lines. Scar tissue where skin had tried to grow back wrong.

And something behind his eyes… shifted. Just slightly.

Not pity.

Not even interest.

Just that silent filing you recognized from men who used to bet on pit fighters.

What hurt.

What healed.

What didn't.

You wanted to say something.

To break it.

But what would you say?

Yes, I survived.

No, it didn’t make me stronger.

Just meaner.

So you said nothing.

And neither did he.

Only—

you watched him watch you.

And knew:

He’d seen more in those ten seconds than most men would in ten years.

And the worst part?

He didn’t look away.

His gaze traveled lower. And landed.

At your wrist.

Just a flick of his eyes.

Not long enough to be certain.

But you felt it.

Like something being filed away.

---

“Why are you here,” he said, voice quieter now.

Not soft. Just... less full of war.

You blinked.

You weren’t sure if it was a real question.

Or if he even knew what it meant.

You gave the only answer that mattered.

“Because someone wants me to die. And they thought you'd be efficient.”

Another pause.

The heat of him didn’t lessen.

But he didn’t move.

“They were wrong,” he said.

You looked up — full into his ruined face, into eyes that had seen more betrayal than the galaxy had names for.

“Why?” you asked.

His mouth moved. Slowly.

Like a man tasting language for the first time.

“Because I haven’t decided yet.”

….

You didn’t say anything after that.

What would’ve been the point?

The god had spoken.

Not judgment.

Not mercy.

Just delay.

And somehow, that was worse.

—

The guards didn't come to collect you.

No vox chirped in your ear.

No voice told you to leave.

But something in the chamber changed.

The air thinned.

The chains went still.

The pressure lifted—not gone, just... redirected.

Like the Warhound had already moved on.

Or begun listening to the next thing.

So you walked.

—

The doors didn’t creak or hiss.

They just opened.

You stepped into the corridor with your hands still at your sides.

Your jaw locked so tight it ached.

Your mouth dry with the aftertaste of blood and something older.

You weren’t sure if you’d been dismissed.

Or released.

You walked.

Slow. Deliberate.

Not because you needed to.

But because anything faster would feel like running.

And you didn’t run.

—

The halls of the Warhound weren’t made for mortals.

They were made for men the size of statues and twice as dead.

Your boots clicked on steel that bore the stains of a thousand campaigns.

Your coat scraped rust from the walls.

And the light overhead stuttered every five meters —

enough to keep you guessing if the shape in your periphery was a shadow, a machine, or a man.

You didn’t look back.

You knew better.

—

Two decks down, you passed an open bulkhead.

Inside: a war-serf chained to a data pillar, his mouth wired shut, fingers twitching over keys he couldn’t see.

His eyes flicked up as you passed.

You nodded.

He didn’t.

You kept walking.

—

The smell changed first.

Oil. Blood. Meat.

The musk of World Eaters lingered in the air like a second skin.

You turned a corner and—

Froze.

A group of astartes stood at the end of the hall like pillars made of hunger.

Their armor steamed with fresh gore. One of them held a helmet under his arm, where brain matter still clung to the visor.

They didn’t look at you. But they didn’t move either.

Like they were waiting.

You inhaled.

Walked straight past.

No eye contact. No quickening pace.

Just small, steady footsteps, echoing like prey walking through a den of sleeping lions.

One of them said something low, in that same guttural dialect.

You didn’t translate it.

You didn’t need to.

You heard the word “pet.”

And you felt the way they said it — not cruel.

Not even mocking.

Certain.

Like they’d already seen how this ends.

----------------------------- to be continued-------

I feel like I need to know more about Angron to write more dialogue for him (／＼) but thank you for reading!! Would love to know your thoughts.

[pvtpunsart]

Masterpost

My name's Rhys and welcome to my Piece...s of art. Haha, gottem.

This is a masterpost, as mentioned previously. By the title, you might have seen him around. He likes to check in sometimes. The titles of the tags below will be links, and this post is of course subject to change when I am able. It's not always going to be up to date, and for that I apologize in advance.

Please note that my art should not be interpreted as t-cest.

Yes, you may color any sketches or lines i post unfinished unless otherwise stated in the post! All I ask is that you tag me when you post it so I can see too!

Coloring book - These are drawings other people have colored!

AMV tag - I edit sometimes!

Categories for tag sorting are under the cut so as not to clog up the blog/dash.

Series Drawings

Sets of drawings where I draw at least the 4 core turtles in a specific scenario or theme.

Gear Swap - The turtles with weapons, gear, or powers switched around!

Let's hang out with Dad - The turtles get to go on father-son bonding time with Splinter. This tag encompasses anything where they are just being a loving family.

Super Smash Brothers - Small series where the turtles get smash bro victory screens

Crossovers

Those pesky turtles, showing up in all my franchises..!

Overwatch - No trickety tricks, it's the turtles as characters from Blizzard's Overwatch

AUs

It's what it says on the tin, baby, fun little canon divergences where I, the artist, enact my will on my blorbos

AU Where Everything Is The Same But They Have a Cat - It's an AU where everything is the same, but they have a cat. The cat is orange, and because my cat is perfect and beautiful, it is modeled after my perfect and beautiful cat and her antics.

Youngest Big Brother - This AU tag is a catch-all for Turtle Tots content. Mostly when I draw the tots it is keeping the scrapped episode in mind where Leo, Raph, and Donnie are cursed and become Little Kids, and Mikey has to step up as a big brother.

Other Tags

If you have a kind of drawing you like that I do and want me to group it, send me an ask! I'll update 'em and pop 'em on the masterpost for you.

[shootingstarpilot]

saw your post last week about your job i hope it went okay!

First off, thank you so much for checking in, that is genuinely so sweet of you and I appreciate it tremendously. Now, am I answering this three weeks late because I wanted to have an actual resolution for you?

Yes. Yes I am.

Am I also about to vent for several paragraphs, screaming incoherently into the void as the insane stress of the past few months searches desperately for an open valve?

Yeah, that too.

So. February 14, 2025. With no formal warning and only 24 hours of informal warning from other rank-and-file staff, myself and several thousand other probationary employees (meaning those with less than a year in their current position) were unceremoniously and illegally terminated. Termination notifications stated that our "subject matter knowledge, skills, and abilities do not meet the Department's current needs." This comes into play later, because this is patently false. Myself and many others had promotions to permanent status in the works before the federal hiring freeze condemned them to the void. These terminations did not involve any of our direct supervisors or anyone who had actual knowledge of the quality of our work.

These notifications were rolled out by region. Sitting at my computer, watching the texts roll in from friends at parks across the country, knowing mine was coming and not being able to do a damn thing about it...

Yeah. That was fucking miserable.

I get very lucky. My boss goes to bat hard for me and gets me a position with our partner organization; I am unemployed only for the weekend. A lot of national parks have these (most libraries and the like have them too). These partner organizations are often vital to the functioning of the park. As an example of what they can do- because they're non-governmental non-profits, they can assist in fundraising efforts and solicit donations that federal regulations bar parks (as federal entities) from participating in.

I am, again, tremendously lucky. Other probies have families to support. Other probies are left without paychecks entirely. We are supposed to have access to our benefits for a month after being terminated; many find their health insurance is now inactive. Other probies, after uprooting their whole lives to move to remote locations for their dream jobs, are suddenly left isolated and unmoored. Many have to move back home, closer to friends and family who can help support them.

And then March 13 rolls around, and two separate judges (US District Judge William Alsup of San Francisco and US District Judge James Bredar of Baltimore) order the Trump administration to reinstate all fired probationary employees by March 18. Fully reinstated, meaning they can't just put employees on paid admin leave and call them "reinstated."

I don't know how the other agencies handled this, but just for the DOI:

Going completely against the court orders, the DOI splits all probationary employees into two groups. Group A are mostly front-line probies, those involved in visitor services, maintenance, etc., and are to be reinstated immediately. Group B are mostly back-of-house- admin, resource management, and the like- to be placed on paid admin leave. I'm in cultural resource management, so I was placed in Group B. Also worth noting- all of those notifications about group designations and reinstatements? We got absolutely nothing in writing. All of this is conveyed by phone calls from our direct supervisors, who are as baffled and furious as the rest of us.

(If you had any faith left that "oh, they're doing this to save money!", let that put those to rest. Paid admin leave means you're paying people to do nothing. We all were chomping at the bit to GET BACK TO DOING OUR JOBS.)

So, of course, this sets off a ruckus. We are contacting the courts, we are contacting our union reps, we are contacting our congressional reps, those of us who live or work in one of the 19 states that filed the lawsuits are contacting our attorney generals. We care about the work we do. We are not content with paid admin leave.

And the ruckus works. The next day, we receive notice that the group designations are no longer valid. Everyone is being reinstated, effective immediately.

Great.

Until the Supreme Court strikes this down on a legal technicality, saying that the states and the union do not have "standing" to sue. Importantly, they're not ruling on the legality of the firings themselves; that question is still making its way through the courts.

The Department of Commerce, which includes agencies like the U.S. Census Bureau and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, immediately re-fires all their probationary employees. This is because DOC leadership is full of a bunch of stupid cunts.

DOI leadership does one thing right and decides not to re-fire their probies until the legality of doing so is decided. This is good, because it gives more time for current probationary employees to make it to a year of service, thereby taking them off probationary status. This is also what happens to me- three days after the SC ruling comes down, I make it off probationary status and breathe a (very tentative) sigh of relief.

Now I am faced with a different problem.

There are a few different categories of employment. You can be permanent, which is exactly what it sounds like. You can be seasonal, which is also exactly what it sounds like. Or you can be term. Term employees function on an annual renewal; positions can be renewed for up to four years. Normally, while the renewals themselves are only processed the week before your term is up (for some godforsaken reason), you'll usually know whether or not you're getting renewed a few months beforehand because your supervisor will tell you whether or not they've filed the paperwork to extend your term. This is generally fine, because having the advance notice lets you prepare and search for new jobs. HR basically rubber-stamps your supervisor's decision.

However, in this new hellscape, whether or not you get renewed is no longer up to your supervisor. It's up to the Office of Personnel Management, led by the guy who said he wanted to "traumatize" federal employees. Also, I cannot stress enough-

THE GOAL OF THIS ADMINISTRATION IS TO GUT THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT.

So. You know. We're all having a great time.

There is no uniformity and no guidance. Some terms are getting renewed. Some are not. These are scattered across regions and divisions and offices; there is no pattern to be found. This is becoming the depressing norm.

Again, my boss goes to bat for me. He tells me he filed the paperwork for my renewal the moment he found out I was getting reinstated. He is arguing that in order to meet the new order to "prioritize keeping parks open" (I'm not even fucking touching that right now), he needs to be allowed to keep his staff so he can reassign them if necessary. He is giving me multiple long-term projects to work on. He says he is optimistic, even though he doesn't look it.

I am not.

I am back-of-house, meaning that I do not directly impact the visitor experience the same way a staff shortage of front-line rangers would. I work in cultural resource management, which this administration is aiming to demolish. I spend the next few weeks tidying things up as much as I can for my successor, trying to process the grief of losing a fantastic job, doing very bleak math with my meager savings to figure out how far I can stretch them (the answer: not very), and applying for other positions. I try to take some sick time and fail because I actually really love my job.

This would all be so much easier if I hated my job.

Fast-forward to today. It's the last day of my term. I resigned myself last week to not being renewed. I still have not heard anything, not even about a termination notice- non-renewal of the term still requires paperwork actions. I am plodding along and trying to prioritize the most enjoyable parts of my job.

Then, with less than six hours of my term left, I find out that my term has been extended.

I have so much work to do.

I can't wait.

[neverenoughmarauders]

I’m going to write about four people. The first one is short, so I’ll describe him as short. The second one is tall, so I’ll describe him as tall. The third is tall, and taller than the second, so I’ll make that clear. The fourth is TALLEST OF THEM ALL and I will never mention anything about his height. That’s how writing works right? Right?

[marciaillust]

mom come pick me up people related to my personal posts too much

[whateverthought]

I feel like, of all of Vivziepop's questionable writing choices, people blow Andrealphus's comments about Stella out of proportion. I call my sister the hot one, I tell her she's beautiful and refer to her as the 'Pretty Twin' all the time.

[aliciavance4228]

"Medusa x Perseus" Why don't you guys ship Bellerophon with Chimera? Or Heracles with the Hydra?

[triglycercule]

horror is so BLESSED he's the only one out of the murder time trio that has actual good people trying to influence his story 💔💔 dust and killer were both driven to INSANITY because of the choices of their respective humans but horror??? every time without FAIL the polls for horrortale's plotline have always ended in a good place for aliza (either by bettering her relationships/reputation or for her to just. not DIE)

horrortale's potential alternate timelines my beLOVEd🙏🙏 they're SO lucky that we're being kind and benevolent hehe (≧ω≦) now where are the aus based off the possible different outcomes that could've happened in horrortale HUH???? (like how aliza couldve killed toriel or chosen horror's puzzle or gone with undyne to the core........)

[wallcreeper-and-oro]

terminal.find(WASP-132d) terminal established connection.find(omni_net) connection established omni.id.vericode(Y/N) (Y) {vericode entered} connection verified - lancer 910372

⋆𖦹 Hello!

Uh hi there! I'm new to all this omni-net thing but Kanmi says i've gotta introduce myself so hello omni-net!

My name is Coryander (or Cory but Thebe's the only one who calls me that)! she/her only please and thank you! oh ya my callsign is Ouroboros (or Oro for short) and I currently pilot a swallowtail chassis named Wallcreeper (like Tichodroma muraria)!! uuh i'm pretty new to this whole piloting thing too, well like piloting a big mech i've "piloted" my old ship a bit.. but anyways Wallcreeper's been a nice experience so far!

Kanmi says to tell you all who we are (whoops) uh i'm a part of a little lancer squad unofficially called Dido's Divers (after our leader, the Dido), it'll mostly be me on this but i might talk about my other crew-members too!

um okay let’s seee we got

myself Coryander! (callsign: Ouroboros) -

I get to pilot Wallcreeper! and now with ATHENA Ambulia!

Thebe! my best friend! (callsign: Neutron) -

Thebe pilots her Togukawa (Hemera), it seems pretty scary to me but she likes the heat of the battle!

Kanmi (who’s here helping me do this, thanks kanmi) (callsign: Rosy)-

Kanmi's our resident Drake pilot, and the talker of the group!

Liza, my mentor (callsign: Sour Patch) -

Liza's a Tortuga pilot, and she's our pilot pilot! she's pretty badass!

Dido, the leader of our little crew (that’s her callsign, i haven’t asked her name and she hasn’t given it soooo Dido it is) -

Dido used to pilot a rather scary Blackbeard! Now she's our official Handler!

uuh Kanmi says i gotta say that both mine and Thebe’s mechs were salvaged legally, they were? i’m not sure why he put that in bold? oh also we’re not affiliated with any manufacturer or any other independent company and we follow the pillars and all that good stuff

uuum i’m not sure what i’m gonna do on here but hi i guess! this is Ouroboros signing out!

OOC: hiiii so um im trying out this whole thing, we’ll see how it goes but ya! meet Coryander (spelled the phoenician way)!! she’s pretty cool i think! a bit green but i think she’s neat! she’s got her nice little crew right now and her best friend and all will be well!!

this is the sideblog of @moons-among-distant-stars, so i’ll follow anyone from there!!

uh if you’ve somehow found me not from that account then hi i’m very new to lancer and even newer to lancer rp (or any online rp for that matter) but i think lancer’s very cool and i really like the story y’all’re telling on here!!

so please enjoy the story of my little transfem pilot and her silly crew!!

[yeehaww-sims]

Hi I love them your honour. Picks them up and runs away.

[diodellet]

cw: unbeta'd rambling once more, all mistakes are mine. vague references to true crime content, nothing graphic. just thinking of what would discomfort the charas, im basically throwing darts 🥴

i hc'd that kalim doesnt really get scared by ghosts and urban legends and to add onto that: i think kalim would be icked out by people with an interest in true crime.

like, the content hits uncomfortably close to his own encounters and some people frankly take a bit too much pleasure in going through all the gory details - wait, you're telling him there are people who fall asleep while listening to true crime podcasts?! on that note, some psychological thrillers (especially the 'adapted from true events' kind, compared to the 'dystopic social commentary' ones) would also fit into this category - just being plain uncomfortable to sit through, a movie/podcast/tv experience making him sick to his stomach.

i just think that kalim doesn't get the appeal at all, no matter the explanation. if someone tried to show him a few cases, he'd just be sitting in uncomfy silence.

(on the flipside, i think jamil hates horror movies with an abundance of jumpscares compared to slashers. he has an uncanny sense foretelling when they're gonna happen, but he still flinches during the actual jumpscare. bonus points if a fakeout is good, u get to see his soul jump out of his body twice.

on the topic of true crime, jamil just doesn't vibe with it, especially when it's not well-researched and/or poorly handled in its delivery. and like, he's already gotten the fearmongering-type of warnings* from the adults in his life plenty of times. he doesn't want to see it packaged in a spooky, edgy, internet detective-way, but he's more rational? understanding? of its appeal to others.)

[frociaggine]

adding Kamala to my blacklisted words because people won't fucking tag their uspol posts

[leopardom]

"this is too straight" "this is promoting female objectification" "this is a very old trope for a mv"

this is fiction and it is not that deep to begin with

[szilverer]

on hands, responsibility, and "what's mine is yours"

the ghostie is inevitably going to See In Apocyan some rather personally disturbing parallels between the Seventh Coil/Tiger Keeper and themself :D itll take me a while to get to that though so. why not revisit the start with the 37486 unposted things i have lying around

Edward's hands are their hands.

Responsibility is the strongest thread that kept these two tied to each other, back then. Reisz made sure to leave it clear on day one. Marrying me isn't you getting what you want. Marrying me is a punishment.

Which means that all his actions– whatever wrong he does, whatever person he haunts— is on their tab. This is not a matter of guilt or remorse: Reisz' own self-administered price to be paid for their whim is the permanent sense of responsibility over their... husband.

He, by all means, should have died. It would be the kind thing to do by their own (naive) beliefs and yet Reisz kept him alive on a (selfish) whim.

If he's breathing now it's only because they let him breathe.

If he gets blood on his hands, that's blood on their hands.

You are my responsibility.

His hands are their hands.

Reisz' hands failed them ever since they tried to commit suicide in that coffin.

Caving their skull in left a series of minor issues that made their life more difficult. Small things. Speaking. Reading. Writing, holding a pen. Buttoning and unbuttoning. Delicate lab work. Even opening jars stopped being an automatic action and became an active process. Reisz dropped things all the time– they couldn't trust their hands for a lot of things now. Nothing too bad, though! They swear. Nothing serious. Minor annoyances, that's all.

Edward's hands were burned.

It was true hell to move them at all after his darling dearest set fire to his life, yet he endured it. He agonisingly held tools to write letters upon letters and carve sculptures day and night as palliative care, desperately trying to retain a modicum of sanity while separated from his object of affection. He purposefully burned himself again, he endured it, and the pain helped him through it. After shedding skin twice, the scars remain, although not as stiff as they used to be. They don't get in the way of his life at all.

...

Reisz doesn't ever ask for help in London– after becoming a POSI, they started to concern themself with reputation. They don't want to be seen as weak, or rather, they don't want people to learn their weaknesses. It feels inadequate.

Well, Parabola isn't London. They reach a point where all the minor difficulties add up. One day Reisz dreams of the Orphanage, their unconscious taking them to their responsibility extended, they see this man they're keeping tabs on, grinning, all but glowing just by being near them, and they are so exhausted they give up, they make use of him.

i need you to...

It makes him so happy. Even when he tried not to smile they could still see the false-joy in his eyes. This is far from a punishment, but isn't that sort of thing part of being loved? Isn't this the make-believe they wanted to experience in the first place? It's fine. No one else is here to see. He's seeing it, but he's cut off from London so it doesn't matter. A couple weeks into this marriage and Reisz starts to slowly but surely favour their own comfort.

His hands are theirs.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

and yeah in case anyone's wondering how badly rei inadvertently set themself up,