#spring-loaded mechanism

[wire-smith-crafts]

Not sure how to classify these. Gadgets? Contraptions? Not sure they have enough moving parts to be contraptions. Maybe just mechanisms?

Mostly they're fun little practice pieces. I've been messing with springs and two-position toggles. The fact that they make fun desk fidget toys is a bonus!

The one with the insulated copper is technically an electrical switch, toggling between open and closed. The all-steel one is just a test of how weak of a spring I can get away with.

[doodl-eo]

so uh

i may have um

yknow

[prokopetz]

While pinball-like games – i.e., glass-fronted inclined tables with bells, bumpers, and spring-loaded ball launchers – were developed in France as early as the mid 1700s, these examples were games of chance, lacking any mechanism for the player to manipulate the ball once it was in play. Initial experiments in introducing an element of player skill by adding flippers proved unsatisfactory, as even the most efficient mechanical flippers were too weak to propel the ball all the way up the table. Pinball would not realise its modern form until the 1940s, with the introduction of power-assisted flippers driven by small electric motors; this final step could in theory have taken place much earlier, the first commercially viable small electric motors having been developed in the 1880s, but economic factors made it impractical.

At this point, one may note that Bram Stoker's famous novel Dracula takes place around 1897.

Thus, permitting only slight anachronism, it is just barely historically possible for Count Dracula to have owned a pinball machine.

[medusaesque]

Kim's itchy trigger finger

So, Kim reaches for his gun often. Very often. sometimes for the most ridiculous reasons- opening the bear fridge, the experiment in the church, a note from Klaasje.

This one is just from being anxious going into the communist reading group. Kim doesn't want to be the kind of cop who draws his gun constantly, who shoots instinctively, but he is, or at the very least it's very difficult for him to stop himself from becoming one.

Perhaps the most horrifying example is with The Pigs-

Even if he KNOWS the gun isn't loaded, even if he knows it's safe, the instinctual muscle twitch could have ended in an unnecessary death. Kim is very well aware of that fact, and it's horrifying to him. @shufflerock-jam has this really good post about it, where they wonder how many of Kim's kills were unnecessary. "Something about a pair of traumatized cops, one fighting against shooting himself and one fighting against shooting everyone else".

At the end of The Pigs exchange, if Harry says she tried to kill him, Kim begins to interject, but stops himself and agree this situation could've been very bad. Then Empathy chimes in- 'He's trying not to think about how bad it could have been had the gun been loaded.' Which is the heart of the issue, right? that leads us to Eyes-

This is such a fascinating background to give Kim as a character- not just losing his partner, which gives him the trauma and survivor's guilt that lead to this unhealthy relationship with his gun and frankly with death in general, but losing his Eyes, and having that not interfere with his shooting. Kim doesn't need to see well to hit, he doesn't need to think. It's all in his hands, a reflex. A reflex that nearly took an innocent life. That might have taken one before.

His awareness of looming danger, to him and to his partner, is fueling his version of Hand/Eye Coordination to have him constantly on edge, his whole body is like a loaded spring, always prepared to make sure it doesn't happen again. Then it does-

In his nightmare scenario, leaning over his partner's bleeding body, Kim only needs one word to shoot without a second's hesitation. He's never not ready to take that shot. He doesn't need his Eyes.

Harry is distraught to discover he's killed before- his body remembers it. He wants a drink to soften the feeling. Kim however is impressed with how little he's killed- especially coming from the bloody murder unit. He wants to be 'one of the good ones' (Kim's adamant belief in the possibility of a Good Cop is a whole other can of worms) the kind of cop he would think highly of. Kim is disgusted by cops who kill like it's a game. Espirit gives us a vision of a cop exactly like that, who kills so often it doesn't feel like anything anymore. In a way that is completely mechanical- no thought, no feelings, just a thing your body does. Not unlike the way Kim shoots- like a spring unloaded. Kim has 6 confirmed kills before the tribunal, double the amount Harry has. He doesn't react the same way though-

It's doesn't bother Kim that he has killed, even if he declines to elaborate on it, and he seems to frown upon (or worry about) Harry's destructive coping mechanism. If they're unable to save Ruby, he says "Control your emotions. We did our job. This won't be the worst thing that happens on this case… believe me. You can't let this break you." When you wake up after the tribunal, he doesn't dwell on the lost lives on either side. Harry's skills call him a killer, a bloodstained killer, but when he tells Kim he also killed he simply nods. He's smoking though. I'm not saying that Kim is heartless or careless, he's rattled by nearly blowing The Pigs' head off, very sorry for the lives lost during the case, and clearly hunted by death, having been surrounded by it for his entire life. But I do think death is a part of the job for him- not just possible civilian causalities, but his own potential death. He speaks plainly about how he might die in the lie of duty, and he narrowly avoided it more than once, with others dying in his place..

He walked into the line of fire with harry expecting for of them to die, and his quick fingers on the trigger made it so they lived another day. Even if more ghost joined the list that hunts him in his sleep, he is alive. He goes on. He can't afford to fix this habit, as much as he wants to.

So it's so horrible and so touching that when Dros asks "What have you done?" Kim says-

It's a tragedy, really. A wartime orphan who wanted to be a revolutionary pilot and played with Franconigerian knights, who grew up to be a cop, a job that slowly shapes his body into a killing machine. And when you ask what he does, what you both do, he says keep people alive.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Look Behind You

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (p in v, fingering), light angst, fluff, humor, action, no use of y/n, semi-linear story telling, enemies to lovers

Summary: You've made a mistake. You've been reckless and fallen in love with Bucky. There's only one way to deal with this.

Make a list.

Author's Note: This is one of my favorites, I think. Thriving in the semi-linear story telling, feelings, and list making. Gotta love a good list. Enjoy!

Word Count: 11.9k

The pen in your hands feels more like a weapon. The last line of defense against the unthinkable. 

The only thing holding your sanity, dignity, and life by a single thread, set to snap if you’re not careful.

Nobody will bother you in this coffee shop. Not even Bucky will look for you here. You’re in public. You’re somewhere obvious and simple, and that’s the whole point. Sam and Bucky will lose themselves down dark allies and in hidden corners of the city before they think to check an emotionally significant landmark in downtown Manhattan. They won’t believe you’d be that stupid, make it that easy for them. They’ll think that—because you’re dodging calls, because you were gone when Bucky woke up and you didn’t meet with Sam before lunch—you don’t want to be found.

And you don’t.

So they’re not going to find you. 

There’s a lingering fear that a search team might be assembled, and the city may be barricaded in until you’re found, but you don’t think Sam will abuse his power like that.

Bucky might try to convince him to.

You’re about fifty percent sure Sam won’t cave.

It’s a bridge you’ll burn when you reach it. When they do—eventually—find you. When you—hopefully—have your answer, and you have to look Bucky in the eyes and keep finding a way to live with yourself.

If this goes as you hope, that will be quite easy. You’ll lie through your teeth and say you lost your phone—it’s right next to you, the SIM card removed and battery purposefully dead, but they never need to know that—and thought that Sam and Bucky would be able to find you if they needed you. They’ll look embarrassed and make a silent vow to each other that you’ll pretend not to see—swearing that they’ll never tell you how they almost called the coast guard in—and then everything will go back to normal.

If it goes the way you’re afraid of, that will be more complicated. You’re not entertaining that possibility with things like plans or strategies, because you simply won’t allow it to happen. This will work. You have the pen, the paper, and at least eight hours before Sam and Bucky grow a brain cell and figure out where you are.

Deep breath. The coffee in front of you is sweeter than you’d usually want it, almost sickly, but it can be a motivation. The coffee shop is crowded, and the tables are blue. You can smell the decorative roses on the windows. You can hear the music in your earbuds. The pen is heavy in your hands, but all that means is it’s real. And this is going to work.

List of Reasons to Hate Bucky-

You pause, and scratch out Bucky. It’s too intimate. You’re setting yourself up for failure. 

List of Reasons to Hate James Barnes.

You have reason one locked and loaded. You’ve been rehearsing the whole list for a week—since the revelation that can’t be spoken of, because that will make it real—and you know half of your pre-planned reasons will drift into nothing as you go through the list, but at least you’ll have one. 

It’s better than none of them.

You’re a little worried a hundred won’t do the job.

You have to try anyway.

1. He stares.

——————

You don’t know how you got here. Sitting across from Captain America, kicking your feet slightly and humming to yourself as he and his very angry looking sidekick glare at you.

It seems like a contest, trying to figure out who will break and speak first.

It won’t be you.

Captain America is out of his suit, and, logically, you know his wings won’t just spring out of his body. They’re mechanical, not biological. Part of you is still wondering—should you move suddenly and startle him—if he’ll squak and take off like a real bird. 

He won’t, and you don’t think either of these men will find that as funny as you will. The Cap seems intently focused on trying to puff out his chest in his chair—like an odd sort of intimidation ritual or mating dance, done more on instinct than logic—and his sidekick is looking at you as if you’re the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen.

You’ve gotten that look before. It doesn’t shake you on his face any more than it does anyone else, but there is something… different. Most people will glare with that revolted look at what you’ve done, and for what expression, and it won’t sink deeper than your skin, because they don’t understand. They don’t know what the shadows and colder nights feel like, they don’t know how long you’ve been broken and alone, they don’t know that—whatever loathing for you has wormed its way into their heart—they don’t hate you. They hate what you’ve done, and they really don’t fucking understand.

This guy looks like he understands you perfectly, and it’s viler to him than anything in the world. Like he knows exactly who you are, like every marred and twisted organ is visible to his unwavering stare, and it’s the worst thing he’s even seen.

You’d laugh, if it didn’t cause an odd sting in your heart. Because you know who Bucky Barnes is. You know that any blood on your hands is mirrored on his, and if he really knows who you are, he’ll think better than to turn the violent glint behind his eyes into action. 

Especially because you know he won’t hurt you. He can’t, but you don’t think he’ll even try. He’s cured. He’s free. He doesn’t hurt people anymore, and you’re technically a person.

You’re also starting to be incredibly certain that this is some sort of staring competition. There’s no other reason for the silence to be stretching on this pointlessly long. It’s a little amusing, how they seem to have started a game they’ll never win, but it doesn’t change what’s happening. You’re handcuffed to a chair in an unknown location, Captain America and the Ex-Winter Solider are trying to break you with only very angry expressions, and you could escape in a second but you’re bored, and you don’t care about winning, but you want them to lose.

And they do.

Because Captain America breaks first, and smile pulls at your lips that you don’t bother to hide.

“You know why you’re here?”

You shrug, keeping your voice bored and amused. “Should I?”

He blinks at that, looking over his shoulder at Barnes, and letting out a long breath as his companion just keeps glaring at you. “Buck-“

“Don’t say my name, dumbass-“

“She already knows who we are-“

“She hasn’t been in damn public for a decade, we don’t know what she knows-“

“Man, c’mon, Fisk has TVs.” Captain America rolls his eyes, and turns back to you. “You know who we are?”

“I don’t think so?” You look between them with your best, perfectly innocent and confused expression. “Should I?”

Barnes narrows his eyes, scanning over you with an unblinking fury that’s almost scary. Not quite, but almost.

“You know who we are.”

“I don’t think I do-“

Barnes scoffs. “Don’t lie-“

Captain America shakes his head, cutting Barnes off with a firm glare. “I dunno, man, you’re the one who said-“

“I know what I said, but- You’re really falling for that?” Barnes gestures to you with a scowl, and you give him a sweet smile in return. “She’s clearly lying, Sam-“

Sam rolls his eyes. “Who’s sayin’ names now, Bucky-“

You clear your throat, and they both look back to you with almost twin, venomous glowers.

“What.” Sam snaps, and you let out a long, dramatic sigh.

“Do I have to stay tied to the chair while you two fight? Or can I go home?”

“Home?” Barnes gives you a pointed look. “You gonna head right back to Fisk, doll?”

You don’t answer, just shrugging and letting your smile widen, even as the thought of willingly running home to fucking Fisk makes bile rise in your throat.

Barnes holds your gaze with a glare. You don’t think you’ve seen him blink once. It might be the main thing keeping you in this chair.

You want to see what they have to say, and you’d really like to see if Barnes can blink, or if it will make his circuits fry and heart go into an arrest.

You get the former first, when Sam runs a hand over his face, leans forward in his chair, and mutters your name. Your real name.

He knows your name. That’s interesting.

“Look, we-“ He glances at Barnes—still glaring at you—and lets out a long breath. “We know who you are.”

“Oh?” You look between them will well-practiced, faux innocence. “Do you?”

“Fisk’s pet.” Barnes grunts, and Sam sighs again. He seems to do that a lot.

“I- Coulda phrased it better, but yeah. You’re his hit… woman.” Sam’s voice drops as he continues, watching you carefully. “Look, we got an opportunity for you. Help us bring down Fisk, you get a full par-“

“Okay.”

Sam frowns. “I wasn’t done-“

“I don’t care.” You shrug. “I’m in. Can you let me out now?”

“Uh-“

“That’s it?” Barnes cuts Sam off with a snap, his tone full of a disgust that’s a little dramatic. “You’re just- You’re gonna flip like that? No questions, no loyalty? Out of fuckin’ self-preservation?”

You snort, not bothering to sit up as you hold his gaze. “Of course it’s out of self-preservation. Would you rather I hold my moral high-ground and keep working for the evil crime lord? Would that be better for you? Cause I can flip back, you just need to say the word and I’ll go tell Fisk that Captain America tried to cut a deal with me-“

“Hey, no.” Sam holds up his hand, letting out a long, slow breath as he glares at Barnes. “C’mon, man, you know we get one shot at this, stop antagonizing her-“

“She’s antagonizing me.” Barnes mutters, and you scoff. 

“You’re not the one cuffed to a chair, dipshit-“

“You-“ Barnes’ jaw clenches, and his hands curl at his side. Maybe he’ll punch you. That feels like it’ll help, somehow. “Sam, this cannot be our only option. She,” he gestures to you, and you wink at him. It doesn’t help. “Is not the only person in the whole damn city that works for Fisk. We’ll find another-“

“I’m the only person he trusts that will flip.” You hum. “Everyone else in his inner circle believes in the cause, or something. They love him, worship the ground he walks on. I’m the Stockholm puppy, they’ll never assume I flipped, and they’ll tell me whatever I ask because they don’t think I’d have this,” you give a vague wave of your hand in Sam and Bucky’s direction. “In me. I’m not just your only option. I’m your best option.”

There’s a long silence as they stare at you— incredibly uncuffed from the chair—and before Barnes can lunge at you with what might have been snarl, Sam stands up, shoves him away, and they exchange low, angry words.

You settle for examining your nails as you wait, and Barnes’ glare pushes right under skin and sticks to it. You don’t know how you know, but there’s a very certain feeling that for the rest of your life you’re going to feel a buzzing, electric heat under your skin that’s entirely made of James Barnes, glaring at you. 

You really don’t think he can blink. 

But you’ll have plenty of time to find out, because when they return it’s with the news that they’ve come to an agreement—more likely Barnes lost an argument, but you don’t really care—that you’re in.

Barnes won’t stop staring at you. And you could leave, if you wanted.

But you’re interested in seeing how this plays out. And Barnes may be rearranging every nerve point and organ in your body with only his attention, but that isn’t nearly as important as getting away from Fisk. 

So you stare right back. 

——————

Reason two is a little harder. You’d had it lined up as well, but it hurts to even think.

You have to. If you’re going to get through this, you have to write down all the reason, even if you’d punch anyone else square in the jaw for saying them.

Bucky doesn’t deserve this. You need to pretend he does.

For your own sanity, you need to pretend he does.

2. He can be an asshole.

You don’t make it three second before something rattles in your body, and you add- 

But so can you.

——————

“You know,” Barnes drawls behind you, and it’s amazing how bad he can be at shutting up. This is supposed to be a stealth mission. He hasn’t stop talking to you since Sam put you two on a team and then fucked off to go fly around the warehouse. “The spider kid’s told us all about you, doll-“

“Parker?” You hum, and Barnes blinks. 

There it is.

“How’d you- No-“

“I know Spider-man’s Peter Parker.” You give Barnes an overly sweet smile, and you’ve been their double agent for a month of back-alley meetings and careful exchanges in noisy rooms, but it hasn’t seemed to stop getting under his skin. “I’ve known for like, five years.”

Barnes shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe you. Like you just somehow guessed. “But Fisk doesn’t-“

“I didn’t tell Fisk.”

You turn back to the path ahead of you, and you can still feel Barnes’ glower.

“You think you’re fuckin’ smart, kid-“

“Yes, I do.” You throw him another smile over your shoulder, and his glare deepens. “What did Peter tell you about me?”

“That you’re kind of a bitch.” Barnes grunts, and you roll your eyes.

“He’s just still mad I gave him a concussion.” You mutter. “I didn’t mean to-“

“You didn’t mean to give him a fucking concussion-“ 

“I didn’t know how strong he’d be. It was new, I thought I’d just be breaking his nose-“

Barnes grabs your arm, yanking you back without warning and covering your mouth with a gloved hand, muffling your yelp.

“Be more careful.” He grunts in your ear. “Almost walked right into the open, you’ll get yourself shot.”

If you lean a little further back, your skin will touch his. Maybe he’d be stronger than Parker. Maybe you could hit hard enough to knock a new personality into him.

Because for the past week, Barnes has been a fucking dick. You understand not trusting you. It’s a reasonable conclusion to reach. 

But he doesn’t listen. He shoots down all your intel and acts both like you’re a weak little child, and an atomic bomb set to go off any second. You’re neither. You want Fisk dead more than anyone, and you’re in complete control. If you weren’t, you would’ve killed him days ago, and never even fucking blinked.

It’s a testament to that control, that you shove yourself away from him without tapping into Parker’s strength. You could’ve sent him flying out the window, if you wanted. But you’re being diplomatic, and you’re trying to do the goddamn mission, so you don’t. 

“Don’t grab me.” You snap, and Barnes scowls.

“I was helping you-“

“Did I ask you to?”

“No.” He narrows his eyes, taking a firm step forward until you’re almost nose to nose. “But if you die, Sam will yell at me. So be more damn careful.”

The staring contest lasts another minute before Sam’s voice crackles in both your ears, and you have to get back to work. By the time they’re fighting some of Fisk’s men—you’ve been, fucking stupidly, sidelined so as not to blow your cover—Barnes has called you incompetent in ten more ways. You’re too loud. Too smug for someone who’s not doing anything. You’re slowing them down, and he’s stuck babysitting you for your shitty intel—shitty intel that got them here, but he seems to be selectively ignoring that—and you’re too willing to kill people and run into fights with no powers.

He’s used that one a lot, after you’d convinced Fisk to give you a vacation and started to crash with Sam. Barnes has muttered countless times that he can’t believe you’re the woman everyone in New York is afraid of. 

“Who says I have no powers,” you’d snapped after the third low comment, sprawled out on Sam’s couch and watching TV, and Barnes had rolled his eyes.

“Whenever you’re ready to prove you got some, doll, I’m ready.” He’d raised his brows in a silent challenge, holding your glare. “Until then, get off my couch.”

“It’s Sam’s couch. And I’m watching TV.”

“All you fucking do is watch TV, doll, can’t be good for you-“

“Aw,” you’d shot him another sickly-sweet smile. “The old man is worried about my screen time-“

“You’re hogging it.” He’d grunted, ignoring your teasing, and you’d flipped him off.

“Sam doesn’t have any good books, and I’m not allowed to have a phone. What the fuck else am I supposed to do?”

You’d won the argument. Barnes had circled back to you being a waste of space—and you were, but he didn’t know that—and not actually having any powers, so in your eyes, that meant you won.

Because you do have powers. You’ve been saving it for a good moment. Just to prove your point, you’ll use them in a way that blows his stupid fucking mind, and really makes him feel like a dumbass.

That moment comes when one of Fisk’s men is aiming a gun right at his back, he’s turning a little too slow, and Sam is all the way on the other side of the room.

You’re on the ceiling. 

You drop down with the dramatic, fancy landing you’ve been practicing since you got skin-to-skin contact with Parker, and punch the grunt backward into the wall. 

There’s a sickening crack sound from the impact, and it rattles over your ribs and skull. You memorize his face, and add it to your tally. Your graveyard. Another piece of you that will never get to be whole or clean. 

When you turn back to Barnes, he’s staring at you, a look of borderline amusing confusion on his face.

“You-“ He glances up to the ceiling, and shakes his head. “You just fucking killed that guy.”

Your teeth almost snap in your mouth, and you feel a little bit of bile in your throat.

“Obviously.” You mutter, flexing your fist as you let Parker’s powers go dormant once more. “And it saved your life. You’re welcome.”

Barnes narrows his eyes. “I didn’t say thank you-“

“You should work on that, then.” You snap, storming past him as Sam wraps up the last grunt. “It’s rude.”

——————

Your coffee is finally finished, but it’s more bitter than normal on your tongue.

You think you might just miss Bucky, and it’s having a physical effect on your body. 

You need to keep going.

3. He’s bad at using his words.

——————

You jump out of your seat when the book slams down in front of you. 

“What the fuck-“

“Go read.” Barnes grunts, dropping down at your side. “My turn with the TV.”

You gape at him, not bothering to hide the slight amusement in your voice. “Your turn- Are you fucking five-“

“No. Read.”

“I-“

“Read.”

You scowl, and whack him on the arm with the book. “Stop interrupting me, Barnes-“

“Stop calling me Barnes,” he snaps your name in a mocking tone, catching your book before it can land on his arm once more, shoving it fully into your hands. “Go read.”

“I-“ You swallow, watching him wearily, hugging the book to your chest without thought. “What?”

His jaw ticks slightly. “Read-“

“No, why don’t you want me to call you Barnes.”

He’s silent for a long second, staring at the black TV screen with an unreadable expression.

“You call Sam his name.” He finally mutters, something bitter in his voice. “And the spider kid Peter. We’re supposed to be a fucking team. Use my name.”

You narrow your eyes. “You never thanked me for saving your life. Teammates thank each other.”

“That’s your thanks, genius.” He taps the book, still not fully looking at you. “Read it.”

He won that conversation. You don’t have a good response to that, so Bucky won. The asshole.

He buys you five more books in the next two weeks. One for every successful mission. And when you end up with a large gash on your leg, he half shoves you down onto the couch and kneels at your feet, patching it up without a word.

You don’t like the silence. It’s too heavy around your throat.

Only half a second later—like he can hear the stutter in your every breath—Bucky breaks it.

“You didn’t need to jump in front of me.”

“You were going to get shot, dummy.” You snap, crossing your arms and leaning back on the couch. “I did you a favor. Say thank you.”

He doesn’t. He won’t. But you know you’ll get another new book tomorrow, and that’s enough.

“Didn’t know you could get hurt.” He still won’t look up from your leg. “Thought I saw you get shot last week and walk it off.”

“I was ready for that.” You mutter, wincing as Bucky presses the rubbing alcohol to your leg. “This- fuck- I got caught off guard. Won’t happen again.”

He grunts, frowning at your leg. “You’re… selectively invulnerable.”

“If I chose right, yeah.”

That gets him to look at you. There’s the usual confusion clouding his eyes, along with… something else. Something deeper and vaster than the ocean, that’s almost jarring to see. Not frightening. Just different. Strange.

“What the fuck are you?”

His tone isn’t hateful. There’s a strange kind of light in it. Like awe. 

Not awe. 

But like it.

“I’m-“ You swallow, and you haven’t ever really explained it. Once Fisk made you, you just were. Once he figured out what you could do, it was all you did. Nobody asked. They never had to.

Bucky bows his head again, glaring at your leg as he speaks. “You don’t gotta tell me-“

“Shut up. I’m a mimic.”

He looks back up with raised brows, and you take a deep breath before you continue. 

“Fisk created me. Partnered with some crazy scientists, saved me out of a home, and made me into his little pet hero. I can mimic anyone’s DNA, if I touch them skin to skin. It’s just- I only use it on superheroes. Otherwise it’s not really useful.”

Bucky glances down at his gloved hands with a small frown, then back to you. “You stick to the ceiling a lot.”

You nod, and shrug. “I’ve touched Parker, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s how I know who he is. I beat him in a fight, unmasked him, and he was-“ You swallow, a knot tightening and grinding in your stomach, and Bucky finishes for you.

“Just a kid.”

“Just a kid.” You echo. “Couldn’t kill him. Never want to kill any of them. But there’s-“

“Not a choice.” He mutters, and the strange thing in his eyes seems clearer. “Bite down on this.”

You blink at him. “Wha-“

Bucky shoves the glove from his flesh hand into your mouth, and starts the first stitch.

The next day, there’s a phone and a book waiting for you in the kitchen.

——————

It takes too long to come up with the next reason. You get lost in thoughts of how you’ve read that same book a dozen times, and you’d caught Bucky reading your annotations with adorable concentration only a few weeks ago.

He always spends more time reading your thoughts than the actual story.

And it had hit you then, too. You can’t think about that, because it’s making this impossible. You can’t think about how Bucky had fallen asleep reading your annotations and looked adorable, or how the phone he gave you is the same one on the table next you right now. How the case on it is the one you bought as he hung over your shoulder, muttering how phone cases were stupid.

You’d made him show you his phone, after he’d said that. The screen had been cracked and shattered, and it had taken a month to get him to buy another. 

That can be a list point. You’re back on your game.

You almost write stubborn, but you substitute it for something stronger at the last second.

4. He can be controlling

You stare at it for a long moment, because something is off. Bucky can be controlling. He can man-handle you and order you around, his voice low and smooth and the intensity in his eyes a little dizzying-

“Shit.” You mutter under your breath. You messed up again.

Because you’re right.

But, fuck, it turns you on.

——————

“You need to stop fucking doing this,” Bucky mutters your name, his metal arm holding you in place as he pressed another round of rubbing alcohol over your gut. “One day you’re not gonna get lucky.”

You wince, but give him a weak smile. “I got shot, Buck, I wouldn’t call that lucky-“

“You got shot.” He hisses, scowling up at you. “Because you were fucking reckless.”

“I saved you-“

“That is not your job, kid-“

“Then stop almost getting shot!”

“I-“ Bucky lets out a slow breath from between his teeth, shaking his head slowly. “No. That’s my job. You’re not even supposed to be in the field-“

“But I am.” You snap. “And I’m not just going to let you get hurt-“

“You’re not letting me do anything.” He mutters, setting down the bottle as he moves back to the medkit. “You’re done in the field.”

You gape at him, the words too slow to sink it. Bucky said them too casually. He said them like they were his call to make.

“What the fuck are you talking about-“

“You’re not going out there again.” He grunts. His metal hand is still on your leg. “We’re almost done anyway. You’re best for intel.”

“Int-“ You cut yourself off with a scoff, glaring down at him. “You are not my boss, James-“

“No. I’m not.” His jaw ticks slightly. He still won’t meet your eyes. “But if I see you in the field again, I’m handcuffing you to your bed.”

He says that so easily, and a heat you have to ignore pools in your stomach. 

“What the fuck are you talking about.” You hiss, leaning down to try and drag his attention fully to your glare. “I am not going to just sit at home-“

“Yeah.” He grunts, still not looking up. “You are.”

“I told you, you are not in charge of me-“

He snorts. “If I was in charge of you, doll, you’d be on full fucking lockdown.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean-“

“Don’t worry about it-“

“James Barnes. Fucking look at me.”

He tenses, and drag his eyes to yours as if the action pains him. “What.”

“I am going to keep working.” You hiss. “Because it’s my job. And if you’ve got a problem with that-“

He rolls his eyes. “Obviously I have a fucking problem with it. And I’m deadly serious,” he grunts your name, holding your gaze. “You try and go on another mission, you’re getting cuffed.”

“We’re so fucking close, you asshole, you don’t get to bench me now-“

“That exactly why I’m benching you-“

“Because we’re close? What, you worried I’m gonna flee the moment we wrap this up?”

If you were furious with Bucky, you’d be worried he was going to break his jaw. “No.”

“So it’s not because you don’t trust me?” You sneer, and he shoots you of a look practical shock.

“Of course I fucking trust you-“

“Then why Bucky?! You can’t just fucking bench me and not tell me why! This is my fight too, and if you think fucking handcuffs are going hold me-“

“I won’t cuff you if you listen-“

“I won’t listen if you don’t speak fucking clearly-“

“It’s- fuck- It’s because Fisk is going to know it’s you soon!” He roars, and you freeze. You’ve heard him yell before, but not like this. There’s something hot behind it. Something almost pained. “You know what he’ll do when he’s figures out where you went off to?! What you’ve been doing, that you’ve been working with Me and Sam?!”

“I-“

“I’m not gonna be the one they’re aiming at anymore, doll. And they’re gonna be shooting to kill. And what if I’m not fast enough?!” he squeezes your leg, his lips curling as his eyes dart down to the wound ripping open your stomach. “What if they’re shooting you, and you’re not ready, and I’m too fucking slow?!” 

“Bucky-“

“I’ll fucking lose you.” He hisses, and you’re not even sure he knows what he’s saying. “I’m not fucking losing you. I only just goddamn got you, and you are not allowed to bail on me because you’re reckless and stupid.”

He finishes with a long, ragged breath, and you blink at him. Your skin is hot, mouth dry, and it’s as if you’ve been wandering in the desert for a million years. 

You haven’t been, though. 

But nobody’s ever looked at you like that before. With that fervorish awe, and unyielding fury like a tidal wave. Your hands feel clean. For the first time—maybe in years, maybe in your life—you don’t feel any small amounts of blood or grime under your fingernails. It’s that ocean, you think. The one trapped inside of Bucky, that’s slowly been flooding your senses over the past few months. A tide rising with every traded joke and shared book, every mission where he’d trusted you more and more, every story you’d told each other about the heavier, tainted parts of your shadows. 

You move to touch his face without thinking, and his skin is soft. The stubble of his beard is almost grounding—a small, rough reminder that he’s changed since you met him, even if the only obvious part of that is the length of his beard—and he’s looking at you like he’s afraid. Parted lips and blown out eyes as his hand catches your against his face, holding it there as he stares at you with that same fucking awe.

“I’m not losing you.” He repeats the word like they’re a prayer. An oath. “I’m not fucking losing you.”

——————

You need to take a ten-minute break. 

He hadn’t kissed you then. Fucking Sam had interrupted, because you’d been closer to the end than you thought you were. 

Fisk had fallen the next week. He’d never know it was you until he was sitting in a cell, and you spoke to him through the bars.

That had been a… long and confusing day. Bucky had been waiting the entire time. He’d almost killed you the moment you walked out of the cell.

6. He’s bad at reading situations

——————

Your eyes sting.

You don’t know why you’d cried. Fisk had made your life hell. He’d ruined it, and you’d won, and you’d still cried for him.

“You were like a daughter to me,” he’d hummed your name, nothing but sheer fucking disappointment in his eyes. Like you’d failed him. Like he was more hurt for you than angred at your betrayal. “You know, I always loved you for exactly what you were. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You’d only swallowed, any sharp words dying in your throat as Fisk continued.

“Do you think the Winter Soldier will like the reminder? Of who he was before?” Fisk had shaken his head, and sighed as if he’d been mourning you. You’d almost thrown up on the tile floors. “No, not as you are. And you don’t change, my girl. You’re not meant for… soft things. You could’ve ruled the world and now… You’ll be nothing. Alone.”

You’d found the words to cut back, somehow, but you don’t remember them. You only remember the knot in your stomach and bile in your throat. 

You hope you’d held the tears until you were hunched over the toilet. You’d only just managed the vomit.

And you hadn’t reacted, when Bucky had come up behind you. You want to think it was because you were off your game.

It was probably just because it was Bucky.

He’d held your hair from your face. He’d rubbed your back with the metal hand, and it had eased your breathing too fast. And when you’d finally sat up, he’d pulled you into his chest like you were something delicate.

Fisk’s words are too loud in your head. Your voice, when you finally speak, is too soft.

“This is the women’s room, Buck.” You mumble, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Don’t think you’re supposed to be in here.”

“’S fine.” He shrugs, the movement shifting you slightly against him, settling you more comfortably in his hold. “You’re here. This is where I’ll be until someone moves me.”

You hum, pressing your face to his shoulder, as if you can’t fucking help it. “Miss me that much?”

He grunts, and you could swear you feel him nod. “Needed to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long pause, and when you lean back, he’s staring again. 

You think he’s going to rip you apart. At least then, maybe, he’ll keep some of you in his pocket. A little bit, to always be held like this.

“Bucky-“

“Go on a date with me.”

——————

Number seven is easy. Number seven flows right off of six, because you’d said yes like you were only breathing—even as all the air in the world became too thin, and you almost passed out from the branding focus of Bucky’s gaze—and Bucky had grinned like he’d never seen the sun before, and now it was shining just for him.

It had been cute.

Too many parts of Bucky could be cute.

7. He can be unbelievably sweet at the worst possible times.

——————

You’re going to strangle him. 

The date was perfect. Horribly perfect. Impossibly perfect. Fairy tale, romance movie, only-exists for valentine’s day propaganda perfect.

Bucky bought you flowers. A big bouquet of yellow roses, because he knows how much you both hate red. You went to a fancy restaurant, and walked in the park for five hours just holding hands like idiots, until he was spinning you around and swaying you in his arms, and you were giggling.

You don’t giggle. You didn’t even know you could make that sound. 

But Bucky had guided you through a romantic, smooth dance—his body warm around yours, nothing to see you in the dark but his bright eyes and the slowly clouding night sky—and you’d giggled. He’d smelled like pine aftershave, a deep, slightly spicy cologne, and something earthier that was just Bucky, and you’d giggled.

You’d been vulnerable. In public, in the dark, in the open. But Bucky had been there, and there had been a secure feeling over your skin like the sky could split open with fire and hail, and you’d be alright. Bucky was there, so you’d always be alright.

And you’d giggled.

It was dangerous. It was dangerous when he’d kissed your cheek after handing you the flowers, standing in your doorway as if you didn’t fucking live together. It was dangerous when he held your car door open, and when he helped you into the seat at the restaurant. When he took your hand like touching you was the most natural thing in the world, and started to dance as if that had been what he’d been planning to do the whole time.

Given the small smirk on his lips when the first giggle had escaped you, it might have been. 

But the most dangerous thing had been when it had started to rain, and he’d picked you up. Hauled you into his arms without a grunt and run you into an all-night coffee shop, keeping his body folded over yours as if you’d melt into a puddle if he didn’t shield you from the world.

You’d found a little table, ordered some drinks, and lost track of time.

He was so handsome, with messy, wet hair and eyes bluer than the rain could ever hope to be. He was warmer than the heater of the coffee shop. 

You knew he’d taste better than the small scone he’d bought you, too.

And then again, like he could read your fucking mind, he’d shaken his head.

“We’re not doing that tonight,” he’d drawled your name, grinning at you from across the table, and you’d blinked at him.

“I-“

“We will.” He’d shrugged. “Trust me on that, I’ve- Shit- We will. But not tonight.”

You blinked at him, shaking your head slowly. “Bucky-“

“We’re not fucking, doll.”

And now you were here. About to kill him.

“I never said we were-“

“Didn’t have to.” He shoots you a wink, bumping your knee with his under the table. “Saw it all over your face, baby.”

“You-“ You swallow, and he can’t fucking do that. It’s not fair. He can’t say no sex tonight and then wink and call you baby. That’s not fair. “I- Why?”

Your words are almost a whine, and Bucky’s grin widens. It’s too adorable, too gleeful and affectionate, and his knuckles are brushing against your hand and he smells so good-

“I want that to be its own thing. This is our first date. We’re doing number two because this was fun and we,” he gestures between your bodies, watching you carefully. “Work. Not cause I fuck you until you can’t walk.”

He finishes with a shrug, and even though he’s still grinning—he knows exactly what those last words did you to, the asshole—there’s something firmer in his voice that tells you he’s being serious. 

That’s annoying. And sweet. So fucking sweet.

So you let it go.

“Aw.” You give him a teasing smile, pressing your thighs together to relieve just a little bit of your need from his attention. “You think we work?”

“Yeah. I do.” He’s staring at you again. You might have started something you can’t finish. “Do you?”

You swallow, and lying feels pointless. You’re trapped. He’s handsome and amazing and he’s not going to fuck you, but he promised he would later, and you’re trapped. 

“Yeah.” You whisper, and you don’t know when you started holding his hand again. You don’t really care to let go. “I do.”

——————

This isn’t working anymore.

All you can think about is how that might have been the moment. The one where something sparked and grew and razed through your body, reshaping your organs and tissue to all mold a little better for Bucky. He’d said I do like it was the easiest thing in the world. Less of an answer to a question and more of a statement.

There had been a finality to it. Like that was all he’d ever have to know again. You were all he’d ever have to know.

He’d made promises and kept them. You’d remained warm every time it had stormed, and through the following winter, and it was because that had been the moment and this strategy isn’t fucking working.

Bucky had told you later, and now that later is all you can think about. Bucky is all you can think about, and every single thing you cast to mar the picture of him in your head just makes it stronger. Makes every memory sharper, every thought of Bucky in your head more beautiful.

8. He’s perfect. It’s impossible.

————��—

You don’t know exactly how you got here. There were flowers involved, and a dark theatre, and Bucky had whispered something low in your ear that made you gape at him in the dark, and then he’d kept his hand on your thigh the rest of the night, and the whole world had become unbearable hot.

It’s only a haze now. A big, warm haze that’s cooled by one metal hand on your hip as you burn and burn and burn, and Bucky hasn’t even done anything yet. But he’s been teasing you. Keeping you pinned cruelly under his body for what feels like hours, kissing and sucking over your neck and slotting his knee between your thighs, letting you grind against him and pull at his hair until you were whining for more, you need more-

“Think you can take more, baby?” He murmurs against your lips, and you don’t know if he’s doing the anticipating thing again, or just teasing you a little more. “You even know what you want?”

He uses your responding moan to push his tongue down your throat, kissing you heavy and long and deep. 

And Bucky’s kissed you before. A lot. There had been one, world-making kiss that had grown into an addiction, becoming kisses in the corner of every room and against the wall of every hallway, into the cushions of the couch until Sam groaned and walked away—promising to never come over for movie night again—and right up to every edge, but never further.

Bucky seems to be under the impression that he needs to be a gentleman. That there needs to be a right moment to stop pulling away with heavy, shallow breaths, swollen lips, and flushed faces. That he needs written permission to go further.

You’d given him that permission this morning. You’d slid him a small paper over the counter, and when he’d read it, he’d raised his brows at you in amusement.

“This says fuck me.”

“Yep.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you’d taken a large bite of your banana.

It had been a warfare strategy. It had seemed to work then—his eyes had darkened, nostrils flaring and fist closing around the paper as he stared at you—but you know it’s worked now.

Because this kiss is different. It’s another, newer tidal wave that’s all thirst. Desire.

Need.

Bucky’s holding himself by a tether. You can feel it when you bite his lower lip, he groans down your throat, and his hips jerk forward. 

“You’re- Shit-“ Bucky grunts as you suck a small, dark mark on his jaw. “You gotta be sure, doll, I can’t-“

“I’m sure.” You whisper, leaning back to hold his gaze. He looks almost nervous, and it makes your brow furrow slightly. “Buck, are you-“

He crashes his mouth back down to yours, his metal hand playing with the hem of your skirt. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” He mutters, pulling back to scan over you once more. “I’m- If we’re doing this, I’ve gotta be- I need to-“

“I know.”

He blinks at you. “You do? How- Sam.”

You giggle slightly at Bucky’s violent glower—you’ve been doing that a frightening amount lately—and raise a hand to trace over his jaw.

“He says he- uh- Heard you. Once. Months ago. And it’s okay.”

He shakes his head, still watching you with that caution. “I- It doesn’t have to be, doll, I know that your past isn’t all sunshine and daises and bein’ in control either-“

“I- I’ve had to do most everything for myself. For survival.” You whisper, tracing your thumb over his cheek. “I’ve never had- I trust you. And with what Sam mentioned-“

“Gonna fuckin’ kill him-“

“I don’t think it’s as dramatic as you think.” You finish, ignoring Bucky’s muttered threat.

His jaw ticks slightly, his words suddenly so low you can barely hear them. “If it’s too much, you gotta tell me-“

“I can take it.”

Bucky sighs your name, and you shove his chest. Not hard. Enough to move him. Jolt him. Make him look at you with wide, shocked eyes.

“You-“

“I can take it, Buck.” You grin at him, raising your brows pointedly. “I’ve got you.”

His eyes widen as he understands—you’ve got him, his strength and durability mirrored in your body—and there’s a slight shift in the air. It’s hot. Everything is suddenly so hot under Bucky’s attention, expect for the cold, metal hand, trailing under your skirt and cupping you over right over your aching pussy.

“Fuck, you’re wet, doll.” The awe has creeped from Bucky’s eyes to his voice. You can only grind against his fingers teasing over your slit, and moan when a metal thumb starts to rub firm, rough circles over your clit. “And no panties on? All fuckin’ night, just waitin’ for me?”

“Yes,” you moan, our hips jolting when he pinches your clit lightly, a high whine leaving your throat. “Bucky-“

“That’s my name.” He mutters, resting those two fingers right against your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours. “If you’re already so wet, I wonder what’ll happen when I do this?”

With that last word, Bucky slams the metal fingers into your cunt, and starts to finger fuck you like it’s a mission. It’s so fast. Metal whirring in your ear as the pace becomes impossible and mind-numbing, hitting you so fucking deep, almost massaging and taunting at the sensitive spot, and it’s only just started but you’re already going to explode-

“Bucky-“ You moan out his name, trying to somehow meet every thrust of his fingers with your hips, but only managing to grind your clit against his wrist and sending your brain into a dizzying blur of pleasure. “God, I- Close, Bucky, so close-“

“Hold it.” He grunts, not letting up pace, and you almost whimper at the idea. “Need you to hold it for me, baby, can you do that?”

You can’t. 

You nod anyway, because Bucky’s still here, still holding you and touching you and looking at you, so you have to try. For Bucky, you need to try.

“Good girl.” He mutters, and you clench around him with a squeak. “Oh, you like that? Like me talkin’, tellin’ you how good your doing-“

“Oh- Fuck-“ You gasp, your back arching off the bed as he somehow hits deeper. “Please, I- God-“

He hums, dropping his weight slightly to keep you pinned to the bed. “Say my name, doll.”

“Buck-“

“No.” His voice is slightly softer, and he leans down to hover his lips right over yours. “Other one.”

“I-“ You take shallow breathes, each one rounded with another moan as you search Bucky’s face for the answer, and his fingers never slow their movements. “Please-“

“C’mon, baby, you’ve got it-“

“James!” You half scream it, writhing under him in desperation for release, and start to repeat it like a prayer as his eyes shine in approval, and his cock twitches against your thigh. “James- James please, I- I need it- Need you-“

He swallows your words with another deep kiss, squeezing your hip with his free hand as he mutters against your lips. 

“There you go, babydoll.” He smirks at your whimper, his eyes trained on yours as you give him another, pleading look and whisper of his name. “Cum for me.”

The sound that leaves you is undignified, needy and loud and made of slurred curses and shouts of James. But you can see the stars, and feel them bursting through your body, and it’s all just good.

When you come down, Bucky’s brushing your hair from your eyes, looking down at you with that same wide awe everywhere over his handsome features.

“Was that good?”

You hum, still panting heavily, and he raises his brows. 

“More?”

You nod a little stupidly, and Bucky’s grin splits his face.

“Already so fucked out you can’t speak? Haven’t even pulled out my cock yet-“

You moan into his mouth at just the word. “Bucky, please-“

“Please what?” He pulls back entirely, and chuckles when you slam your hand into his chest with a glare.

“Hey-“

“You gotta tell me what you want, babydoll, and I’ll get it for you. But,” he raises his brows, catching your hand when you try to shove him once more and pinning it over your head. “I’m not a mind reader. Tell me.”

You think that’s a lie. You think he can read your mind, and he’s just being mean.

But God, it’s so fucking hot. His shirt is gone—you don’t know when that happened, but you’re not complaining—and he’s looking at you like you’re art, laid out for him to see and touch and have, so you’ll play along. If it will make him finally fuck you, you’ll do whatever he asks.

“I want your cock.” You whisper, holding his gaze. “Want you to fuck me, and I’m clean and on the pill, so I want you to cum inside of me, then leave it there. Wanna feel you tomorrow, James, please.”,

Bucky’s throat bobs slightly, his voice becomes barely a growl.

“Jesus Christ.”

He seems to be done talking after that.

Your hand stay pinned over your head as he rips off your shirt, then his own boxers. There’s a half-grumble of buying you another bra tomorrow, but it’s all you get before he’s ripping that off as well.

When he lines himself up at your entrance, he pauses, giving you one last chance to shove him away. 

You tangle your hand in his hair and shove his lips to yours without hesitation, moaning his name into his mouth, and it’s enough.

Bucky slams himself into you with one thrust, diving his mouth to suck and lick at your nipples as you gasp, adjusting to the feeling of him inside of you.

It’s perfect. Big and thick and full, you feel so full, and you’re going to fly out of your skin if he keeps flicking his tongue over your nipple like, throbbing inside of you but not moving-

He can definitely read your mind. Before you can even moan a plea, Bucky starts to drill into you without warning, and any noise turn into more of those loud, desperate pleas. 

It rough. Bed creaking and skin slapping, and he keeps tossing you around like no angle is deep enough, flipping you over to fuck you from behind so his balls are slapping against your clit and he’s kissing up your spine, before he’s hauling you up to his chest, wrapping his arm around your stomach to hold you still as he drills up into your cunt,  and biting and marking along your throat and jaw. You throw your head back on his shoulder, and he captures your lips in a long, searing kiss, rolling a nipple between his fingers. 

Then you’re back on your stomach, with his weight completely covering you and his grunts right in your ear, sending shivers up your spine. 

He pauses only for a second there, thrusts slowing as he grabs at your hips, and before you can ask him if he’s okay, if it’s too much or—worse—not enough, you’re moving again.

Bucky rolls over, tossing you up onto his lap so you’re grinding down onto his cock, and this is it. You can see it in his hooded, satisfied expression as he watches you bounce above you, his flesh hand wrapping around your throat the metal moves to your clit, rubbing small, furious circles as he groans your name.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, your every word choked as he pounds up into your fluttering, aching pussy. “I- James-“

He grunts, pressing harder as his dick hits that deep, sensitive spot inside of you. “Come on, babydoll, gotta gimme one more-“

This orgasm washes over you like a wave. Deep, easy pleasure that makes everything glow, lingering in your body long after Bucky gives one last, jagged thrust up into your pussy, cumming with a roar of your name.

You both stare at each other for a long second as Bucky releases your throat, his fingers tracing over the marks left by his grip with a furrowed brow, and you smile at him. 

His release is dripping down your thighs as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips.  

It’s somehow not enough, and still more than you could ever ask for.

And your smile is a little cock drunk and there’s light bubble up your throat, but you don’t care.

So you giggle. Airy and blissful as Bucky rolls your bodies over so he’s on top once more, and you bury your face in his shoulder. 

He rises over you on his forearm, raising his brows as you smile up at him. “Somethin’ funny?”

You nod, your giggles almost pathetic. You don’t really mind. “Told you I could take it.”

He sighs, but the grin on his face matches yours.

Wide. Stupid.

Happy.

“Yeah.” Bucky mutters, tracing slow fingers only your cheekbone, and the awe seems to be a permanent addition to his voice. “You did.”

——————

When you get back to your table with ice water, people are staring at you. Whispering.

It’s not in your head. You know the difference between paranoia and caution, and this is the latter.

You scan over for an easy target, and land on a skittish looking man with large arms and a gym bag. When you stop at his table, he looks like he’s going to pass out.

“What’s your name.” You keep your voice cool and even, and he swallows.

“Mike.”

“Awesome. Can I please have your phone, Mike?”

He nods, unlocks it before passing it to your hands, and you give him a sweet smile before you scan over his screen, and let out a long sigh.

Sam abused his power. You’ve been declared a missing enhanced. The city hasn’t been barricaded, but everyone in New York knows to be looking for you, and expect Captain America upon response.

You pass Mike his phone back with another grimacing smile, and stalk back to your table and notebook.

9. He can be really fucking dramatic.

——————

You don’t know how Bucky puts up with you. He’s clean. Neat. Does all his dishes and folds his laundry, vacuums the floors and straightens every picture when he fucks you a little too hard against the wall.

You’re… not.

Taking care of yourself has never been important. Never been allowed. Fisk had men who cleaned up after you, because your priority was walk around and be feared. Be the untouchable princess.

Untouchable princesses don’t clean up. Once, at the beginning, you’d tried to help the crew after a particularly messy job.

Fisk had been furious. You’d gotten blood on his favorite toy. 

You’d stopped trying to clean up after that, 

But Bucky never gets angry about it. He’ll wipe your face when you get sauce on your cheek, change your sheets—even though you haven’t slept in your own bed for months—every week, and do your laundry, all while never asking for anything in return. 

This is another night where you don’t understand him. He made your favorite food, even though he had the long day. He’s not meeting your eyes again, but you’ve learned that he only does that when he cares. When there are things inside of him he can’t work out how to say, so he’ll keep his gaze averted like he’s trying to shield himself from being seen.

He isn’t aware he does that. You only know because you know him. Because he sits across from you like this every night, and wakes up next to you every single morning, and presses his brow to yours—keeping his eyes closed, but his hands on your face delicate—every single day. He’s with you all the time, even when he’s across the city, so you know him and you-

“Move in with me.”

You blink at him in the low light of your shitty dining room. It’s all plastic table and fold-out chairs, because neither of you are good at having nice things and keeping them.

He might be the nicest thing you’ve ever had.

You don’t understand what the fuck he’s talking about.

“What?”

“I- We should move in.” He pokes his plate, frowning at it like he can will it to understand, and explain to you properly. “Together. You and me.”

“Buck, we already live together-“

“In a shit apartment Sam found us.” He grumbles. “In two separate bedrooms. With plastic furniture and a dead plant.”

You sigh. “I told you I’m not good at plants when you got it. I wanted a cat, but-“

“Our lease doesn’t allow it.” Bucky shoots you a pointed look, leaning further over the table. “If we moved in together, I’d get you that cat. I’d get you whatever you wanted.”

“Bucky-“

“Fresh start.” He grunts your name, and you swallow. This is a little stronger than the awe gaze. This is borderline hope, and it’s so rare on his handsome face, and he has you folding for him in a second, but he keeps going anyway. “You and me. We’ll get a nicer couch without any blood on it, and eat off plates that aren’t paper, and- We can get the cat, or two cats- fuck, twenty cats-“

A small smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. “Twenty is a lot, darling-“

“Then one. One is good.” He has the solemn, focused gaze and tone he uses when he’s planning a mission. He’d stood up and crossed his arms. This is serious. “No more plants. I can- Sam will help me build all he furniture, I’ll get you a desktop, and I can have the smaller one, cause you always get annoyed when I break it-“

“It’s called a laptop.” You offer, keeping your voice softer than you’ve ever been capable of with anyone else. “And I don’t get annoyed-“

“Yes, you do. ’S fine, I deserve it-“

“No, you don’t-“

“That’s not the point, doll-“

“It’s important to me.” You snap, and that gets him to stop. “You’re important to me, and I don’t get annoyed. It’s not your fault your bags are always getting smashed-“

He scowls. “I’m the one who smashes them.”

“Because other people are fucking idiots, and you’re good at your job. You don’t deserve me being annoyed, and I’m not, because you’re-“ You swallow, words you don’t fully understand yet getting caught on the edge of your tongue. “You’re important to me, Buck. You’re a good man. You deserve good things.”

He blinks at you, and the hope is almost a tangible, touchable thing on his face. “Move in with me.”

“You already asked me that-“

“Please.” He mutters, and suddenly he’s on his knees before you, his arms around your waist as he stares up at you. “Wherever you want. It’ll be ours, and I’ll keep it clean if you make it beautiful.”

“Bucky-“

“You- fuck-“ He drops his brow to your lap, and you’re trying to tell him yes, but he seems to be trapped in his own head. All you can do is run your fingers through his hair and let him ride it out. “You make everything so beautiful, you just- You- Please. I’ll never ask ya’ for anything again. Move in with me.”

“Okay.”

He blinks up at you with wide eyes. “I- That’s it? Just like that?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and it’s hurting your cheeks, but it’s the best pain you’ve ever felt. “You gonna let me up now?”

He nods slowly, but pauses before he stands, and throws you over his shoulder without warning.

“Bucky-“

“C’mon,” He start to move towards his bedroom, ignoring your squirming. “You’re- Got plans for you, babydoll.”

“We have all night, you dramatic asshole-“

“You love it.” He mutters with a squeeze of your thigh, and you have to stop pounding on his back to moan. “And if it were up to me, we’d never stop doin’ this. Never gonna waste one fucking second with you. Ever.”

——————

He’ll be here soon. Someone will have had the balls to report where you were, Bucky will burst through the doors, and you’ll have to know that this didn’t work. That you probably drove him insane and beat your heart to sinew, only to come out of this knowing that you failed. 

You have your answer, and it’s the one that’s terrifying. The floor could open into a trench, and the sky could catch fire, but that would be easier.

This is new. This is dangerous and frightening and new, and there’s nothing you can do about it, because you failed. There are no paths forward that you know how to follow, no corners of the world you can hide where you wouldn’t find yourself crawling back to Bucky.

And he’d meet you halfway, because he’d be looking for you, and then he’d pull you into his arms you’d be safe.

Safe and cared for and clean, and awfully, greatly in love.

10. You love him, and that’s not fair.

——————

He sleeps peacefully now. At your side, on the memory foam mattress you made him pick out, wrapped around you like he’s trying to pull you into his body. The sheets are tangled and smell a little like sweat and cum, but nobody seems to mind. Even Alpine has settled at the foot of the bed, on Bucky’s side, because she likes him better. 

Of course she likes him better. You picked her because she has the exact same blue eyes as he does, and you feed her, but she likes him more because he’s Bucky.

And this suits him, far more than you think it could ever suit you. 

Because this is what he would’ve been. If Bucky had never fallen off that train, he’d have simply been this. 

Happy. 

Peaceful in the soft, golden-white light of the morning, holding a perfect, faceless woman. She’d clean up after him, and make him food that didn’t taste like ash. He’d never have the nightmares that still sometimes rock him now, but he’d have worse nights—he’d still been a solider, still fought a war—and she’d only give him comfort. Never demand it in return, nights later when she woke up screaming. 

And she’d have less opinions, and never make him worried because she kept getting shot, and she’d giggle all the time. Not just when he pried it out of her with dancing and fucking. 

She would’ve been easy. She wouldn’t have made him read with her, and she would’ve let him get twenty cats. 

You hate her more than anything.

But it would’ve been what Bucky deserves. Has always deserved.

The exact same one you don’t.

You never would’ve been here. Fisk found you in the dirt, and you hadn’t been a lovely, blooming beam of sunlight before he turned you into a weapon. Bucky had earned all his sneers and snarks and scowls.

You’re just like this. 

And you somehow have him, in a way you can’t lose. Won’t lose. You’d do anything for Bucky, you’d kill and maim and scratch and scream and rip yourself to fucking pieces just for him, before stitching yourself back together with your heartstrings, because they’d still be beating in a sound like his name, because you-

No. 

Oh no. 

That can’t be right. You don’t- you’ve never had that. That’s too good. 

You don’t deserve that.

You’ll break it.

——————

You wait outside for him. Bouncing on your feet as people shoot you odd looks in passing. You expect sirens. Being turned over and checked from every angle, because this had been a really stupid thing to do when you were you. A problem. An asset until you flipped. An enemy so easily, and an insufferable ally to have.

Bucky still puts up with you. But you think he knows you’d never flip on him. He trusts that the same instinct that made you run from Fisk is the one that will always send you back to him.

It’s been nine hours, and you miss him like you’re drowning. Like you can see the sun, right above the surface, but you can’t remember how to go up.

You can only drift, and wait for blaring red lights that will carry you home.

They never come. And when you feel a tap on your shoulder you don’t flinch, because you know that tap anywhere. The pressure and shape of the finger, the exact placement near the cartilage, always leaving a slight brand of his touch.

“What’re you doing, baby.” Bucky mutters, and you let out a long breath, turning to give him a weak smile.

He’s staring again.

You love it when he does that.

“Hi,” You whisper, and he drops his brow to yours for a long second, right before pulling you right into his chest without a second of hesitation.

You’d thought he’d be angrier. You’re a little sick of being wrong.

“Why-“ He takes a heavy breath, squeezing you a little tighter. “You wouldn’t pick up the phone.”

“I turned it off.” You mumble. You don’t think you can stand to lie to him like this. You’ve already done enough. “I- Can we go inside, please?”

Bucky leans back with a tight frown, scanning over you once more. “Did something-“

“I’m okay.” You duck your head back into his chest, and you understand why he never meets your eyes in moments like this. It’s far easier. “I promise. I just, this will be easier if we sit down, please.”

You can feel him tense against your body, but he guides you inside regardless. Right back to the table you’d been at before, even if he doesn’t know that.

People might be staring. 

You don’t really care. You don’t have the energy for it. Everything has to go into this. Into telling him before it’s too late, and you either lose him or, worse, he stays. He keeps tolerating you, not knowing that you’d grow a forest on the moon if he asked—just to hide somewhere safe and quiet, together—and turn the sun into something portable for his back pocket, just so he’d never have to fear ice again.

Bucky says your name slowly, glancing around the shop. “Is this where we had our first-“

“Yeah.” You fumble with your bag, your hands already shaking slightly, and Bucky notices.

Of course he does.

Perfect fucking asshole.

“Are you sure you’re okay, cause I can make Sam call 911 again-“

“Don’t make Sam call 911.” The paper is crumpled, and ripped at the corners. It will have to do. “I’m okay. I- I’m going to be okay.”

That last one is mostly for yourself—no matter how fast Bucky leaves, no matter how much your heart screams, you’ll be okay—but he still hears it, and his frown deepens.

He grunts your name, leaning forward in his seat, and you shake your head.

“Just- take this.“ You slide the paper across the table, watching sleek, black fingers rest on the edge, but not tug it further. “Please.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, but he listens. You look up just in time to see him scanning over your words, and the lump in your throat might choke you. 

At least it will be over quicker. 

“What is-“ He cuts himself off, and you can’t look away. It’s worse than a car crash. It’s a missile, hurdled straight for your head as you’re rooted in place, bracing for the impact but knowing it will tear you apart all the same. 

You know the moment he reaches the last point. His eyes widen, and flick up to you in disbelief. 

He reads it three more times before he sets down the paper, and maybe the lump in your throat is your heart. Maybe it’s trying to beat out of your body and run in the gutters, before it can be broken and shattered and-

“You-“ Bucky places the paper flat on the table, and points to that like. “Is that- You mean it?”

You nod weakly, still starting at his finger on the paper—it might be one of the last part of him you get to see, and you’re trying to memorize it—and Bucky clears his throat. 

“Can you look at me?”

It takes a second. Ragged, slow breaths and Bucky’s knee, bumping yours under the table. 

But you do.

And he’s still so beautiful. 

You can see the awe in his eyes. It shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t- not now-

“I love you, too.” He says, and it’s more powerful than the missile. It’s an atomic bomb. “You’re- It’s the only thing I’ve really known, since I got back. You’re the only thing I’ve known-“

The world is starting to sting and blur. Your heart is trying to claw out of your throat. “Bucky-“

He shakes his head, pushing on. “Listen to me, doll, for once in your damn life. I love you. No one but me talking, telling no one but you, I love you. I have been to fucking hell and back, I’d do it all again, every damn time, if there was even a chance it would get me here.”

“That’s- That doesn’t make any sense-“

“Course it does.” He shrugs. “I’m not the me that loves you if I don’t fall off that train and end up in the future.”

“It’s not the future-“

“It’s the future to me-“

“James, we are not having this argument again. It’s not-“

“Is to me.”

There’s that rare, small grin he saves only for you. This is cruel. 

“You- I’m not worth hell.” You whisper, and you’re holding his hand. You don’t know when that happened. You’re not strong enough to pull away.

“Yeah, you are.” 

“Bucky, I’m being-“

“I know you’re being serious, doll. So am I. And I know I’m,” he taps the paper, giving you a pointed look. “Bad at using my words-“

You swallow. “I’m sorry, I-“

"You’re not wrong.” He mutters, still all but trapping his gaze on yours. “But I got words for this, baby. I love you. Hell and back.”

“Bucky, you don’t-“ 

“What, love you?” He raises his brows. “You somehow miss that part of my shitty ass speech-“

“It wasn’t shitty-“

“Kinda shitty. Didn’t seem to get through to you.”

“I-“

“Just- Listen.” He leans forward, still holding your gaze. “Would you do it again?”

“Do-“

“Would you walk through your hell, Fisk and the scientist, Parker and that asshole with the horns that made you blind for a week, Sam and me and all the court trials, if you thought we’d end up back here, at this horrible fucking coffee shop, one more time?”

“Yes.” 

It’s not a question. You’d do everything, every time, the exact same way, if it meant you’d maybe get Bucky one more time.

And that’s mirrored on his face. Smug, quiet satisfaction as he grins at you, and shrugs.

“There it is.”

You return his smile because it’s easy. You keep holding his hand because he’s not letting go, so you’ll never even bother to try. 

You echo his words because he’s right. Maybe the only right thing in the whole universe, right across the table, touching you, and all yours.

“There it is.”

End Note: Love throwing in a bunch of tiny easter eggs for purely my own entertainment. Also love throwing a little plot relevant smut in there, as a treat.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n: 2.3k - boothill finds you digging around in junk and then offers you a gift he hopes you won't refuse... [plsdontflopplsdontflopplsdont-]

the heavy metal clinking of boothill's foot steps clank their way to your shop's door. an all too familiar door he'd always find himself going up to whenever he was in need of repair- big or small. the swiveling security camera you keep at your entrance blinks with red-lit life and moves to start following his movements as soon as he enters it's field of vision.

who knows if you're ever actually paying attention to the camera feed or not though. you can be careless like that. sometimes you're just out- couldn't be bothered or could care less about the remote feed linked directly to your phone. other times, you're so focused on some project you neglect it entirely.

based on the sign hanging on your shop's door he was familiar with- it seemed that this time in particular you were out.

boothill didn't need to know how to write- much less read well- to take a wild gander as to where you had wondered off to. putting his spring loaded and metal jointed hands on his slim waist, his chin dips with an amused chuckle and shake of his head. the cowboy lifts the toe of his mechanical boot and twists his body fully 'round; his spurs scrapping across the ground during his lazy about-face. with one foot in front of the other and thumbs hooked through the hollow crops of his trousers, the galaxy ranger makes his way towards the junk yard.

it would never occur to the standard person to spend their free time digging around a scrap yard filled with junk thrown out for a reason- but you were anything but standard. if you weren't tinkering around in your shop or finishing up a repair or commission, you were scrounging around the grounds for material or 'hidden treasure'... which was key for just slightly more valuable junk.

a typical haul for you would be a few pieces of scrap metal you could use for wielding, the rare unstripped screw or loose gaggle of bolts, and all sorts of wire. if it saved you a few credits by finding material instead of buying them, you weren't one to argue with free trash.

passing under the wire-metal gate leading into the fenced-off territory, his thumbs still tucked into his pant legs, his ears stay sharp. listening for any sound of you digging around in some heap while his head swivels back and forth to try and catch a glimpse of you.

"ey, sugar, you around!" boothill shouts, one of his hands detaching from his hips to cup around his mouth. he wanders further in, gets more ground, before calling out the same sentence a second time. shaking his head in bewilderment on how far in you had gone digging, he goes even further still and tries calling out a third time.

"here!" you finally answer back. your voice echoes around him, bouncing off the scrap metal and spooking the rats and other critters that call the junk yard home. his head turns in the direction of your voice, the way his body leans towards it before his feet start carrying him that way never took notice in his own mind.

eventually, he makes it to you. squat down to the ground, under the rusty remains of some poor saps long eroded escape pod from whatever solar system they crashed in from. he crosses his arms, then his ankles, leaning his metal shoulder on the ruined dome you were digging under.

the ranger had no idea how long you had been out here, but judging by the half full bag you kept on your shoulder and the grease sticking to your neck and exposed skin he could guess it's been a bit. he chuckles when you dig out a rusted, broken pipe of... something, before tossing it over your shoulder with a disappointed click of your tongue and looking up at him. your cheeks had some gunk on it too, probably from you wiping the back of your gloves on it.

"fancy diggin' around in junk?"

"it's not all junk."

"the fudge it aint," he scoffs. to him, it absolutely was all junk. "this aint called the dang junk yard for nothin, sugar."

"it's a scrap yard."

"stubborn-bottom." you move to stand up, clapping your gloved hands together before taking them off so you could use your hands more freely. "good to see ya took my advice and startin' wearing some forkin' gloves around here." he eyes around at all the rust and sharp metal. "gonna get tetanus or somethin', and we can't have that."

"im liable to get tetanus from you before anything else," you joke so straight-faced it didn't feel like a joke. his crossed arms drop along with his jaw and his stance straightens as he uncrosses his ankles.

"ey', i aint as forkin' filthy as you pretend i am, and you know it." you shrug with a half smirk that was so dismissive he was tempted to keep arguing. you push the goggles you were wearing over your eyes to avoid getting anything in them and possible irritation onto your forehead. seeing the contrast between your sweaty, grease and dirt marked skin and the clean skin that was protected under the goggles had him scoff. "yer filthier than i am, by the look of things."

you roll your eyes and move to climb out of the rusty treasure trove of junk you had deemed no longer having anything of value. reaching out, boothill offers you his hand. you take it easily as he starts pulling you up and out to stand in front of him. your hand drops from his when you stand safely in his bubble, and he isn't sure if you know how close you are or not.

your nose is always so focused in tinkering around or messing with work that you can't always... read the room so to speak. its endearing, until it gets frustrating anyway.

"so, what're you here for this time? need something fixed again- i swear if you already burned through that new servo i replaced a month ago, im going to take off your arm and you won't get it back for a week."

"well, that's awful sweet of you." you knew by his dry tone and sneered lips that exposed his sharp teeth that the word sweet was definitely supposed to be a different five-letter word starting with 's'. one that his broken beacon (which you refuse to fix out of entertainment) wouldn't allow him to say.

"seems like an appropriate consequence to me, considering i don't charge you for repairs."

"i ain't here for not goose-dud repair," he hisses. "i had planned on givin' ya somethin', but based on your sweet attitude i aint so sure about it now."

"you brought me something?" he nods. "from a different solar planet?" he could see the curiosity start to ignite in your eyes. he nods again. you stuff your gloves into a pouch in your pants that he swears you've sewed another pocket into, before you're marching away from him and towards the entrance he had marched from at the beginning of this search. "well come on, let's get a moving!" you shout over your shoulder.

his synthetic voice chuckles at your back. eagerly waltzing after you.

boothill soon finds himself sitting with his knees apart and comfortably lounging with his arms on the back of your worn-down, two-cushioned couch the moment you two got back to the shop. he had taken himself to your quote- reception room, as he waited for you to unload your finds from the junkyard (meaning you just took your bag, flipped it upside and let its content spill out unceremoniously onto your worktable before you would eventually sort through it at a later time).

the tapping of his metal toes against your floor echoed dully against the rug under the sofa as you soon made your way to stand in front of him, hands on your hips and an expectant look in your eyes. flicking the brim of his hat cheekily to get a better look up at you, he lifted his chin.

"my attention is yours," you dramatically sigh, hands flaring to your sides before bouncing back against your legs.

"im flattered, sugar," he jests back. still, he shifts. the small pouch he had strung to his belt that was home to his array of extra fire rounds was soon detached from him. the string of which was used to tie it to him previously, hangs lazily from his metal fingertips. with a raised, semi-skeptical brow, you carefully take it off his hands.

"if this is some sort of prank," you warn. his hands raise in the air with his elbows still resting comfortably on the back of the cushions he was leaning against, gesturing that he meant no harm.

slowly- cautiously- you pull open the bag and remove two different items that had been nestled safely inside.

tossing the now empty bag onto the couch next to boothill's leg, you took each item into one hand and looked between them. one was a small crystal that was no larger than the center of your palm. shining a swirling color of green and blue, you could only imagine that it would look even prettier properly polished and with a light shining behind it. in the other was a small box, one that could be opened with a rusty lid. giving it a small rattle revealed something to be inside. doing so revealed a small robot that had been covered in rust, missing a robotic arm and wires spilling out from under the cracked and broken screen that would most definitely have acted as it's face.

"what's all this?" you ask softly. boothill stands from his lackadaisical lounging on your sofa to come and waltz up to your side. he pointed at the robot sitting sadly in the container he had brought him in first.

"i found this lil fella and thought you'd have a gas fixin' him right up. as for that," he points to the crystal of dual-swirling shades next, "accordin' to my scanners, that there's a pretty dadgum power source." boothill takes the small crystal from your palm and hovers it just above the robot. "it suits him, don't it?" he chuckles.

in truth, the slightly dingy looking crystal shard was too magnificent compared to the busted and rusted robot. but, with a bit of work, repair and love, perhaps the color of the crystal really would look nice against polished sheet metal.

"i figure givin' you somethin' else to tinker with would be more... enriching than just your usual forkin' machines." and it could keep you company, but he didn't say that out loud.

when you would get it working like he knew you could, maybe you'd stop and think about him while he was away chasing his reality out as a galaxy ranger. if you could just spare a single thought towards him every day because of a small robot and shiny rock? he'd be tickled pink.

"he's cute," you whisper gently and boothill wonders if you know you said it out loud at all. he chuckles, bringing his hand up to cup the designed dents atop his cowboy hat. taking it off his head, he gently drops it onto yours, gaining your attention back from the gifts he had given you.

the way you lift your eyes to look at him- filled with something akin to excitement and fondness- and gently cradle the small rusty robot with his hat now shadowing your face, he could almost hear the wires in his chest running on turbo. he'd had to cool down asap before he overheated or crashed.

taking a step back- for his own sake- he leaves his hat on your head before patting your back.

"get to it," he softly tells you. you mutely nod, an excited smile breaking out over your lips as you trot towards a different room. it was a small private work space you retreated to for personal projects. boothill was one that was usually allowed inside since this room was where he would get his tune ups most times.

with boothill following your back, he watches you trot to your work bench. you gently set the robot's box down and remove it from inside. the crystal you submerged in a bowl that you soon fill with polish to let it soak. it took all of ten minutes before you're surrounded by tools and wires and equipment made for digital repairs. all the while boothill remade his comfort in a worn-down rocker you kept in the corner, content on staying put until he was forced to leave. whether it by your or by his next bounty.

he couldn't very well leave you with his hat either, even if it looked better on you than him.

the next time boothill comes into your shop after that gift drop off, it wasn't a visit but a proper repair. running out of cooling agent for his internal hardware was just waiting for a disaster to happen. his synthetic-coded laugh burst into the room jollily as when he sat down on the stool he always planted his ass in for repairs, a small, shiny robot- with the cutest digital expressions and a small blue-green swirling crystal placed in the center of its chest- was waddling across your work bench. a vile of blue cooling agent the near size of his small metal body grasped tightly in its robotic arms.

it chirped happily with a digital reverb when you thank it for bringing the coolant over.

boothill was indeed tickled as pink could get seeing you already attached to the lil fella. he wondered what you named it.

a/n: smol robot go beep-boop (i love the idea of mechanic!reader just having a cute lil guy to follow them around like a puppy :(( [big thanks to @/birinboom and my partner for letting me pick their brain on what gifts boothill ended up giving to the reader bc i had no idea lol smooches <3]

[chaotic-minds-think-alike]

Finally got around to finishing this houugh... it was a lot of work but I really like the end result!! Naturally, I'll try my best to list some of the thoughts I have in mind for these guys below. Long post ahead!

These lizards are intended to be ALMOST fully arthropod-like but due to my lack of understanding of bug anatomy and creative liberties, they are in that gray spec bio area so don't take any inconsistencies too seriously (or rather, fuck logic, and accept them how I describe them regardless)

Inspirations: - my lesser detailed lizard design - my friend's slugcats - wasps for the head contours, various insects for the exoskeleton guidelines, caterpillars, various stylistic slugcats across the #rainworld tag - the burning need for something more detailed and cool in my drawing vocabulary

The actual meat of the post; extra facts: - Lizards are related to slugcats (in my au, if you wanna call it that?) or at least the very early version of them. This idea is borrowed from this post and in my au, lizards evolve a similar tail to a slugcat's to aid in propelling themselves through tight spaces, acting as a 5th limb. - Similar to my old vulture post, lizards share a similar lifecycle. The majority of the larval stage is spent underground and in tight spots, far from their main predator. Lizard larva will undergo pupation similar to how beetles do, leaving behind broken cavities in pipes where carnivorous plants favor to take root. Additionally to the vulture's terrible parental drive, they often mistake their own larva for lizard hatchlings. - A lizard's skin is leathery and retains moisture for quite a while. Some lizards have a thicker layered mantle than others, allowing them to take punctures to the abdomen and still recover. - Not pictured, but will be described, are a few outliers to the standard lizard body plan. Caramels have muscular hind legs akin to a grasshopper but this means their legs cannot slot together and thus they have a wider leg splay than other species. Eels and salamanders are not lizards but lizard mimics. Yellow lizards' antennae attach to a hump on the snout rather than the rear of the head as seen here. Cyan lizards' mantles are more square shaped due to their leap drums on either side of their bodies and have a 3rd mantle that runs the length of their tail and caps the tailtip. - Cyan lizard's organs are called leap drums and act similarly to our lungs. They are a ring of muscle which contracts and acts as a spring loaded mechanism to propel the creature via combustion through a mysterious chemical process. Because the color of debris left behind during a leap share the same color as the lizard, perhaps they are discarded scales, formerly in place to protect the cavities housing the explosion. - They have similar organs to vertebrates within their abdomen, probably surrounded by cartilage. (not that important, I haven't thought that much about this) - (More may be added later as I remember)

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

Revolver Riot-Don Quixote X Reader

I'm going to be honest, this Fic has completely taken over my life over the last week or so and I really just want my life back.

With that said, I must pay my dues and thank the absolutely wonderful Simply Vivian who, without the help of, I probably would've ended up putting my skull into a blender before coming close to finishing this. I am so sorry that you had to deal with my ramblings and borderline insane behaviors, but I am also glad to call you a friend. The same goes out to my dear friend @tragedy-of-commons whom is always a joy to plot and scheme mad ideas with even if they never leave the drawing board. With all of that said, it is time for the fic at large to take center stage. Be sure to grab some popcorn and a drink, this will take a bit for you to get through.

You found it sticking out from under a dumpster.

It smelled like death, the metal was pitted and corroded, the wood was chipped, scratched, and covered in a substance you really didn’t want to know the origin of.

And yet, it called to you. It felt natural in your hand. Cold steel, a cylinder that holds six bullets, a hammer that locks back with a resolute click, a trigger that moves with only a little bit of pressure… it felt like a part of you. Like you just realized you had an extra limb.

So you took it to your home. You painstakingly scraped off the rust, polished the metal, replaced the wooden handle, cleaned the cylinder, repaired the ejector, the trigger mechanism, and replaced the springs, fixing it up and polishing it until it almost looked like new, until even the Identification Markings became legible again.

You did all of this, and you didn’t even have a single bullet to fire.

At least, you didn’t until now.

The distortion growled, its maw filled with white foam and its red eyes boring into you as its twisted arm crushed the skull of its latest victim. A Full-Stop Office Fixer.

And yet… you couldn’t truly focus on that. The only thing that held your eye right now was the round that rolled into your shoe after the Fixer’s weapon was sliced in half.

“.44 Magnum F/S Issue” was stamped into the bottom of the brass casing.

The round was the same caliber that the revolver took, and just like the revolver, it was calling you. Urging you to load it, to fire it, to let death fly through the air.

Before you had even realized it, the revolver was already in your hand and the cylinder opened. All that was left was to choose the path. Load the gun, fire, and then probably die or try to run, get caught by the monster, and then die.

Placing the bullet into the chamber was the easiest thing you ever did.

You slowly raised the barrel of the old, scarred gun with the single bullet you found loaded into it, its weight in your hand feeling both alien and familiar as the monster rushed towards you. The barrel was aimed squarely at the head of the beast as you raised your thumb to the hammer and pulled it back with a heavy, solid click that seemed to reverberate throughout your entire body and to the depths of your soul.

Then, the world turned still as a smooth, amused chuckle reverberated from the base of your skull, its voice worming its way into your brain like a cancer and yet… they were like honey to your mind, drawing you into the deep.

“Do you know what that is? It's something made to kill. Don’t you know that's the only thing it can do? If you pull that trigger, you and that gun will be one in the same. Only good for filling gutters with bodies.”

The voice continued to speak, the sound echoing and reverberating throughout your body as the voices began to overlap and crush each other, doing their best to drown out your thoughts.

However, you managed to force your own voice above the noise, to answer its jabs, questions, and barbs.

“Maybe, but sometimes the only path requires violence to be met with violence. Besides, you don’t pull a trigger, you squeeze it.

This made the voice quiet and the writhing in your brain disappear as something else made itself known, its own voice saying nothing but its presence making something shift in your heart as the world began to move, the monster resuming its charge.

Now however, the apprehension and fear in your heart was no longer there as you closed your eyes and wrapped your finger around the trigger, the shift in your heart beginning to spread across your body and into the gun.

Then you opened your eyes and you squeezed the trigger, making the gun fire with a sound like thunder and the monster being torn to bloody shreds of meat from the power of the bullet fired.

It was now, as the meat and blood rained down with squelches and splats, that the name of the gun flittered into your mind.

“Prepare A Coffin: Django”. You muttered to yourself, speaking the name of this power as you gazed at the gun in your hand.

No longer was it the beat up and scarred weapon you had found and slowly, painstakingly repaired.

Its metal was as black as sin, the wooden handle’s you had replaced were now bone, the entire weapon was decorated with silver baroque-esque engravings, and for each chamber in the cylinder a word was engraved on it.

“Strike True, Strike Powerfully, Strike Mercilessly, Strike Relentlessly, Strike Justly, Strike Endlessly”

Silently, you flicked open the cylinder, revealing that each of the six chambers were now filled with what could only be described as pure energy.

Then, just as silently, you closed it before spinning the revolver on your finger backwards, grabbing it by the frame and then flinging it into the holster on your side as you walked away from the carnage as, for the first time in several days, the sun began to rise and shine through the smog choked sky.

The very next day, you applied for your Fixer License.

By the end of the month, you were a Grade 9 fixer.

Two months later, you jumped up to 7.

Then 6.

Then 5.

It was at this time that you first encountered them.

The LCB. Limbus Company Bus Division.

Specifically, “The Valorous Fixer, Don Quixote” when she tried to run you through in the middle of the transit point between the Backstreets and K Corp’s Nest after you were sent here to see what in the world was making such a racket on the K-Corp Security Channel.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As soon as you stepped onto the scene, a K-Corp Security Guard was sent flying right at you.

In response, you simply stepped to the side before grabbing the guard by the collar and, by using your body as a turntable in tandem with the guard’s momentum, flung them to the side and away from the main battle.

After that was dealt with, you turned your attention to the main event.

What was before you could only be described in one way.

A clusterfuck of ungodly proportions.

One man was swinging a bat, cracking skulls with glancing blows and crushing limbs with barely a sweat.

Another was simply hurling guards through the air and into the walls, ceilings, windows, and other guards with ease despite the metal gauntlets on his hands.

A woman was cutting guards to ribbons, seemingly delighting in the way her victims would fall to pieces before an HP Bullet was administered.

At the same time, an older lady was guarding a being with a clock where their head should be that was making loud whistling noises alongside ticks and tocks.

Alongside the woman guarding the Clock headed person, there was a blonde young man that looked as if he was about to collapse from stress, a man with a what looked to be the leg of a bug in place of his arm that seemed to be trying to calm the Clock person down, a tall and strongly built woman with an axe that was chopping down anyone who got too close with a smile, and a dark haired man who looked like death warmed over.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the battle, there was a red headed woman with a shield and a mace that was absolutely tearing through the guards, batting some to the side with her shield before sending several of them flying with a powerful swing of her mace.

And right in the middle of it all was her.

She was an exceptionally short blonde woman, but the presence and energy she exuded with her ear rattling laugh and the ease with which she swung and impaled with her lance more than made up for it. Her coat was glinting in the light from all of the well polished pins on the poor piece of clothing, at one point her shoes might have been a color between tan and yellow however the accumulated grime, muck, blood, and viscera gave it a rather diluted hue akin to the one you would occasionally find on barrels alongside labels like “HAZARDOUS MATERIAL” or “DANGEROUS SUBSTANCE”.

In hindsight, you probably should’ve listened to that connection and saved yourself the headache of what was to happen over your working relationship with this crew of madmen.

In the moment however, you simply let out a muttered curse before looking to the sky as if something was going to save you from this mess and then when nothing did you began your march into the mosh pit before you.

The tile floor was growing slick with blood and every step you took towards the battle was accompanied by a squelch and a splash as you drew your revolver, reflexively spinning the weapon on your finger until you grabbed it by the frame, allowing you to use the handle of the gun to crack the skull of anyone who came to close if needs be.

As soon as the action was completed, you began to muscle through the crowd, narrowly avoiding wild baton swings from the Guards, bodies being flung through the air by powerful blows, and just managing to barely slip past the swing of the bat that, if it had hit you solidly, would’ve most definitely sent your head and body on separate vacations.

However, before you could count your lucky stars, you were forced to stumble back lest you were crushed by the Mace that just pulverized the tile floor where you stood a split second before.

“I don’t get paid enough for this!” you grumbled as you stomped on the head of the mace before its wielder could pull the weapon back to a ready position.

It was here that you then swung the handle of the gun upwards like a club and into the red haired woman’s chin with the unpleasant sound of bone breaking, stunning her. Capitalizing on this, you grabbed the woman by the collar and then slammed your forehead into her nose, breaking it and sending blood streaming down her face as she stumbled back and you spun the gun on your finger, catching the hammer with your thumb and then swinging the weight of the gun down, cocking it and then firing it twice, both bullets landing cleanly in the woman's gut and making her falter for a split second before she raised her shield to block the blow of another Guard and then crushed his rib cage with her mace, seemingly unbothered by the fact she had two new holes in her gut and her attention now focused on the guards instead of you.

Briefly, you were put off by this as most people tend to be shocked when they have new holes bored into them.

However, you didn’t have much time to focus on this as an ear ringing cry echoed through the building from the center of the crowd.

“COME FOUL VILLAINS!!! THE VALOROUS FIXER, DON QUIXOTE, SHALL VANQUISH THEE!!!”

“Well, that makes my job much easier…” you mumbled to yourself before shoving and pushing guards out of the way, reaching the center of the battle where it was surprisingly calm despite the fact that more than a dozen guards were being dragged away from the woman in the center of it all.

You didn’t have much time to observe her before she noticed you and promptly leveled her lance directly at your center mass.

Realizing her plan you raised your gun and fired twice, forcing her to raise her lance to block the shots or have her brain matter exposed to the open air. Using this to your advantage, you rushed forwards and then dropped to the ground in a slide, aiming your gun at her exposed midsection and firing twice once more. One of the bullets bounced harmlessly off the lance, the other landed cleanly and shot through her causing a cry to escape her as she attempted to crush you with the heft of her weapon by swinging downwards but missing, which left you in a position behind her that you used to scramble to your feet and then kick her in the back, sending her stumbling forward.

You attempted to fire off three more shots at the woman, however she used the momentum you imparted on her to thrust her lance into the ground and use its haft to sling her upwards and away from your shots. However, she didn’t let go of the weapon, quite the opposite in fact as she used her own weight and momentum to bend the haft of the weapon the opposite way she came from.

By the time you realized what she was doing, it was a split second too late as the tile floor and the concrete under it gave way around her lance, launching the shards towards you as you raised your arm to cover your head.

The feeling of the shards piercing your flesh was not one you would ever be keen to repeat, especially seeing as before you could even acclimate to the sudden feeling of large swathes of your flesh being cut open, you had to jump to the side in order to avoid being impaled.

With that said however, you still managed to get two more shots off, both of them landing. One in the calf and the other in her side.

Quickly rolling to your feet, you aimed your gun at the woman and she wheeled around towards you, her lance aimed at you in the same way.

You needed to put an end to this before she got any actual hits off on you, and so you focused, letting the power in your chest flow through to the gun.

This was your EGO. This was your soul made manifest. This was what would decide this fight.

“Prepare A Coffin: Django” you muttered to yourself as you pulled back the hammer with a deafening click, a bandolier of spectral bullets wrapping around your arm and floating over your shoulder, as your eyes focused in on the head and heart of the target before you.

Unfortunately, it seems that your target had the same idea, her clothes shifting and morphing to a red and white uniform with a cuirass and cape over the shirt and her lance changing form to that of one made from blood in a twisted form.

It was going to come down to this, your gun against the target’s lance. Your aim against her speed.

Or, that's what you thought at least.

For better or for worse, it was now that Siegfried made his presence known.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You sat on the curb outside the transit point, your wounds slowly closing with the help of an HP Ampule that the commanding officer of the guard gave you as thanks for keeping her from being flung out into the streets when you first walked in.

Unfortunately, it seems that the Ampule’s didn’t regenerate clothes.

“Oh well, I guess that's why people from other agencies say to buy outfits in bulk.” you muttered to yourself, sure that this was not going to be the last time you said that as you leaned back and looked skywards to the scant few stars that poked through the clouds and the smog.

Unfortunately, your peace was soon shattered by the very woman who was responsible for destroying your clothes.

“HARK GOOD FIXER!!!” the woman shouted as she approached you alongside the rest of the group that Siegfried had just eviscerated, including the person with the Clock Head.

Before you could even stand up, the woman was upon you, her face a few inches from yours and her excited eyes seemingly glowing with energy as she took in a deep breath that, alongside her predilection for shouting, made you realize that you really shouldn't have taken out your ear plugs.

Thankfully, before she could start shouting loud enough to wake the dead, she was pulled back by the man with the bat.

“OI! You ain’t s'posed to run up on folks like that! And don’t be yellin’ like a daft idiot!” the man hissed at the woman, annoyance clear on his face.

“Ah! Right! My apologies good sir Heathcliff!” the woman, finally quieting down, apologised.

This exchange gave you enough time to stand up and, although it was probably rather rude, place your hand on your gun in case things came to blows once more.

“You don’t need to worry about us starting something. That clown in the body suit gave us enough of a trouncing for today.” the red headed woman stated before pointing to her face and saying “Also, you’ve got a mean headbutt.”

“Thanks.” you responded to the compliment blankly, your focus still on the blonde woman who seemed like she was ready to speak once more.

“Good Fixer! My name is Don Quixote and I would like to apologize for my actions! I would also like to apologize for the wounds I inflicted on you during our duel!” The woman named Don Quixote exclaimed, her cheery tone slightly muted in what seemed to be her attempt at a serious apology.

“Meh, no one died or, in your group’s case, stayed dead so I say all's well that ends well. Besides, I got my fair share of shots off on you as well so… let's call it even, yeah?” was your response to the apology as you removed your hand from your gun and held it out in a gesture of goodwill.

Needless to say, Don Quixote reciprocated that gesture, shaking your arm with enough force that you felt like it was going to pop out of your socket.

Following this, the rest of the LCB introduced themselves, or in the case of Dante, was introduced seeing as they could not communicate their own words to you without an intermediary.

However, despite the colorful cast in their little band of misfits, your eyes continued to fall on Don Quixote and her rather charming nature.

That and she was continuously asking questions about your being a Fixer and requested that you signed a page in her book despite your protests of you only being a Grade 5 Fixer that she seemed determined to ignore, leading to you signing your name right as their ride pulled up

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Don Quixote was happily swinging her feet as the bus rattled off to its next destination, her gaze firmly placed on the newest signatures in her book.

To think, not only would she get to meet The Red Gaze on this journey, but Siegfried as well! Not to mention the interesting person she exchanged blows with in the terminal!

Fixers really were amazing!

At the same time, Dante’s voice rang out.

“All right everyone! That’s enough for today. I hope you all sleep well tonight!”

Instantly, Don hopped to her feet, still full of energy despite the battle that just occurred.

“Oh how excited I am for the next leg of our journey!” Don happily thought to herself.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

It was quite a long while before Don met you again.

It was also in a place that a valorous fixer like herself should NEVER be held in.

A prison. Complete with iron bars and chain handcuffs that, inexplicably, had bite marks on them.

They most definitely did not come from her, and she most definitely did not chip a tooth by trying to chew the chain off.

She was a valorous fixer. She was above such actions.

“They’re just over here.” The voice of a guard grumbled out as he and another person approached the cell but stopped in front of the door with the face of the other person just out of sight.

“I can see that.” a familiar voice stated with an obvious strain in their tone as the familiar sound of a hand being placed on the weapon at their hip reached the sinner’s ears.

“What I CAN’T see is WHY they are in this damn cell!” the voice hissed to the guard, making him take a few steps back.

“T-their division of Limbus Company owes a total of 10,040,000,000 Ahn to T Corp.” the guard explained quickly, obviously looking uncomfortable with the situation he is now in.

In response, the other voice simply let out a deep, frustrated sigh before speaking.

“Of course they do. It wouldn’t be a day in the life of these guys if they didn’t have some sort of mischief going on!”

It was then that the person stepped around the guard.

“Oi! You're that person that broke the bird’s face!” was the first thing Heathcliff exclaimed, earning a swift punch to the gut from Ishmael.

“Oh! Heroic Fixer! You must help us! We are being held here unjustly! They refuse my pleas of release! My pleas of being allowed to join our wonderful and valorous Manager in their escapades of seeking justice upon a foul evildoer! Oh the inhumanity!” Don cried, the back of her hand on her forehead in a dramatic gesture.

“Now that’s a face we haven’t seen in awhile. Any chance you can bust us out of here old buddy old pal?” Gregor asked with a grin while sitting down and leaning against the wall.

A smile graced your face at Don’s dramatics as you moved to lean against the bars but was stopped when the guard put his hand on your shoulder. That was quickly solved when you shot him a look over your shoulder and started drumming your fingers on the handle of your gun.

Now, freely leaning against the bars, you began to speak.

“While I’d love to help you all out, I pulled all the strings a Grade 3 Fixer like myself could to just get down here since I was in the area and heard about a “Group of crazies” that “Lives in a big red bus”. Do you guys have any clue on who THAT could be?” you asked, shooting a glance into the group behind the bars.

Heathcliff made a face before looking away, Outis bit the inside of her cheek, Gregor all of the sudden became very interested in the ground, Yi Sang hadn’t even noticed your arrival and was having a conversation with a mouse, Sinclair had the presence of mind to look embarrassed, Meursault was completely unbothered, and Don Quixote was-

“WHEN DID THOU BECOME A WONDROUS GRADE 3? I THOUGHT THOU WAS A VALOROUS GRADE FIVE!!!”

-Don Quixote.

“Well, times change and promotions get handed out. Especially to people who have enough skill to keep themselves from being killed and specialize in containing distortions like yours truly. That and apparently Siegfried gave me a glowing review of my “Heroics” during that scrap we had back in K-Corp”. You answered with a wince, your ears ringing from Don’s sheer volume.

And yet… you couldn’t find it in you to be irritated with her. Could what they say be true? Does absence actually make the heart fonder?

You quickly batted the thought down, focusing on the issue at hand as opposed to the fact that every time you heard about the exploits of this little group you always kept your ear out for anything about the absolutely wonderful Don Quixote.

“Really? Congrats!” Gregor exclaimed as he started to stand up, a yawn escaping him in the process before he began walking towards the bars, briefly stopping to tap Yi Sang on the head, alerting him to the fact that they had a visitor.

“With all that said though, I think it's time we get down to business. Sorry bout that.” the brown haired man said with a lopsided smile.

“Don’t worry about it. I assume your main concern is how Dante and their investigation team is doing?” you asked, casting your gaze to the group at large.

“At the moment, yeah. I don’t think I was meant for prison life…” Gregor joked rather horribly but still elicited a chuckle from a few of the sinners and yourself.

“Well, last I heard they just talked with someone from the Yurodiviye and that they’ve narrowed down their suspect pool quite a bit, but…” you began to explain before drifting off mid sentence, your fingers tapping on the handle of your gun, this time because you were thinking.

“But? But what! Curse thine vague statements!” Don Quixote wailed in frustration.

“But… something isn’t lining up quite right to me. For example, none of the victims were actually murdered, only their time. If it was about vengeance it would be bloodbath after bloodbath but this… it feels like a statement.” You clarified, your fingers still drumming away on the handle of your gun.

However, before the Sinners could question you or you could further explain your line of thinking, the sound of boots crashing against the floor in a sprint reached your ears.

A split second later, you were surrounded by Dante, and three people dressed in almost comically stereotypical detective outfits that you had a sneaking suspicion Don Quixote was responsible for.

It took you a moment to realize that the three other people with Dante were Ryoshu with a fake moustache, Hong Lu holding a Magnifying Glass, and Rodya without her trademark grin.

Unfortunately, that is where your understanding of the situation ended as each and every one of them were speaking (or whistling in Dante’s case) absolute gibberish.

Thirty seconds of madness later, the sinners were out of their cage and most of them were already running down the hall.

The one exception being the ever unique and energetic Don Quixote.

“Hark! Typically one sends a knight off with some wish of good luck!” the short fixer exclaimed, a sparkle in her eyes.

“I- uh… good luck?” you managed to stammer out, your mind still not quite caught up to the whirlwind of information and craziness that just occurred.

This, apparently, was not the wish for good luck Don Quixote wanted as she immediately began to pout and the sparkle in her eyes switched to a look of mischief that put you ill at ease.

However, before you could act on this, Don grabbed you by the collar, pulled you down towards her, and kissed you.

By the time you realized what just happened, the blonde woman was already running off, and she had the gall to be blushing as well.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

It wasn’t until Dante and Co. were walking back to the bus that Don realized what she did.

Really, it's a miracle she figured it out this quickly.

Though, the fact she dropped her lance and promptly curled up into a ball on the street as she covered her face with her hands definitely earned her a few strange looks from both the citizens and the Sinners.

And so, here she was, being hauled around under Heathcliff’s arm as Meursault carried her lance as he was the only one actually capable of picking it up.

“Good grief lass, what’s got you in such a state?” Heathcliff muttered as he adjusted the extra deadweight he was carrying.

“I hath done a horrible thing!” the blonde woman wailed, her face still red from embarrassment.

“Eh, I doubt that lass. You might be a right headache sometimes, but you ain’t the type to do somethin mean or bad on purpose.” Heathcliff mused, twisting his head to the side, forcing several cracks out from his neck.

“Thine compliments are appreciated good Sir Heathcliff! Alas, mine sin is one of not adhering to the correct procedure!” Don Quixote exclaimed, sorrow and an uncharacteristic shame clear in her voice.

Heathcliff raised his eyebrow, turmoil and apprehension clear in his eyes as he thought over his next words very carefully.

“Well, I know I’ll probably regret offering, but how bout’ this. If you start walkin on your own all the way back to the Bus, I’ll listen to your problems for a tick.” Heathcliff offered despite the voice in the back of his head that was telling him this was NOT a good idea.

“Oh? I… No, the offer is appreciated, good Sir Heathcliff! but I cannot add my own troubles to yours!” Don Quixote declared her desire to speak of her own woes being overtaken by the care she has for her dear comrades.

“You’d be doin me a favor, Don Quixote. Really. I need to take my mind off things for a bit to get my thoughts in order and helping you sounds like a good distraction.” Heathcliff quietly whispered to Don, his own tone becoming ever so slightly haggard as the events that led up to now continued to take their toll.

Don briefly looked like she wished to argue before shaking her head in agreement.

A few moments later, Don had weaseled out of Heathcliff’s grasp and took her lance from Meursault’s care with a heartfelt thanks.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Within the hour, Don and Heathcliff were sitting on the floor in the blonde fixer’s room, a thermos of tea in Heathcliff’s hand and two cups in the other alongside a collection of sugar packets and a stirring straw..

“Sorry to intrude on your flat, but my spot isn’t… pleasant for visitors at the moment.” Heathcliff muttered as he placed the thermos and cups on the floor.

“Worry not! Mine own accommodations are rather messy as well! Fear no judgement from me!” Don happily exclaimed, gesturing to her eclectic collection of objects around the room.

“That’s not-” Heathcliff began before letting out a chuckle and speaking once more to say “Thanks lass, that means a good deal more than you think.”

“Thou art welcome!” Don said with a smile as she popped open the lid of the thermos to pour the tea into both cups with a level of care and concentration that was rarely found on her face before she grabbed the sugar packets and dumped them into her cup and then used the straw to dissolve the sugar.

“Now then, time to get down to business. What in the world had you so down in the dumps earlier?” the scarred man asked as he picked up his own cup.

At the same time Don held her cup with both hands as she mulled over her thoughts before speaking.

“There is someone I wished to court. However, I… was rather forward when I saw them last and kissed them unprompted…”

Heathcliff had to fight down the chuckle that formed in his throat before he spoke.

“That’s all? A snog? To me it sounds like you didn't do anything too wrong.”

“I… perhaps. Still, one typically sends poems and flowers before a kiss do they not?” the blonde woman asked, her voice a great deal more timid and unsure than usual.

“Well, yeah but… sometimes it's better to do away with stuff like that and just come out and say how you feel. Sides, courtin is for folk with not a whole lot goin on between the ears. Trust me, I would know better than most bout’ that.” Heathcliff mused before taking a sip of his tea and letting out a hum.

Don went quiet for a long moment as she thought of Heathcliff's words, looking down into her half finished cup of tea.

And in response, Heathcliff simply waited and drank his tea, refilling his cup as needed.

Then, Don Quixote came to a decision.

“I think you are right, good Sir Heathcliff! Come the morrow I shall ask our valorous manager for the day off and seek out the one my heart is set on!” she exclaimed, her energy and joy returning.

And, though he would suffer the pain of death thousands of times over before admitting it, seeing this brought a smile to Heathcliff’s face.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“In light of recent events with T Corp and the Time Killer alongside the fact that Vergillius is in a good mood, we have the rest of today off!” Dante declared joyously

At the same time, Charon looked back at the bus and said “Be quiet Tick-Tock. Verg is in a big bad mood.”

“In light of recent events with T Corp and the Time Killer, alongside the fact that Vergillius is in a bad mood, we have the rest of today off.” Dante quietly corrected themself.

However, by the time the words left Dante’s clock, a certain member of their crew was already out the door and running towards the heart of the color drained piece of the city.

“Ha! Looks like the lass is keepin true to her word.” Heathcliff of all people said with a chuckle.

“Love is a truly beautiful thing. Fleet of foot it may be, those who grasp its form and hold tight are blessed eternally.” Yi Sang mused as he looked towards the slowly disappearing form of Don Quixote.

“What?” Dante muttered, confused not by Don’s sudden flight, but by the fact this seemed to be something Heathcliff was expecting.

“Nothin. Oi! Bird! I’m guessin you're gonna be headin’ off to the hair salon?” Heathcliff jabbed at Ishmael, ignoring the Manager of their little group.

“Fuck you Heathcliff! At least I didn’t put us all in the Middle’s shit list by stealing coupons.” was all Ishmael said in response.

Briefly, Gregor looked as if he was going to correct Ishmael by pointing out their scrap with the Twinhook Pirates but was stopped with a glare from the red headed woman.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Don soared through the streets, her feet finding themselves more in the air than upon the ground as she sought you out.

In the process she… may or may not have had to run across the roof’s of a few cars, nearly trampled some poor citizens, and almost ran face first into a pole…

Still, it was all in service of a good cause!

She just… needed to find a certain Fixer!

Don rounded a corner, her noble steed skidding on the sidewalk from her haste.

Then she was off, slipping through the crowd and towards the place she saw you last.

Had she thought about what she was going to say?

Not a single letter.

Had she considered your confusion at her actions?

Briefly.

Had she mused over Heathcliff’s advice?

Most definitely.

Had she wondered if what she was going to do was right?

She had agonized over it.

But now was not the time for second guessing or hesitation.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Why am I letting you lay on my nice office carpet?” the collector asked, his eyes peeking over the file in his hand.

“Because you're a good person?” you mumbled, your arm over your eyes as you lounged on the floor.

“That is most certainly not it.” the collector said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, it sounded wrong as soon as I said it out loud.” you sighed before reaching up to the desk and pulling yourself up.

You then promptly flopped into the chair opposite of the collector.

A quiet moment passed before either of you spoke.

“So… any chance T Corp has figured out how to rewind time?” you asked as you massaged your left temple, exhaustion clear on your face.

“That is above my pay grade. If you wish to make an inquiry about such subjects I recommend speaking to R&D.” the collector answered simply and succinctly.

“Meh, I probably shouldn’t. If I went through that again I might actually become a vegetable.” you muttered in response.

“Hmm. I agree. You have taken up my office floor for the past ten hours.” The Collector stated, a slightly irritated edge clear in his voice.

“Yeah… thanks for that.” you grumbled before standing, your joints popping and cracking as you did.

“Thank me by getting out of my office and not wandering the prison blocks like a concussed lemming.” was all the mechanical man said in response.

In turn you simply said “Fair enough.” before walking towards the door and leaving the rather irritated collector to his devices.

Still, it wasn’t the worst place you had spent a night in. A solid 7 out of 10. The carpets were surprisingly soft.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Ugh, I could murder a plate of breakfast right now, some Orange juice would be nice as well.” you grumbled with a yawn as you stepped out from the artificially purified air of the T-Corp office to the exceedingly polluted air of The City.

Stretching your arm over your head as you walked down the steps of the office, you began to consider where you should stop for a bite.

“I remember hearing that there was a good diner somewhere around here. There’s also that bakery I passed on my way over, mix that with a quick run to the market and I should be able to cobble something together that could pass for food. Then again, I could probably find a HamHamPangPang with a bit of looking…” you muttered to yourself as you stepped off of the stairs and onto the sidewalk.

However, before you could further deliberate on your choice of meal, you heard a shout.

“HARK GOOD FIXER!!! I REQUIRE THINE EARS!!!”

You turned to look at where the noise came from just in time to see a blur of yellow before being knocked off your feet when something crashed into you.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Don, for her part, had the decency to at least look a tad embarrassed in the booth across from you as she held the ice pack over her bruised eye.

“You and I really need to stop meeting like this.” you said with a chuckle that you immediately regretted when the bruise you received from Don crashing right into your chest was jostled by the movement.

“W-what dost thou mean?” Don asked, confusion and a little bit of apprehension in her gaze.

“Every time we meet one or both of us always seems to get a little banged up after the fact.” you responded, the grimace on your face turning to a grin.

“Oh! I see.” Don muttered, going quiet once more and just in time for the waitress to walk up to the table.

“Anything I can get you two? We’re doing our breakfast special today, a breakfast crescent ring with syrup.” the waitress asked, raising her notepad and pen.

“Oh! That sounds pretty good! I’ll have the breakfast special with OJ, some extra hashbrowns, a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, a few muffins, french toast, and some breakfast burritos with chorizo on the side. Thanks.” you responded, earning an eyebrow raise from the waitress.

“You… are… welcome!” the waitress said as she speedily noted down your order before turning her attention to Don and asking “What about you miss?”

“I-i will have the same as my compatriot here! but please change the Orange Juice for milk and you need not worry about an accompanying dish of chorizo for me!” Don exclaimed, her mind being slingshotted down from the stormy clouds she had it stuck in and right back into her still nervous form.

“You got it. Also… if two of you don’t mind me asking… are the two of you Fixers?” the waitress asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Yes ma’am. I’m curious, what gave it away?” you responded with a smile.

“Well, you are walking around with a gun and not many folk do that. That and typically it's only Fixer’s and highly augmented people that make big orders like this.” the waitress responded truthfully, a smile forming on her face before saying “With that said, I better hand your order off to the kitchen.” and walking away from the booth.

Unfortunately for Don, this also meant that your attention was now solely focused on her poor blonde head.

“So then, I… think you and I need to have a talk while we’re waiting on the food.” you told the blonde haired woman before you as you shifted around in your seat, trying and failing to get comfortable.

“I… concur. However, before we begin, I would like to speak my reasoning for seeking thou out so early in the morn. Is that agreeable with thee?” Don asked, nervously fiddling with the pins on her coat.

You nodded, allowing Don to have the lead in this conversation neither of you were truly prepared to have.

Don began to speak, or attempted to at least, as instead of words it came out in the form of stuttering gibberish that she stopped right in the middle of before taking a deep breath and trying once again.

“I do not regret the action I took last night. What I do regret is that I was unable to spend the time after with you to explain why I did it. So, using the time I have with thee now, I shall begin to do so.” Don began before sitting up straight and looking you in the eyes for the first time since last night; taking on a far more elegant and composed appearance than you had ever seen from her.

“If I may be so bold, I would like to say this. I think quite highly of thee, not just as a Fixer, but as a person. You have been exceptionally understanding of not just my fellows, but my own self as well and that has felt… nice. Nay, not just nice, it has felt wonderful. Many people find me to be far too much of… everything. They try to hide it as best they can, alas, I can always tell. Yet, of the times we have met, not once have I seen the look that most others have when they meet me. Quite the opposite in fact, you seem to welcome my presence and that is something I am truly astonished by. That astonishment has, over time, transformed into admiration, and then… into the thing that made me kiss thee last night. Something I believe to be genuine attraction.” Don explained, a nervous smile forming on her face as she spoke.

In response, you had to ask yourself a question before you could speak to the woman before you, one you had labeled as a force of nature.

The question was this.

“Do I feel the same?”

Near instantly, your mind supplied dozens and dozens of instances where you’ve caught yourself thinking about her, or listening for any scrap of news about her, or seeing something that made you go “That reminds me of Don Quixote”.

You had your answer.

And saying it would be far easier than loading that bullet was.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As you walked out the door of the Diner, Don right next to you, you realized something.

You had no fucking clue to do next.

Should you try and hold her hand? Should you play it cool? Should you ignore that strange feeling in the pit of your stomach?

Thankfully, before you continued to spiral into choice paralysis, Don swooped in to save the day by wrapping her arm around yours with a massive smile.

And so, with Don Quixote’s arm wrapped around your own and your wallet a fair bit lighter, the two of you were off to nowhere in particular, simply allowing your feet to carry you along the path Don was dragging you.

“Y’know, if you smile any bigger your head will probably fall off.” you joked with a small chuckle in your voice.

“Truly? Tis would be a pleasant death in my eyes!” Don exclaimed, entirely serious despite the joy in her voice which only served to elicit a laugh from deep within you.

After that, the two of you began to chitter and chatter about everything and nothing.

Don seeing shapes in Ishmael’s hair, you wondering if Dante’s flames could be considered hair, Don mentioning the time Yi Sang tried to eat a poisonous potato, you telling Don about how you ended up as a fixer and dozens of other things.

However, in the middle of it all, Don stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked right into a store window before bolting into it, leaving you stunned and confused.

A minute later, the living whirlwind returned, a bag in hand that she handed to you.

Inside of it?

A pair of iron spurs.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Your every step was now paired with a metallic clink, courtesy of the spurs Don had gifted you.

“It seems mine eyes were true! You do look quite dashing with those spurs!” the blonde fixer declared, her arm still wrapped around your own.

You could feel your face grow a little bit hotter at Don’s words.

“I… thank you for the compliment Don.” was your response to her words while you fought against the urge to wear a proud smile on your face.

“No need for thanks, I am simply speaking the truth!” Don exclaimed as Mephistopheles appeared on the path, the rest of the Sinners either returning to the bus such as Rodya and Gregor who she seemed to have dragged along to carry bags at the same time as Heathcliff and Dante who were returning from the mansion or sitting out in front of the bus such as Yi Sang and Sinclair who were playing chess while Hong Lu read a book, Ishmael played solitaire, and Outis and Meursault were silently guarding the door as Ryoshu brushed up on her more traditional art skills with paint and canvas as Faust tinkered with random pieces of Mephistopheles. At the same time, Vergiillius was sitting in the front passenger seat next to Charon who was quietly snoozing as the Red Gaze looked at the slowly setting sun.

It was a… peaceful sight and most definitely not something you could ever associate with the band of mad bastards in the LCB unless you saw it for yourself.

It was also at this time that Don stopped walking, a pensive expression replacing her massive smile.

“It seems… that our day must come to an end…” Don muttered sadly, the arm that she had wrapped around you all day moving down so she could hold your hand.

“Yeah… welp, I guess we’ll just have to have twice as much fun on the next day we get together.” You responded, gently squeezing her hand.

This returned the smile to Don’s face and movement to her feet as, once more, you were being dragged along by the living tornado that was the small blonde Fixer before you.

And… you couldn’t say that you disliked the feeling.

“HARK!!! HARK MY DEAR FRIENDS AND COMRADES!!! I HATH RETURNED!!! WE SHALL HAVE A MOST HONORED GUEST AT DINNER TONIGHT!!!” Don shouted, waving her free hand in the air as her walk became a run that you had to keep up with unless you wanted to actually be dragged across the ground.

“EVENING EVERYONE!!!” You shouted alongside her, doing your best to keep in tune with Don’s pace.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Aww… Little Chiquita looks so happy.” Rodya whispered with a dramatic sniffle as she looked out through the window and at you and Don saying your goodbyes.

“You're probably not supposed to spyin on em, Rodya.” Gregor stated, punctuating his words with a nudge.

“The lass’s got someone she fancies, y’all don’t gotta be all shocked about it.” Heathcliff muttered with a roll of his eyes and a slight smile on his face.

“You say that but you were the one to look the happiest about her partner in crime.” Ishmael jabbed, making Heathcliff stutter and stumble over his words.

“Hmm… G.J.D.Q.” Ryoshu whispered to herself, a slightly less sadistic smirk on her face than usual.

Sinclair, of course, heard this but decided it was in his best interest to not translate.

At the same time, Rodya suddenly dropped from her position at the window, startling poor Gregor.

A few short moments later, Don walked back on the bus and she was practically glowing.

“That was sickening. But… congratulations, Don Quixote.” Vergillius muttered as she passed his seat, earning a few shocked looks from the sinners.

“gasp Is there actually a heart underneath that prickly shell?” Rodya exclaimed, earning a dirty look from Gregor that seemed to say “Don’t be a smartass to the guy who can turn us into meaty jello”.

“Oi! Bird! Is the world comin to an end?” Heathcliff shouted at Ishmael and received a shrug in response.

“One who wraps a heart in stone often-” Yi Sang began before receiving a glare from their guide that made him become exceedingly interested in the seams of the seat he was sitting on.

“I… Thank you! Sir Vergillius!” Don exclaimed with a wide smile.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

After that wonderful day, You and Don come up with a schedule.

Every day at the same time, come rain or shine, you would receive a call from Don or she would receive a call from you.

Neither of you had much free time due to your jobs, but you both carved out a little bit for each other.

The two of you would talk about the little things, about the interesting things seen, about the minor annoyances that alway seemed to pile up on the worst days.

It went on like this for a while, and every so often you would hear the others give a greeting, or cause some sort of chaos.

It was needless to say which one you heard most often.

But then, one day, after one of those shifts where nothing seemed to go right and the City itself was out to make you slam your head into a wall out of frustration, you received a call a fair bit earlier than usual.

Assuming that Don had gotten off early, your heart soared and you could feel the stress begin to fall off of you.

However, when you picked the phone up, the stress was nearly instantly replaced by fear and concern as, before a single word could escape your mouth, Don spoke.

"Allow me to ask… if I became a monster that eats others… could you find it in your heart to still love me?" Was the first thing you heard from Don’s voice over the phone.

"I… of course I would still love you, but I would also have to try and stop you and… that would break my heart." you answered truthfully, the pit in your stomach only growing.

"I see. Thank you, that was the answer I was hoping for." was all that Don said before the call disconnected, making your unease grow into fear.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As Ishmael’s head was separated from her neck by Sancho’s arrow and Yi Sang was split and half by her sword, Dante was contemplating taking a brick and smashing their clock face into it.

The urge to use all of the nasty and unpleasant words they had learned from Ishmael, Heathcliff, and Ryoshu was becoming stronger and stronger with each passing second and with each sinner that was dismembered.

It was obvious that they had no hope of managing to fight her off, especially considering how she shredded through even the strongest of the Identities with ease.

Dante returned their gaze to the battlefield and wanted to sob at what they saw.

Only two sinners remained, Hong Lu and Heathcliff, both of whom were one strong breeze away from keeling over.

Heathcliff’s left arm was a mangled mess of bone and his entrails were being kept from falling out by what Dante assumed to be sheer force of will.

At the same time, the right side of Hong Lu’s face looked as if it had been next to an explosion and considering the fact that shard’s of Gregor’s spine was lodged into it, that might as well have been true. Thankfully, his arms and legs were still functional, but the hole through his torso that was roughly the size of a Billiard Ball and the labored breathing that was slowly turning to a gurgle told Dante that Hong Lu was currently drowning in his own blood.

If they managed to survive this, Dante would be sure to do something nice for him.

However, with every passing second that If was becoming bigger and bigger.

Especially when Heathcliff charged in and was promptly sliced into four pieces, leaving Hong Lu alone.

A split second later, Sancho had ripped Hong Lu’s spear arm off before tearing his head off with the same ease typically reserved for opening a cabinet or grabbing some leftovers out of the fridge.

And then, only Dante was left.

Needless to say, they were doing their best to come up with some form of last words that weren’t some variation of “Fuck My Life”.

Then Sancho raised her lance and pointed it at the crimson clad manager of Limbus Company.

In response, all Dante said was “Oh! It gets worse. Yay.”

At the same time, Dante could swear they heard some form of metal clinking from behind them, however, more pressing events were holding their attention such as the lance that was about to run them through in a few seconds.

And so, Dante closed what they called their eyes to make their peace.

But then, a sound that could only be described as screaming reached their ears.

“Sorry Dante, your show isn’t over just yet. You and your clowns got a few stops left on tour.” you told the clock headed being as you held back Sancho’s lance with your gun, sparks flying as she tried to pierce through your weapon.

Dante was, understandably, shocked by this.

“I- wha- how!?” Dante screeched and ticked and whistled.

“Sorry. Don’t speak clock. Get out of here while you can. Bring back up if possible.” You grunted as you continued to try and hold Sancho back, but being pushed back in the process.

A split second later, Dante was running as fast as their legs could carry them.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Now, it was time… time to try and fight D-

No.

Not her.

This isn’t anyone you know right now, this is a target and you are on a job.

Primary Objective: Keep the target from killing Dante.

Secondary Objective: Live to tell the tale.

The target placed its second hand on the lance, further increasing the pressure you were holding back and, although you knew Dante had yet to fully get out of the target zone, you were being pushed back and were about to be overwhelmed.

“Desperate times, desperate measures.” you muttered to yourself before enacting your half baked plan that would have any Fixer moderately concerned about their well being taking a mental facepalm in shock of your stupidity.

However, before you could realize how absolutely mentally deficient your next action was, you slipped to the side and under the target’s lance and, at the same time, you raised your gun over your shoulder and towards the head of your opponent before firing twice, not truly expecting the bullets to find their targets but hoping that it would return control of the longer range towards yourself for a moment in an attempt to get your bearings. Not to mention you were hoping that it would keep the target focused on you instead of Dante.

At the same time, the bullets you fired at your target only managed to slip through its hair and so, in response, it swung its lance in a wide arc towards you that you only just barely managed to avoid having your eyes carved out by but, unfortunately, not the tip of the weapon slicing open the area from under your left eye and to under the right being sliced open down to the bone.

You barely even felt the wound open, your skin just gave way like paper before a sharp pair of scissors.

“It would be best to avoid getting hit unless I wanted to give my entrails some heavily polluted air.” you briefly thought to yourself as the familiar but unpleasant taste of iron reached your tongue.

However, for better or for worse, your target was now focused on you due to your retaliation.

Strangely though, it did not press the attack. It simply looked… not at you but past you.

Then, it spoke.

“I… do not wish to fight you.”

You let out a sigh before responding, your gun lowered to your side.

“Neither do I but… someone quite dear to me asked me a question a few hours ago. She asked me “If I became a monster that ate others, would you still love me?” and in response I told her that I would, but I would have to stop her and that it would break my heart to do so.”

Then, with a speed one would only typically find in lightning, you raised your gun and fired three shots.

Surprised, the target raised its lance, deflecting two of the shots but taking the third straight into her gut and forcing it to stagger back in shock at your sudden assault.

Pressing this advantage, you rushed forward, your free hand grabbing a handful of dirt, rocks, and other pieces of debris that you then threw into its eyes, blinding her for a moment that you used to fire your knee into the fresh wound before blasting three more shots into it all of which connected and sent it further backwards until it stabbed its lance into the ground, stopping the momentum you had forced onto it.

Then, it spoke once more.

“I see. It seems neither of us will be swayed.”

The target then raised its lance and stood up straight, the wounds you had inflicted slowly closing before your very eyes.

This was all the warning you received before, in the blink of an eye, the head of its lance was a split second from piercing your skull.

With less than no time to spare, you managed to avoid the blow. Receiving a new gash on your cheek in the process.

However, this was exactly what the target wanted as blood flowed into its empty hand, forming a sword before swinging it upwards, cutting a deep gash from your hip to your shoulder that immediately spouted blood onto the face of your attacker.

However, the look in its eyes told you all that you needed to know.

It had meant to slice you in two, but for some reason it couldn’t follow through.

Intending to rectify this mistake, it swung the blade down onto where your neck was a microsecond before.

Unfortunately for it, you had already leapt back and aimed your revolver, firing off several shots in quick sucsession. All of which it simply sliced out of the air with its sword.

Landing on your back and rolling back into a crouch, you raised your revolver as you placed your free hand over the deep wound you had just been gifted.

“Damn it all. Things are already going blurry.” you thought to yourself as you removed your hand from the wound and briefly hazarded a glance at your hand which, to your perspective, seemed to be multiplying.

Blood loss is a real bitch.

However, before you had much time to contemplate your next move, you heard the target speak.

“La Aventura Ha Terminado…”

You could feel the world change and the blood seeping from your wound being drawn away from you. Not to mention that the already dwindling and limited supply of blood in your body was being pulled in as well.

You forced your eyes to look up despite the fact that things had stopped going blurry and were now actively fading into black.

However, you still retained enough of your sight to see what was occurring before you.

What could only be described as a tornado of blood was forming in D- the target’s hand. Blood was being drawn from the earth, from the corpses of the sinners strewn about the battlefield, and from your own body into the singularity.

And so, despite the fact thoughts themselves were becoming difficult, you forced yourself to speak.

“Prepare a grave: Django…”

The spectral bandolier of bullets wrapped around your arm and over your shoulder once more for what you were sure to be the final time as you lined up the barrel of the gun with the heart of the target.

Every single fiber of your being was shutting down now.

You could feel your heart attempt to pump what was not there. You could feel your lungs try and oxygenate blood that, quite simply, didn’t exist in your body.

And yet, you still had strength for one more action.

One more pull of the trigger.

No hesitation could be had, no mistakes can be made.

“Farewell, my dearest love.” the target stated as the tornado took its form, a lance more than double her-

Damn it all.

“Adios, my most beloved knight.” was all you had left in you to say.

She leveled her lance at you, and charged.

You allowed your eyes to close, and pulled the trigger.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Things were dark for a long, long while.

You could catch snippets of words and conversations every now and then.

Half were technical gibberish you couldn’t understand, the others were so divorced from the context behind them they might as well be in a different language.

Eventually though, you managed to find the strength to open your eyes.

And the first thing you saw… were a pair of blood red eyes.

“So then, the dead have finally awakened.” Vergilius grumbled, doing his utmost best to mask the miniscule amount of relief he felt with a massive amount of irritation.

“Where-” You attempted to sit up but a wave of dizziness that made you feel like the entire world was on spin cycle put a stop to that.

“Where’s Don?” you asked after the world stabilized.

“She’s more than likely still locked up in her room. She hasn’t left since the mess in La Manchaland was put to a stop.” Vergillius answered before standing up from his chair.

“Rest for a moment. I’ll send one of the others to guide you to her later on.” the Color Fixer ordered, leaving no room for argument or retort before walking out of the room.

And so, seeing as the slightest movement currently made your whole world spin and shake, you did exactly what you were ordered to.

Lay down, and rest.

Sure, your mind was moving a million miles a minute, and you really wanted to have the comforting weight of your Gun right now, but there was nothing you could do.

It took all of five minutes for you to try and stand up again despite the world feeling like it was in a fucking blender.

Briefly, you mused that Don’s nature rubbed off on you.

However, before you had much time to think on that, you felt your legs give out from under you and you mentally prepared yourself to eat a nice helping of the floor.

Instead, you fell into someone that smelled faintly of sea, smoke, and iron.

“Outis?” you mumbled drearily as she guided you to sit on the edge of the bed you had woken up in.

“It seems it was a good thing the Manager asked me to check up on you. Yi Sang and Faust would be unhappy if all the hard work they did to keep you stable long enough for more extreme measures to arrive were tossed to the wayside.” the older woman told you as she pulled up the seat Vergilius was previously sitting in and reaching into her jacket, eventually pulling out a gun and offering it to you.

Your gun.

“Thank you for keeping an eye on it.” you said in thanks as you took it from her hand.

“Thanks are not needed. In the Smoke War those firearms were issued to officers but you seem a bit young to have served. I assume you found it somewhere?” Outis explained as she straightened her uniform.

“Yeah… under a dumpster about a year ago. Then the White Days And Dark Nights happened and… boom, an EGO by the name of Django for me. All thanks to this gun, and a single bullet.” you briefly recounted as you turned the gun over in your hands, earning a hum from Outis.

However, before the conversation continued any further, you heard a knock at the door.

“Come in!” you shouted, much to the aggravation of your still recovering body.

A moment later, Yi Sang stepped through the door.

“Good evening. Vergillius asked me to be your guide to Don Quixote’s room. He also told me to not make any puns lest I wish to suffer the pain of a thousand deaths.” Yi Sang declared with a stone face before smiling slightly and saying “Kidding.” which earned him a nasty look from Outis.

“I appreciate the thought, Yi Sang but…” you began before trailing off.

“A strong wind would be the death of you, much less supporting someone else’s weight.” Outis finished the thought, making Yi Sang’s shoulder’s droop slightly.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Three minutes and much headache later, you were being guided by Outis as Yi Sang struggled to help you along, his already pale face growing paler with every step.

You were pretty sure that by the time he got to Don’s room he would be about ready to keel over.

This prediction turned out to be true as, the second he had you propped up against the wall, he collapsed into a heap, taking in deep and ragged breaths.

Outis knocked on the door and received no response before trying the door, only to fail in the process of opening as it was locked.

Outis then gestured at the door, inviting you to attempt opening it.

A few moments later, you stood in front of the door and fired your gun before pounding on the door and shouting “Hey! You’ve got a visitor!”.

A split second later, as you were part way through pounding on the door, it opened and you fell into the room, chased by the shout of Outis and the wheezing screech of Yi Sang before they were blocked by the door slamming shut.

“Ugh, hello there Don.” you groaned as you rolled onto your back to face the woman who had put you in the infirmary, and the woman you had a great deal of affection for.

“W-why are sniff you here!?” Don attempted to shout, but her voice was far too hoarse from crying to attempt that.

“Well, someone exceedingly dear to me was in immense trouble and-” you began before being interrupted.

“NO! Why are you HERE!? Why did you come looking for me!? I nearly KILLED you!” Don screamed, tears now continuously streaming down her face.

You summoned all the strength you had left in you and forced yourself to your feet with a smile on your face before answering.

“Like I said, someone dear to me was in trouble. Besides, I promised her that she and I would have a nice day out when we got the chance.”

Don balled up her fists and looked down at her feet as she let out another body shuddering sob.

And then, in the blink of an eye, you were tackled to the ground, all of the air in you knocked out as Don screamed and sobbed into your chest.

And in response? You did the only thing you could.

You held her close, and you let her scream, and sob, and cry, until she couldn’t anymore.

And when she’s ready, you’ll help her up as many times as it takes because…

You know that she’d do the same for you.

Hell, she probably will one day.

And when that day inevitably comes, you know that she’ll be infinitely better at this than you are.

Why?

Because she’s The Valorous Fixer, Don Quixote.

[dwarfhorse]

p 1/??

Rune factory Guardians of Azuma

alrighty so this is gonna be a little lengthy because a lot was shown recently! however I'm typing on my tablet which is dying as I type and the sites won't load, forgive me for image sizes as I can't make them smaller.

first off, here's the new rune factory guardians of azuma trailer. accompanied with a release date of May 30, 2025. the game alone is 60$ USD while the limited edition is 100$ USD.

I'll get into characters in a minute, but we are seeing town building as well as being allowed to pick NPCs jobs (im assuming they're just store running NPCs with no storyline). and the trailer kind of gives pokemon graphics with genshin inspired mechanics. some mechanics also remind me of Pokemon legends Arceus. Keep in mind this is a sideline game, if I remember correctly they are working on 6, a mainline game. They are trying a totally new formula with this game and farming will still be included but not a main focus.

It seems there will be 2 romance routes locked behind dlc, and for the first time in a long time, the mcs will have their own distinctive personalities and the opposite of you pick will be romanceable.

Story: The Celestial Collapse — a calamity caused by a colossal object crashing into the eastern lands known as Azuma. The devastating impact sent fragments of terrain to the skies above and the seas below. With the earth shattered, the power provided by the runes ceased to flow. The gods of nature vanished soon after. Mountains crumbled and fields withered, leaving the people with nothing…not even hope. You awaken, startled by a dream of dueling dragons. You don’t remember how or why, but a voice resonates within you. "Accept the power of an Earth Dancer. Use this power to save the land.” Thus begins your lengthy journey to restore the gods…

now for characters:

Subaru (male mc) and Kaguya (fem mc)

Left his cold village in the northern part of Azuma on a mission to save the land. Childhood friends with Kaguya, who hails from the same hometown. Usually relaxed and easy-going. Enjoys gazing at the sky. While generally not a fan of battle, he has a strong sense of justice, and will fight fiercely to protect his friends and loved ones.

Left her cold village in the northern part of Azuma on a mission to save the land. Childhood friends with Subaru, who hails from the same hometown. Loves being in nature, especially interacting with animals and observing flowers. Although usually calm, she despises evil and resents any acts of injustice.

Woolby (mascot /sidekick)

The protagonist's loyal partner and guide. A bit of a braggart and a klutz. His gluttonous nature makes him susceptible to sweet bribes, especially dango.

Romance options, there are 16!

Iroha

The owner of Iroha's Teahouse in Spring Village. A friendly, caring young woman who dreams of revitalizing Spring Village and returning it to its former glory.

Murasame (they beefed him down in game sadly)

A samurai who wanders Azuma with the goal of becoming the world's greatest swordsman. Master of the Munen Muso sword style, which means "free from empty thoughts." Spends his days training and keeping his sword in good condition.

Hina

A half-human, half-fox were-animal who arrives in Azuma on an airship with Mauro. Claims to be an archaeologist. Childhood events instilled her with a strong desire to help others.

Mauro

A self-proclaimed treasure hunter from a foreign land who came to Azuma by airship in search of a legendary treasure. This sentimental soul is easily moved to tears.

Ulalaka

Azuma's kind, gentle god of spring and merriment. Her benevolence knows no bounds, and she simply wants everyone to live happy, peaceful lives.

Matsuri

Azuma's carefree god of summer and swords. Enjoys physical activities of all kinds. Despite being a master of the blade, she tends to solve problems with brute force instead.

Unfortunately I've hit the picture limit, so I'll have to make a part 2.

[hummingbird24220]

Hi! Can i request Zoro x male reader that is similar to Ahab from moby dick?

Helloooo! Thank you for the request! Ive not read or seen Moby Dick, so had a little google and i think i did okay with the personality. Let me know! Hope you like it :)

The One-Eyed and the One-Legged

Zoro x Male Reader

The sea was calm. Too calm.

The Straw Hats had met their fair share of eccentric allies and terrifying enemies. But none of them were like you.

You stood at the bow of your ship—The Harrower—your long coat flapping in the wind, peg leg locked steady against the wood. Your right arm, a prosthetic of strange alloys and rotating gears, shifted with a soft hiss, the fingers tightening into a three-pronged hook before unfurling again with mechanical grace.

Luffy had found you fascinating.

Zoro had found you infuriating.

You'd appeared out of nowhere, chasing a monstrous sea king that had once taken your leg and arm. You weren’t out for revenge, though—that would have been simple. No, you wanted to understand the thing that had maimed you. Hunt it. Face it again. It had become your obsession—like a ghost of iron and blood that wouldn't let go.

And somehow, you’d gotten yourself wrapped into the Straw Hats’ business. At least temporarily.

"You're gonna fall off the ship staring like that," Zoro muttered, leaning on the railing beside you as the Sunny cut through the waves.

You didn't look at him. "If the sea wants me back, she can come collect me herself."

Zoro scoffed. "You sound like Brook."

"I sound like a man who's been swallowed whole before and clawed his way back out."

He eyed your prosthetic arm as it shifted again—this time into a flintlock mode. No trigger. Just the shell of it. You liked to intimidate.

"That thing ever shut off?"

"Only when I'm asleep. Or dead. Which I’m not. Yet."

The tension between you crackled like a storm in the sky. You weren’t enemies. But you weren’t friends either. Not yet.

Chopper had examined your prosthetics with awe. You’d let him poke around, even grinning when he activated a grappling hook by accident and flew backward into Franky’s chest.

Nami didn’t trust you at first—but when you redirected a cannon blast mid-battle with your magnetic gauntlet mode, she begrudgingly gave you a smirk.

Sanji brought you coffee without asking. You never thanked him. He never minded.

Robin read your logbooks when you weren’t looking.

Luffy kept calling your ship a “metal whale,” and honestly, you liked that.

But Zoro?

Zoro challenged you the moment you stepped aboard.

“I don’t trust men who carry ghosts around,” he told you the night after your first shared battle.

“I don’t trust men who never ask questions,” you replied coolly.

It started with sparring.

You weren’t a swordsman. But your prosthetic arm had a curved, heated blade mode, and your fighting style was a strange hybrid of acrobatics, flamethrower bursts, grappling hooks, and raw ferocity. Your peg leg? Hollow and reinforced. It concealed a spring-loaded spear. You were like a walking weapon.

And Zoro respected strength.

But he hated restraint even more. And that’s what you were—an ocean of fury locked behind clever gears and cool words.

"You're holding back again," he snarled during a match.

"So are you," you said, panting, as the tip of his katana pressed to your throat. Your blade-arm hissed with heat, but didn’t move.

"...Why?"

"Because if I let go," you murmured, "I’ll fall. And I don’t know if I’ll come back up again."

Zoro blinked.

That was the moment things began to change.

On moonless nights, you found each other on the deck. Quiet. Tense. Close.

You once asked him: “What would you do if you lost your swords?”

He answered: “Get them back. Or die trying.”

You nodded. “Then you understand me more than most.”

The first time he kissed you, it was after you’d nearly drowned fighting the sea king again. It had returned—massive, scaled, older, cleverer. You leapt into its mouth with a bomb in hand. You carved your way out.

You collapsed onto the Sunny’s deck in a heap of blood, seawater, and metal. Zoro was the one who carried you to your quarters. He didn’t say anything. Not until you grabbed his collar.

“You mad?” you rasped, coughing.

“Of course I’m mad, you insane bastard,” he hissed. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

And then he kissed you—rough, angry, but real. You didn’t resist.

Your prosthetic fingers twitched at his jaw. Gentle.

“I didn’t say goodbye,” you murmured, “because I knew I’d come back.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Next time,” he growled, “you say goodbye anyway.”

Now, when you stand at the edge of the world, Zoro is often just a step behind.

Not to stop you. Not to guide you. But to remind you that you're not chasing ghosts alone anymore.

And if the sea comes calling again—well, she’ll have to take both of you this time.

[boxturret]

HOCOTATE SHIP DONE

Files for this model can be downloaded here.

I'm literally shaking

Around 50 parts, 78 Individual 3d printed parts, plus some off the shelf clear domes.

Detachable Research Pod!

And a spring loaded mechanism to deploy it!

It took like 10 months to make, but really that was a few weeks either end with a 9 month gap in between while I thought about paint and had a hurt back.

[deletedscenegirl]

Do you have any weird Hiccup head cannons that revolve around this leg?

I have one that he used to sleep with it off but had to start wearing it to bed because Snotlout and the Twins would have competitions about who could sneak into his hut undetected and take his leg.

OFCOURSE I HAVE HEADCANONS ABOUT HICCUP'S LEG

Hiccup Headcanons: The Leg Edition.

“in which Hiccup upgrades his prosthetic more often than he sleeps, hides lockpicks in the heel, and once used it as a glider—because when you lose a limb, you make it your most dangerous weapon.”

⚙️ canon Hiccup headcanons · chaos disguised as engineering 🛠️ emotional metalwork · quiet rituals · weaponized inconvenience

1. He makes annual upgrades on his birthday

Every year, like clockwork, Hiccup takes a full day alone in the Forge to redesign, tweak, or reinvent part of his leg. It’s his personal ritual — not for function, but control. Some years it’s minor (lighter screws). Some years it’s wild (experimental auto-spring in the ankle that launched him into a wall).

2. He never lets Gobber touch it

Despite Gobber forging the original, Hiccup refuses to let anyone else repair or adjust it. Even Astrid. Especially Astrid. If someone asks, he says, “You wouldn’t let someone else sharpen your sword blindfolded, would you?”

3. He hides lockpicks inside the heel

For emergencies. He’s Hiccup Haddock. Emergencies follow him like loyal pets. He once escaped a prison cell by unscrewing the footplate and pulling out a tiny blade, a lockpick, and a folded map.

4. The knee joint clicks when he’s nervous

Not loudly — but in silent rooms, people close to him know. Astrid hears it during war briefings. Fishlegs hears it when dragons go missing. It’s like his version of pacing, but mechanical.

5. He once replaced the sole with a spring-loaded glider blade

For vertical lift during a long-range flight maneuver. It worked once. He never used it again. (He did, however, scream “INVENTION” while flying upside down for three whole seconds.)

6. He’s permanently cold on that side

The metal transfers heat poorly, and he quietly developed a habit of sleeping curled up, with a hot brick or dragon near his left side. Toothless sometimes presses his warm belly against the leg without being told.

7. He dreams in two steps

In his sleep, Hiccup still walks with two steps — flesh leg, then metal clank. It's become part of his body rhythm, even in dreams. If it’s ever missing in a dream, he wakes up disoriented.

8. There’s a tiny rune etched inside the knee joint

It's not visible to anyone. It’s not for show. Just a small Norse rune for “strength through loss,” engraved the week after Stoick died. He’s never spoken about it.

9. He uses it as a paperweight

When drawing schematics in windy weather, Hiccup takes the leg off and slams it on the corner of the paper. Ruffnut calls it “the Stump Stamp.” Hiccup calls it “multifunctional design.”

10. He’s never tripped over it by accident—but has tripped others on purpose

There’s a certain pivot he can do mid-spin that makes the leg stick out like a trap. He once used it to trip Snotlout mid-insult. Claimed it was “a mechanical misfire.” It wasn’t.

[ja1-d3n]

You Should Tear Apart My Mind || Fog OPEN

Booting... Leaving sleep mode...

Purple LEDs flicker open to see a bedroom that is familiar... Just with a weird overlay on top. A screen, almost, statuses of various things around the room displayed right behind these eyes... For Jaiden to see.

She blinks heavily, feeling like it was the haze of sleep, maybe the remnants of a dream perhaps! She even brings her hands up to rub her eyes and--

CLUNK

Metal hits glass, and Jaiden's "eyes" flicker open again to take in the sight of... Mechanical hands?! What??! She springs out of bed, her metal stilts clanking against the floor as she rushes to her bathroom, taking a gaze at herself in the mirror.

Oh. Oh my god. Her eyes are literal purple LED lights on a black background. They emote freely with her emotions. Her hair is fluid, but its not...Hair. Her whole body is metal-- The proportions are insane! What's going on?!--

Smoke starts fizzling slowly out of Jaiden as she starts to hyperventilate, even without lungs. Suddenly, a warning flashes across her eyes. An audible voice in her head.

You are overheating.

Jaiden scrambles out of her bathroom and out of her room, down the stairs of Theta and out the front doors in a frenzy. The cool fall air and the mist of the fog hits her metal frame, and the sudden change in temperature--

kkkHHR--whrrrrrrr....

Jaiden short circuits, a mix of shock of the sudden temperature change in her servos plus the overload of emotional information causes her system to go into emergency shutdown. She falls to her knees, sitting back on her stilts, and her head droops down. A loading symbol lights up on the screen on her face, just circling around itself.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1970 Chrysler 300 Hurst

One of the great unknowns about the 1970 Chrysler 300 Hurst is exactly how many cars were built. Estimates put the total as low as 485, and as high as 502 cars. Regardless of what the figure actually is, the car itself is a pretty special piece of machinery.

The 300 Hurst is a giant of a car at 19′ in length. All of the Hursts rolled off the production line finished in Spinnaker White. The cars were then shipped to the Hurst factory in Warminster, Pennsylvania, where a substantial transformation was performed. The first change to be made was the removal of the standard Chrysler steel hood skin, which was replaced with a fiberglass unit. This featured a decorative hood scoop and the obligatory set of recessed hood locks. The deck lid was also removed, and once again, a fiberglass replacement, complete with a spoiler integrated with the rear quarter panels, was also installed. The White paintwork was complimented by the addition of Satin Tan highlights and contrasting pinstripes, and the wheels were adorned with the same Satin Tan color in the centers. This Hurst is a clean car, with a small area of rust visible in the lower section of the driver’s side front fender, and surface corrosion present on the car’s underside. The Spinnaker White paint appears to be in good condition, but there has been some deterioration of the Satin Tan paint on both the hood and the deck lid. The exterior trim and chrome all look good, while the tinted glass is close to perfect.

The 300 Hurst was a premium car at a premium price, so naturally, it required a premium interior. In this case, seat upholstery was available in a single type and color. Continuing the exterior theme, the color is Saddle Tan, and the material is leather. The plush front seats are not standard 300 items but have been pilfered from the Imperial parts bin. While the original intention was for a Hurst shifter to be part of the interior features, this is something that never eventuated. The interior of this Hurst is close to perfect, with a single discolored spot on the dash pad being the most obvious fault. The rest of it presents in virtually as-new condition, and as befits a luxury car, it is loaded with luxury touches. These include air conditioning, power windows, six-way power seats, cruise control, a remote trunk release, and I think that there also might be an 8-track player hanging under the dash.

The 300 Hurst was the biggest of the muscle cars, and as such, it needed a big motor to get it moving. In this case, it is the TNT 440 engine, pumping out 375hp. The Hurst also features a 727 TorqueFlite transmission, a 3.23 rear end, power steering, power brakes, heavy-duty rear springs and front torsion bars, and sway bars. The exhaust was a full dual system, ending in quad tips. This Hurst hasn’t seen a lot of recent use, and documentation confirms that between 1986 and 2019, it managed to accumulate a grand total of 20 miles! Since being removed from its climate-controlled storage, it has undergone a meticulous mechanical check and recommissioning, and it is now said to run and drive perfectly. The owner does suggest that while the tires look good, they are pretty olds, and replacing them might be a good idea. He also says that the Hurst may need mufflers fairly soon. The car does come with a fair collection of documentation, including the original Build Sheet and Window Sticker, a pristine Certi-Card, Owner’s Manual, as well as dealer paperwork and other assorted items.

While there has always been some question surrounding the build totals for the 1970 300 Hurst, one thing is certain, and that is that there are less than 300 cars in existence today. Pristine examples can fetch sums in excess of $30,000, and even a rough example in need of restoration can still sell for anywhere around $13,000. This one doesn’t need a major restoration, but it does require some cosmetic work. I’m not sure where bidding is eventually going to go with this one, but I would suspect that it will be somewhere around the low to mid $20,000 mark. Even at that price, it probably wouldn’t be a bad buy.

[republicsecurity]

Control Collar

The control collar used by Enforcer Conscripts is a compact, high-tech device designed for subduing and controlling attackers or resisting individuals. It represents a blend of advanced engineering and practical enforcement needs, tailored to the dystopian setting of the Republic. Here’s a detailed description based on the context:

Design

Appearance:

The collar is sleek and predominantly matte black with metallic accents. Its design reflects the austere, utilitarian aesthetic of the Security Forces.

It has a segmented structure that allows it to expand and contract to fit around different neck sizes.

Material:

Made from a durable, lightweight alloy combined with flexible polymers. It is resistant to physical damage and tampering.

The inner lining is padded with a material that ensures a secure grip but minimizes discomfort to avoid unnecessary harm.

Size:

Compact when folded, roughly the size of a fist. It unfolds into a circular collar that can be applied quickly.

Markings:

Engraved with a small alphanumeric code for inventory and tracking.

Displays a faint glow when activated, usually in blue or red, depending on the mode.

Functionality

Application:

Designed to be deployed quickly in high-pressure situations. It uses a spring-loaded mechanism that snaps securely into place around the neck.

Enforcer suits often feature a compartment for easy storage and access to the collars.

Control Interface:

Operated wirelessly through the Enforcer’s HUD or a wrist-mounted device. Controls include activation, intensity adjustment, and deactivation.

Includes fail-safes to prevent unauthorized use or accidental activation.

Features:

Electrostimulation: Can emit controlled electrical pulses to immobilize the wearer temporarily. The intensity can be adjusted to suit the situation.

Vocal Disruption: Capable of emitting frequencies that suppress vocal cords, preventing the individual from shouting or calling for help.

Tracking: Equipped with a GPS and biometric sensors to monitor the wearer’s location and vital signs.

Tamper Detection: Alerts the operator if tampering is detected. Tampering triggers a warning pulse.

Safety Measures:

Automatically deactivates if it detects critical health parameters, such as a risk of cardiac arrest or asphyxiation.

Features a quick-release mechanism in emergencies, controlled by the Enforcer or a command override.

[punkpandapatrixk]

Full Cold Moon in Cancer ♦︎ Moon Magick Pick A Card

Happy New Year~!🍀It’s January already but, gosh, aren’t we all still preparing for the spring equinox this year🍓That’s when the real new year begins, aenergetically~🎍

The Full Cold Moon on 26th December carried a theme surrounding Home and Hearth. It touches on our IC (Imum Coeli) and 4th House in our natal chart. The IC tells us who we are when no one’s watching, and after we become super clear about that, it helps us realise what kinds of company are legitimately good for our sense of belonging in this mortal world.

Your IC can literally shed light unto the reasons you feel alone and separated from the people around. The Full Cold Moon in Cancer—ruler of the 4th House—invites us to take a look at our sense of familyship whilst being incarnate on Earth.

People on this Planet have been struggling with an immense sense of loneliness since the introduction of social media; isn’t that strange? How is it that the more people we’re able to connect with the more miserable we feel on the inside? Well, isn’t it clear that social media has helped us become more aware of what’s truly FAKE when it comes to human connections?💍

Our IC deeply craves real familial connections. Moving forward, wouldn’t you rather entertain soul-based friendships that really care about your wellbeing as a Human being? This Cold Full Moon in Cancer, you’re invited to once again die to everything and everyone that doesn’t make you feel seen, heard, respected, or wanted👻

Fake connections, whether online or offline, can go fuck ‘emselves🥢

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – The Choice to be Free Has Always Been Yours to Make

i d e n t i t y – Knight of Pentacles

Others may think you are mad, but you of all people know there is method to your madness. More than everybody else gives you credit for, you’re actually somebody who’s very strategizing. You are careful with your plans and you think very many things through before you execute your plan. Others simply do not understand this mechanism in your brain because you’re quite unique, quite unorthodox even. This Full Cold Moon, you are invited to ponder if the source of your misery is actually other people’s beliefs about you rather than your actual incapability.

Just because you’re following a strange path of your own doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. Weirdos throughout history have changed societies for the better. We should all be thankful to weirdos—and especially, WITCHES. Did you know that WAY TOO MANY of our advances in science and medicine were actually done by witches? They burnt and hanged the witches and took credit for all of their hard work. Tsk tsk tsk… I raise my cup to all y’all witches who’s working to blast open new pathways for the rest of Mankind🍸Keep doing you. Keep going because spring will surprise you with loads of delights~🍬

s e r e n i t y – Queen of Pentacles Rx

You’re a helpful soul, that much is apparent. But you’ve got to learn some discernment so that you don’t get taken advantage of very easily. What the Queen of Pentacles in reverse is trying to show you is that, unfortunately, too many people in this world don’t even deserve to be helped. Not by you, at least. Unless you’re getting paid for rehabbing messed up people, let them deal with their own mess and grow up from it. Ultimately the Queen of Pentacles Rx is cautioning you against letting messed up people in your inner circle because these types of people are gonna bring their mess into your Life.

You get to decide, with your skilled discernment, who’s worth helping, fighting for; who’s worth keeping because they give you just as much affection. If, in order to keep serenity in your world you must look like a stingy bitch, let it be. Be selective with who you give your time and money to. Make sure you aren’t sucked dry of spiritual aenergy yourself. Your Higher Self and team of Spirit Guides are saying, this whole winter you’ve got shit to manifest—big, big shit. Preserve your precious aenergy so you can manifest real, long-lasting results~!🌳

f a m i l y – 8 of Cups Rx

Having said all of that, this card is saying: don’t easily walk away from things and endeavours that you know from deep within your heart matter. I think you’re so dreamy and floaty that you could have a hard time being realistic when it comes to the physical manifestation of your real desires. You could think, since they’re unrealistic, you might as well give up and choose to focus on other more pragmatic pursuits. If you must leave, leave the people and environments that don’t support your heart’s desires—don’t leave the desires and end up becoming very unhappy with yourself! After all, with your already methodical mind, you actually have all the power in you to bridge your dreams to Reality.

That’s why, honey, the freedom to be free has always been in your mind. Now you’ve just got to make the right decision—what kind of freedom is real freedom to you? The freedom to choose to kowtow to societal expectations or the freedom to walk your own path no matter how lonely (at first)?

‘If you end up with a boring miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it.’ – Frank Zappa

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – Art and Romanticism Have Always Been an Important Part of Your Heart

i d e n t i t y – 9 of Cups

You have many dreams, but if there’s one thing, you’ve always dreamt to be independent, doing your dreamy things in your dreamy space. I think you’re the kind of person who’d be considered a quiet eccentric. You have many interests and hobbies, and you’re quite sensitive about having your me-time uninterrupted. I think you could erupt if someone walks in on your serious activity and startle you or if someone in your family tells you to go and do something in the middle of your reading. That kinda vibe. You’re quite a loner, actually. You’re super weird tho XD Do you maybe identify as an autistic kid, fam?

Anyway, please know that this Full Cold Moon is inviting you to ponder more deeply about your place amongst Humans. I have a feeling you don’t really like Humans or at least, you find human interactions absolutely exhausting, for the most part. If you know this blog, you know already how much I prize individuality and being alone if it means peace of mind and faster manifestations LOL BUTT!! In this reading, I’m getting that many of you may want to ponder yet again how you interact with people, especially those closest to you because sometimes, there really are people who care about your wellbeing more than you realise.

s e r e n i t y – 10 of Cups Rx

Many of you choosing this Pile probably haven’t got a nice family background. Of course, there are a million scenarios for each person but for the most part, I sense that you’ve felt familial connections to be emotionally unsatisfying. That’s why you seek emotional fulfilment in this multitude of hobbies and interests. Clearly you’re a very intelligent person, that much I’d like to iterate. And so, this reading seeks to validate your feelings about your eccentricity.

Art and all those dramatic things have always been integral to your sense of identity. I really think you should indulge, as long as whatever dramatic things you enjoy aren’t detrimental to your mental or physical wellbeing. If you happen to be the type that’s already doing detrimental things in your pursuit of an emotional high, this card is suggesting you pause breathe and eat before you go after another round of pursuing that high.

f a m i l y – Page of Cups Rx

When you’re pausing, you can cry. Accepting our emotions and acknowledging that they make us Human usually comes with a sense of grieving for all the ways we’ve thought ourselves as being in the wrong. There’s not a thing fundamentally wrong with you, it’s the people around you that have made you feel like you can’t communicate with them with striking vulnerability. And if these experiences have caused you to bear a lot of dark thoughts or negative emotions, I’d like you to know it happens to the best of us.

You could literally turn your pains into art, if anything. If you’ve chosen this Pile as your main pile, know that the pain you’ve experienced through human connections could be turned into art and that your Art has the capacity to heal those who come into contact with its backstory. And this, totally will have a significant place on the world stage because, as you can see, human interactions in recent years have gotten weirder and weirder in some capacity. So many people are hurting from getting disappointed by the…government and celebrities? LOL

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – Princess Kaguya, Is That You?

i d e n t i t y – 2 of Cups Rx

At the core of your being, you’ve always been different in that your heart is a lot purer, your morality is criminally significantly higher, you’re compassionate and can empathise with people on a level that’s beyond the comprehension of most others. The way you’ve experienced this Human Reality is incomparable to what most others have known. Basically, you’re an alien! And that’s an incredibly modest thing to say about you.

What you genuinely wish to see manifest in this world is vastly more high-vibrational than most people would even care to think about. I hope you accept that you are genuinely such a good person when you’re in your best element. What’s really difficult to maintain is your faith in people, for the most part, because you haven’t really met anyone who’s capable of giving their heart to you as deeply as you’ve given yours. This whole experience has broken your spirit and faith in a lot of things.

s e r e n i t y – 9 of Pentacles

And thus, you’ve carved out a Life of your own, quite separate from most people you’ve ever known. I’m sure you’ve burnt a lot of bridges up until just recently, and I sense, many of you simply know there’s still a few more to burn going forward. This is your confirmation that you’ve done the right thing. In this Human world, too many people buy into the idea that to be good is to be social; but you’ve experienced firsthand that that’s often not the case. You know firsthand that many people’s demons get activated by some weird connections to other people’s demons. And you don’t like that.

So you made a decision to walk away from most aspects of social life and worked your butt off to polish your skills. Some of you have spent many years studying; some of you have spent very many months working on a glow-up; some of you have deepened your spiritual prowess and connected to higher realms; basically, you’ve died and become a ghost… Springtime will bring you the resurrection you deserve, bitch!🎍

f a m i l y – King of Cups

About your Soul Fam though, I feel that travel is highly indicated for you. Some of you, you could be meeting a Soul Fam member during travels, but for the majority of you, this aenergy is giving the idea that you’re literally meant to travel the world or live abroad, perhaps even for the rest of your lives. Highly advanced souls can often have a narrative in which they’re expected to die on a land different from the one they were born into. So, if you’ve been thinking of moving to a different country or state, this is your confirmation that it is indeed part of your soul scenario.

Thanks to modern travel, it’s so easy for highly advanced souls to connect with their true Family members from different countries and that’s something we’re glad about LOL If you’ve ever wondered whether you’re going to die alone and sad, that’s totally not the case. If anything, you have so many Soul Fam members who are going to be just as highly spiritual, profoundly dreamy and vastly empathetic as you are. You’re going to be very glad when the time comes for Soul Families to reunite in the upcoming couple of years~ YAY~!

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

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