#danger cobalt;

[artlasllm]

Say hello to Team Foxglove, catch them in action at the "Ultra Tournament" in the Aqua Arenas District, 11/21/25! Led by the reclusive Cobalt Zaffre, now back after a 5 month hiatus from tournament fighting! Featuring anonymous gladiators "The Silver Fox" and "Razzle Dazzle", as well as 1v1 Zodiac Tournament newcomer, "The Biohazard" Ali Rhodes! Will Cobalt Zaffre secure his first win since his ultimate 16 tournament win streak was broken at the Gemini Tournament? Or will another team secure the prize and glory?

Hiya everyone! Today (7/23/24) I had an epic chat with a beloved friend about SUL's Arc 2 finale, and I got inspired to make a lil tourney promo image for Arc 2's finale arc ;w;

Ali is actually graciously donated to the SUL universe by my buddy @wolf-of-hearts ! Happy to have inspired a SUL version of one of your guys, and excited to utilize him for some juicy plot someday!

[shadesofmauve]

Colors!

My thumb's been fucked up by a steroid shot to the point where I can't hold a pen to draw, but the light touch of a watercolor brush is mostly okay, and I had dot cards for Daniel Smith and DaVinci paints, so I've spent the last few weeks unleashing my manic color goblin.

Friends, I've painted so many happy little rectangles. And it has been a journey.

I've found that one of the most-referenced sources for pigment lightfastness is a hard-coded website straight out of the 90s that also talks about UFOs and human evolution. (I don't know what the guy says about human evolution, because I'm afraid to find out, but it makes me very happy that a site like that still exists).

I've learned you can make lovely purples with a cool red and phthalo green, which actually MAKES SENSE, I GUESS, but is still a bit weird and awesome even though I understand the color theory.

I've painted with the Danger Colors.

(Cobalt, manganese, chromium, and cadmium. DO NOT LICK).

I've finally spelled phthalo often enough that I can remember it!

And I've fallen deeply, desperately in love, then had my heart broken.

It's name was DaVinci Phthalo Turquoise (pigment code PB16). When I painted it out it was beautiful; smoothly flowing into a perfect fade, the deepest, most inviting pool of cool, saturated perfect teal. I burst into song. A choir of angels descended to sing backup vocals. I never used to believe in love at first sight, but I was wrong.

...then it dried.

It dulled so much. It was still fine. Nothing special, but fine. Whatever. I'm over it. I am a strong, independent artist. I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.

There's still all the other colors. Colors that didn't betray me. Much.

Here, Monkey is helping model the last swatch tests, which helped me choose which cool red to buy. The phone doesn't capture all the nuance, but they also started out fairly close. (I went with column 3, DaVinci's PV19 quinacridone rose madder).

So... if you're one of those tenacious, patient people who follows my fic, and you've been wondering why I haven't posted, I suppose I really just have one thing to say:

Colors go brrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

[jasperandhenryslovechild]

may god strike me down if im wrong but i am of the firm belief that nickelodeon will utter a word, nay, even a BREATH about the henry danger movie on july 26th, 2024. the ten year anniversary of henry danger. now i fear i am wrong but i am PRAYING I WONT BE WRONG. PLEASE. PLEASE I NEED THE MOVIE I NEED MORE CONTENT I NEED TO BE MORE DELUSIONAL OHMYGOD PLEASE LET JULY BE MY MONTH

[wanderingmind867]

Iron Man never fought the Cobalt Man, did he? Missed opportunity. They seem like natural foes. Also, what's with the 60s fear of cobalt. It's in all these stories. Was it radioactive or something? (X-Men #31):

[talesfromlissom]

Cobalt King - 6

Summary -

'You squeeze both of your hands onto the handle, planting your feet on the ground and tugging. Leaning with your body weight in the process. The door snaps open, and you stumble backward, nearly falling in the process.

You peek your head into the vehicle, and for a quick second, you think you have just fallen for a trap. But you’re wrong. You’re so damn wrong.'

TDLR - You find a baby in a rusted car while on a supply run, and single-handedly break every rule that’s kept you alive for the past 20 years. Oh, and his metaphorical dad wants to beat your ass.

[atlasifyllm]

🥊❤️🍎 for Cobalt

🥊 -What do they love to do? What do they hate to do?

I feel like I'm unsure if I can answer this question, since it's kind of his entire character arc to explore what he really wants to do with his life; even I'm not sure what his "Point B" is yet.

A more simplistic answer though; he enjoys doing typography in his sketchbooks, video games, collecting blades... but he hates specifically going to the airport. This is more of an item than an activity he hates doing, but he also hates rain. Rain and airports are sensory hell for him, poor guy 😭😭

❤️ - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

Once again I'm not sure if I can name anything specific due to spoilers (I want to do SUL as a cartoon someday, after all) but I think his favorite memories come from that brief period of time where he's officially dating Rina but before he starts getting worn down from his new tournament fighting career. It'd be the one era of his life where he feels on top of the world, getting the girl of his dreams and a career people can only dream of.

🍎 - What is the OC’s relationship w/their parents like?

Honestly, Cobalt has the healthiest relationship with their parents in comparison to the rest of the Paladins 😭😭

He started off as an "odd" baby, having the power of two entire souls within him; also blatant autism. His parents really wanted to make the best life for him since he's incredibly emotionally sensitive and gets overwhelmed by his own powers when he's a kid who barely has control over them!

I imagine in modern day he's moved out of his parents' place solely from getting lots of $$$ from his tournament fighting career, but his parents are always checking in on him, especially after his multiple near-fatal injuries.

[kanvria]

congo, sudan and palestine are going trough genocides and they need our support, please continue to share as much as you can

here are more information about what’s happening in congo and sudan and palestinestudies is a great resource to continue to keep up with what’s happening in palestine

if you have more credible ressources feel free to share

let’s celebrate the citizens of palestine, congo and sudan and remember the silent heroes who are fighting alone for their rights, to preserve their lives and their culture

what's history has shown is that no matter how armed colonizers and governments are, people coming together and fighting for what's right - our rights will always be more powerful than any army can ever be

the people from sudan to congo to palestine will be free

more information about congo and this great documentary about the danger of cobalt mining, more about sudan and what’s happening in tigray, some pages to follow for palestine: eye.on.palestine, and timesofgaza

[navybrat817]

Back to the Office

Pairing: Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You got back to the office to get your phone and stumble upon something you shouldn't have seen.

Word Count: Over 2k

Warnings: Dark AU, minor character death, mention of blood, threat of violence, kidnapping, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: More Beach Fun Nonsense! Hope you lovelies enjoy. @youdontknow-things requested Bucky and a visit Under the Boardwalk (dark) with prompt #28 in bold. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You quietly entered the building and sighed when you caught the time on the clock nearby. Most of the lights were off since everyone was gone for the night, but you didn't mind since you wouldn't be there for long. You just couldn't believe you made it all the way home before you realized that you forgot your phone, too preoccupied with reading a new book on the train. It was a downside of having to go into the office three days a week. Now you’d have to rush to make dinner or order out once you got back.

At least your desk was on the first floor and you could work from home tomorrow.

You passed by a few cubicles and shook your head once you made it to yours. It wasn't much, but it was still your space. “There you are,” you muttered, your phone sitting right beside your keyboard where you left it. Grabbing it, you smiled to yourself when you saw a text from your mom. She was always checking on you.

Just as you were about to respond, you noticed a dim light out of the corner of your eye. It was coming from your boss’s office. You should've known he was still there since it wasn't unusual for him to stay late. He was the kind of boss who showed up first and left last. He also had a good sense of humor to balance out his hard work ethic.

You walked down the hall before you could stop yourself and knocked twice on the cracked open door. He didn't say anything, but his rule was you could always go in if the door wasn't shut and locked. “You know, the company won't go under if you go home,” you giggled as you pushed the door open completely.

Your laughter died in your throat when you saw your boss facedown on the floor in a pool of his own blood. The sight and coppery scent that filled the room made your stomach roll and you tried to force air into your lungs as your phone fell from your hand. You felt paralyzed, unable to go to his side to check his pulse. But from how still his body was, you sensed he was dead.

What happened to him?

“You aren't supposed to be here.”

A deep and oddly pleasant voice you didn't recognize drew your attention past the body to the desk. A tall man clad in black from head to toe met your wide-eyed stare with a soft smile. With cobalt eyes, long dark hair, and broad shoulders, you would've found yourself attracted to him in any other scenario. But this stranger exuded danger.

You were in trouble.

“W-Who are you?” You asked, unable to keep your voice even. “What happened to him?” You added, not wanting to outright accuse him of anything.

He tilted his head. “I’d tell you, but…” He winked, the rest of the statement hanging in the air as the tension skyrocketed.

I’d have to kill you.

Your legs shook before you took one step back. The second step you took made him frown. The third stepped he moved toward you. You turned and ran as fast as your feet could carry you. If he caught you, would you end up in a pool of your own blood, too?

Blame it on fear or disorientation, but you took off in the wrong direction. Instead of heading toward the front of the building like you should've, you went straight toward the supply closet at the other end. Your hand shook as you locked it behind you, your legs giving out as you caught your breath.

Fear raced down your spine as you cowered on the floor, blankly staring at the door in front of you as you hugged your knees to your chest. You bit your lip and tried not to make a sound when slow footsteps approached. Maybe there was a chance that the man didn't see where you went. It was a stupidly optimistic thought.

And you couldn't believe you dropped your phone. You could've tried to call or text someone for help. Would it have done you any good though? By the time anyone got there…

“I know you're still here and I’m sorry. I was kidding with that whole ‘I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you’ implication. Bad joke given the circumstances.” His voice rang out clearly through the door. “Bet you’ve never seen a dead body before. I know it can be quite a shock.”

The image of your boss dead in his office was one that would haunt you.

“Everyone calls me Bucky,” he said, so casually that it unnerved you. How was he so calm? “It's a nickname.”

You never heard your boss or anyone around the office mention someone named Bucky. It was a name you would've remembered since it wasn't exactly common. What did he want?

“I was sent here to kill your boss. As you can see, I succeeded,” he continued when you didn’t respond, his voice slightly louder. Closer. “I’m very good at my job.”

You whined, tears burning your eyes. Your boss was kind to everyone. He had a family. Why would anyone want to cause him harm?

“Bet you didn't know he was mixed up with some bad people. Ones who aren't so forgiving with anyone who tries to steal from them. Of course you wouldn’t know. Why would you?” He mused.

Your heart pounded when he stopped in front of the door, his feet blocking out some of the light that came through. You backed up more as if that would help you. Whatever your boss was mixed up in, it didn't justify killing him.

“Sorry you had to see the aftermath. Like I said though, you weren't supposed to be here,” he went on, knocking twice on the door and making you jump. “Can’t say I’m entirely upset that you're here. My team and I like to be thorough when we research our clients. So, naturally, we have a file on you.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming or yelling at him. He didn't really have a file on you, did he? He was just toying with you. He had to be.

But when he spoke your name like honey on his tongue, you knew he was serious.

“Been working here for what? A few years now? Kind to everyone at the office. Their ‘go-to’ when they need help, but you’re underappreciated. No one even thanked you for that cake you brought in earlier this week.” Your stomach dropped when he chuckled. How did he know? “And you haven't gone on a date in about six months. Bet you're pent up. I can help with that.”

Your skin crawled, but you stayed quiet. Your life didn't concern him. Except in a strange way it did. Because your life was now in his hands.

A sigh came from the other end of the door. “I know you won't believe me, but I won't kill you. You’re innocent in this. I do have to take you with me though because I can't trust that you won't go to the cops. Can't have loose ends. You understand that, right?” Bucky said, his tone almost pleading with you to see it his way before he knocked twice again. “So open the door.”

No. You couldn't go with him. The man was a killer. “I won't go to the cops,” you promised once you lowered your hand from your mouth. You just wanted to go home. “I won't tell anyone what I saw.”

He chuckled again. “You’re so cute. And you're a good girl, aren't you?”

Heat spread up your neck. “Please, if you just-”

“You have two options. First option, you stay in there and I break down the door. If I have to do that, I'll drag you to my car, throw you in the trunk, and chain you up in the basement once we get to my home.” Fear shot through your body. “I'll feed you bread and water so that you don't starve, but it'll keep you weak enough that you won't be able to run far or fight back should you get out of your chains. Who knows how long I’ll keep you down there?”

Your mouth parted in horror and you wondered if he could hear how hard your heart pounded through the door.

“Oh. And I'll go through the contacts on your phone and start killing them off. One by one.” He paused when you choked on a sob. “I'll start with your mom and dad.”

Squeezing your eyes shut didn't stop a tear from falling. “Please, don't,” you begged. You couldn't let anything happen to them.

“Now that's the first option,” he said in a gentler tone. “The second? You open the door and come with me. I'll hold your hand while you sit beside me in the car and I'll make sure you're nice and comfortable when I take you into my home. I’ll feed and care for you, and your loved ones will be safe.”

A shuddering breath left your lungs. Going with him willingly was the lesser of two evils. “If I go with you, you really won't hurt my family or friends?”

“You have my word, doll face.”

He could snap your neck the second you opened the door. He certainly looked strong enough to end your life without breaking a sweat. Could you trust him to keep his word? Did it matter? You sealed your fate the second you came back to the office.

At least if you went with him, there was no reason for him to hurt anyone else, right?

“You said you had a team. What about them?” You asked, sniffling as another tear fell. Would they want you dead?

He cooed, like it would comfort you in a sense. “Don't worry about my team. They’ll be here soon to take care of the mess, but they won't lay a finger on you. You have my word for that, too. Just open the door.”

If you let too much time pass, he’d likely make good on his promise to break down the door and everything else after. “Okay, Bucky,” you said, as if saying his name would humanize him. You pushed yourself to your feet, wiped your eyes, and reached for the door handle. “I’m going to trust that you’ll keep your word.”

You barely had the door open before he reached in and grabbed your arm, yanking you out so you were nearly pressed up against him. Instead of pain like you expected, it was surprisingly gentle. His iron grip wasn't breakable though and there was no use in fighting. He won. Both of you knew it.

“I like how you say my name,” he smirked, holding up your phone before he pocketed it. You made a sound before he shushed you. “I won’t hurt them since you came out here willingly, but I can’t exactly give your phone back to you now, can I?”

“I guess not.” You swallowed, your throat dry. He pulled you close and you wished you could pull away. “When will you let me go?” You asked, hoping in your heart that he'd grow bored of having you around and set you free.

His brows furrowed, confused by your question. “Never,” he stated.

A single word snuffed out the hope like an extinguished flame on a candle.

“Never?” You whispered, fear filling you all over again when you looked into his eyes. You saw your future in them, something dark and cold. You longed to feel warm. “But my-”

“I have my very own doll to play with now, so why would I let you go? Oh, don't be so tense. I promised I’d take care of you.” With a loving smile, he used the other hand to caress your cheek. You would've collapsed in a heap if he wasn't holding you. “Let’s go home.”

Home to him. A prison to you. All because you just had to go back to the office.

So, that happened. Maybe we can revisit this yandere-like Bucky in the future? What do we think? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[essektheylyss]

Absolutely OBSESSED with the progression of cataloguing in Critical Role, like:

Campaign 1: the Slayer's Take, religious institutions containing dangerous threats that must be hidden away. utilitarian, standard fantasy fare.

Campaign 2: the Cobalt Soul, extensive global networks of knowledge collection, collation, and dissemination. commentary on the importance of knowledge keepers and its relationship to corruption.

Campaign 3: the absolute most BUCKWILD personal collections you've ever seen in your life. hoarder territory. if there's a cataloguing system it is HIGHLY specific to its creator. what is real and and what is fake. opens up to metanarrative commentary on organization of knowledge and archival that I WILL be writing a dissertation on in five years, research funding be fucking damned.

[artlasllm]

and the winner of the sluttiest shade of blue poll is...

INDIGO!!!

To celebrate his absolute SWEEP, I decided to draw the winners (my personified color OCs) as various "slutty" outfits...

First Place: Tarum! I'm impressed that Indigo swept the competition because... Tarum actually just dresses like that 😭😭 I didn't have to change much about him to draw them as the winner LMAO

Second Place: Cyan in the manwhore sweater! I asked my friends what first place should get and... considering Tarum dresses even SLUTTIER than the manwhore sweater, I felt it was fitting to give Cyan second place! Whether or not this is Callaina back in the ancient Iridian Forest OR if this is modern day Turquoise in Arco Iris... perhaps he has more slut power than I thought...

Third Place: Azure is shirtless! My friends voted that third place gets to be shirtless and also being represented by "Azure"; Tarum's own boyfriend Azure Paladin from the ancient Aconite Acropolis! I'm sure he's just confused and vibing, but I'm sure somewhere out there enjoys his body </3

Fourth Place: Cobalt wearing a Rizzless tshirt! I knew that last place would get something lame and my friends thought the rizzless tee was funny </3 SORRY COBALT but hey, at least you got two votes!

Thank you all who participated in my silly little tumblr poll regarding my special interest in colors and their personalities <3

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Run Away To Me (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.1k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, medieval period-esc standards for women, arranged marriage, toxic family dynamic/relationship, blood, angst, protective Johnny, violence, hurt/comfort, speedy relationship, talks of sex/intimacy (nothing in depth) & virginity pertaining to marriage, religious symbolism & mentions, etc.

A/N: That's it for this AU - onto Werewolf!Ghost next.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You’re kept behind Johnny’s back as you both exit the treeline, and you feel yourself quivering with unease. 

What would Lord Wilkin do to you? Drag you back? As the shelter of the trees leaves you, you tighten your grip on the blacksmith’s tunic, breathing out a shaky puff of air. Cobalt eyes look back at you, trying to reassure you as the first calls start up from the guards.

Johnny whispers out, his accent deep. “It’s gonna be just fine.” 

“She’s here!” 

Hounds dash forward but with a sharp bark of, “Get back!” They skid along the dewy grass and halt with rabid barks instead, fur bristled and spittle flying. The men surge forward, and you gasp as they grapple at Johnny’s arms. 

One tries to snatch at the neck of your cloak, but a strong arm traps the armored wrist and twists it sideways, snapping the bone as you stare wide-eyed as the guard screams; jerking back and stumbling to his knees. With a fluid motion, Johnny grasps the handle of the downed guard’s sword as he writhes with agony, unsheathing the blade and laying it upon the breast of the other with a dim call. 

He glowers and glares, eyes like burning coals. 

“I suggest you step back,” you watch, holding your breath from over his shoulder as the blacksmith leans closer to the man, one arm kept behind him and resting on your hip. “‘Fore this gets bloody.” The guard raises his hands and backs up quickly, fear splashing his eyes. 

All of the others watch nervously from the sidelines, either reigning in steeds or holding their hands to the pommels of their weapons. Waiting. 

You swallow the saliva in your throat and ask, quietly, “Are you alright?” 

“Don’t twist your head about me,” Johnny reassures, eyes traveling around the homestead as the guards shuffle and share glances. The Scot grits his teeth and tries to think of a way out of this. 

If you had run, just as the man had anticipated, they would have caught up in no time.

The clop of hooves from your left draws both of yours’ attention in a quick succession of perked heads and pounding hearts. You feel your blood drop to pool in your feet at the face that meets you. Johnny growls and shoves you farther into his shadow as Lord Wilkin comes closer with a horse of bay coat, decorated with all the finery of his station. Gold, great coat with an embroidered tunic, and riding boots. Strapped at his waist was a dagger encrusted with gems made of blood and diamonds.

Never mind all that wealth, he looked ugly and cruel to you—a glint of arrogance in his eye. You glare and grit your teeth, rage coming off in waves from Johnny as well as yourself. 

Wilkin’s old face is the same you remember smirking down at you as he drove the ceremonial blade into your palm, and your entire hand flinches in memory, digging your nails into the Scot’s waist. 

He puffs a sound of reassurance but otherwise doesn’t move an inch from in front of you.

“And who might this be holding my bride hostage?” The Lord’s voice is sly. Black eyes dart up and down Johnny’s form and the man you latch to has to restrain a rabid grunt of anger. Stay his molten tongue. “A blacksmith?”

“It’s MacTavish, to you,” Johnny calls, tone dead and laced with danger. Your body restrains a shiver as his warm skin sinks into you; the memory of his lips on yours is addictive, even now. “Be best for you to remember it, eh? Considerin’ I’m the one who supplies your fucking guards with arms.” 

Lord Wilkin utterly ignores him, his gaze sliding to you halfway through his sentence. You stay silent, lungs tight inside of your ribs. The unfortunate truth was that Johnny still had more standing here than you did, anything that you said would come up as null and void; in fact, it would be better to be completely mute. 

But with how the Lord was looking at you, your teeth had to bite into your lip to silence yourself. You had to come up with a way out of this. Soon. 

“Take my bride away from this brute. Chain him.” Wilkin hides a smirk, pulling at his steed’s reigns to shift the beast away with a snort and a flick of a dark tail. “I want his head on the block in the town square by tomorrow. I have a wedding to finalize.”

“Let the fires of hell go cold if I go anywhere with you,” you say, stepping out slightly from behind Johnny, much to his hesitation, but still, he watches over you and lets you do as you please. The blacksmith would rather not have this Lord’s eyes anywhere near you if he’s being honest with himself.

This Scot had made you bold—his words gave finality. If he said nothing would happen to you, you believed him. Perhaps that made you foolish, but his word meant far more than anyone else. Johnny kept his promises.

Lord Wilkin’s horse is jerked to a stop, its head snapping back and forth with a frothing mouth. His eyes travel back and a slow sneer pulls at his lips, sitting under a mustache of white hair. You restrain a cringe, and Johnny barks an order to the advancing guards to stay back as his large feet set themselves. 

“If they grab me,” he mutters, speaking over his shoulder, “run, Little Lady. I’ll be sure to give you an opening.”

Your eyes widen in shock and horror, but before you can answer, your husband-to-be calls to you. The Blacksmith’s expression is the picture of defense as he angles the sword in his grip at the far-off Lord when even the barest hint of his tone indicates you.

A low grunt was ringing in his throat like that of an animal—as if the bear fur inside of the house had come to life and was a shield of muscle and iron shavings.

Your eyes blink, and something begins forming in your head, but it’s gone before you can really grasp it.

“My Lady,” Lord Wilkin states, his guards taking up places beside him, glaring. The hounds have still not gone silent, and Johnny eyes them nervously. “I believe you’ve been overcome by some…” He grumbles and gnashes his teeth in rage. “Spell of disobedience. I’ll have a physician examine you and keep you in my home for a stay of recovery—”

“The lady said she’s not goin’ with you,” Johnny seethes, pupils slits. Your hand rests on his back, spread over the swell of his broadness as you feel his pulse. Hot and racing. “So pack the fuck up and scatter! And take the bloody mutts with you!” 

You spare a worried glance at the back of his head. The blacksmith can’t possibly believe that threatening them will make Wilkin pull back, and when he meets your eyes, you know he doesn’t just by the wrinkles by the sides of his lids. 

He’s nervous, shifting his feet in small increments to try and push you nearer to the tree line. Your body hardens. 

You’ve already made your mad dash—there was no more running. Certainly not if your new center of affection and protective build wasn’t coming with you. 

Wilkin raises a brow. “Quite demanding for the man surrounded…Woman!” You flinch at the sudden shout, the quick rage of his snapping head, and the quick switch. Johnny glares and his hands are strangling the hilt of the sword, white and held still. The Lord barks, “Your parents gained valuable gifts for your well-bred hand—would you enjoy them being taken away? I can do so.” Dark eyes sweep over you. A smirk. “Forget this spark of madness and consummate what you know to be done.”

Johnny lunges with a snarl, eyes burning with horrible anger and the intent to cut the head off the snake. The guards meet him as he yells to you, “Run, Dearie!” 

But your feet are stone.

When the man realizes you’re going nowhere without him, his eyes gain a sheen of panic as his blade clashes with sparks of steel with another. A dance of feet and wit that speaks to years of careful study; practice from both parties. Wilkin looks smug as Johnny lets off a loud curse and has to turn his attention back to the fight.

“Seems the woman’s come to her senses. Praise God, perhaps there’s hope for her yet.” You breathe heavily, hands clenched under your cloak. Your mind wished for a dagger—one to show this pathetic excuse of a man how much it hurt to try and have someone mark you for the pleasure of ownership. Like some common branded cow. 

Wilkin nods to you as Johnny gazes on in horror, narrowly dodging a swipe at his side before he elbows a guard in the face, splaying him out along the ground in a heap of leather and fabric.

“What are you doing?” He yells, voice booming out over the forest. You don’t look at him before you suck down a breath and steady your nerves; standing taller and setting back your shoulders. 

The trained grace that had been shoved down your throat on a silver platter came back easily. Forks and spoons sliding under your teeth, all engraved with images depicting holy scenes of sanctity while the blood of your flesh spills at the poke of thorns sitting on your head. A halo of bloody martyrdom. 

A tool. 

You can be a tool, you decide, flinching when Johnny’s body is tackled to the ground; form ricochetting as he growls and writhes. His sword clatters to the ground. They have him in binds, cheek shoved into the dirt, and great shackles that skirt the line between animal and human restraint. A guard’s hand forces his face deeper into the earth and Johnny bellows, ordering with wild eyes, “Run, dammit! Get out of here!” 

Sending a stiff glance, you stare blankly into cobalt eyes and blink away just as quickly, standing and staring down Lord Wilkin as he watches in contentment at the scene of the raging blacksmith and his seemingly placated bride. At the twitch of his lips, you raise your voice high. 

“Release him.” Dark eyes turn to slits before they slowly slither back to you. 

“Pardon?” You grit your teeth and feel Johnny glaring, a snarl ripping out of his mouth as he coughs through the grass. 

“Dearie, no!” A punch hits his stomach as he’s jerked up to his feet and attacked; chains rattling as hounds bay for blood. You sense your gut roll with bile as Johnny fights back—tree-like legs laying a kick square into one's abdomen. 

The two guards hang onto his arms, shouting at each other to try and restrain him further.

“I ask my husband-to-be to release the man that graciously gave me shelter during the storm,” staring hard, you’re trying to stop yourself from running to Johnny. You know you have nothing to help him with—it would be pointless and utterly stupid. 

Your brow raises, but a nervous twinge is still in your voice. “Does My Lord not take pride in the fact that the men of his fiefdom are so open to taking in those less fortunate than themselves?”

Wilkin’s cheeks go tight, skin pulling as the eyes of the free guards travel to him. The struggle gradually dies down across the way; cobalt eyes darting back and forth with panic. 

“Don’t bloody do what I think you’re doin’!” 

A trade would happen, but only for a moment. In your head, you were whipping past possibilities and scenarios. There was something on the cusp of discovery—so close to giving you the upper hand, but what was it? Like a thorn in your foot, you continue to walk over it; ready and willing. 

Johnny had your back last night, it was time you had his.

“Let the honorable blacksmith go,” you level. “And name your price.” 

The response is immediate. A flashing smirk. “Deal. I’ll take my bride back, just as was intended.”

“No!” Johnny’s tunic is all ripped up, tears from gripping hands only making the damage larger—nail scrapes along his hardened flesh from the guard’s ruthless hold. Skin white from the force.

If you look at him, you’ll lose your mind.

Under your cloak, your hands shake as Wilkin descends his horse, coming closer. 

“Keep your fuckin’ bastard hands off of ‘er!” 

Think. His footsteps march closer—thin and sly-looking like a sharp-eyed Egret. Think! 

Before his hand can snap at your wrist your mind sparks in a panicked moment, and you’re exclaiming with a loud voice before you can stop yourself or think the sentence through. You stutter at first but quickly gain your footing. 

“I-In good faith, I cannot accept—I am unfaithful to you, Lord!” 

The entire homestead goes still, and those struggling with Johnny’s binds freeze. Lord Wilkin goes confused, his wrinkled visage peeling in like a rotted corpse. But no faces are quite as good as the blacksmith’s, who goes so pale and wide-eyed before he can school himself in secrecy; his jaw loose. His heart pounds in his breast, shreds of tunic waving in the wind. You continue with utter conviction, so much so that you even start to believe the lie you’ve crafted with a swift mind. “See the evidence upon the blacksmith’s sheets—where we lay last night in the throes of lust; I am no longer a pure bride.” Breaths get caught in throats; eyes bugging to a nonsensical degree. You swear someone choke. Your face burns as you continue, faking a shameful falling of your chin. 

“I cannot marry you!” It’s almost enough to break you, the realization on Johnny’s expression as he darts his vision to your hand—which you hide inside your cloak; wrapped around your waist with false fear. Blood on your hand. 

Blood on the sheets.

“It would be shameful to do so, do you not understand? I am not but a used good.” Fake or not, the last comment still makes Johnny’s hands clench his jaw working itself with a restrained growl. 

But pride furrows his brow. A smirk was forced back from his lips.

You just took away what Wilkin loves more than anything else—control. 

The older man halts, his mouth going agape and a vile sheen coming to his cheeks. He stutters, “I...what?” It’s a violent snarl, but the man balks back from you as if you’re infected. “You dare lie to me, Girl? Play off this fallacy?” 

“It’s no lie,” you say, gaining confidence with how Johnny watches you closely, only once rumbling at the guards that hold him when they tighten their grip. “The evidence is plain as day in the Blacksmith’s bed.” 

Wilkin’s eyes flash, and he barks an order to one of his men to enter the main house. Only when his dark eyes are off of you do you spare a look at Johnny. 

You sag softly, shoulders losing some tension. 

Blue eyes lock with yours, firm. Sending an apologetic squint of your eyes, the man only slightly shakes his head, mouthing out, “Don’t worry your little head about it.” A quick, barely-there smile flashes his lips—but then you have to look away before you let the shaking of your body be known. No matter how hard you plead with your muscles to stop vibrating, they do so instinctually. 

You know what lying about this will cost you, successfully or not. You’d be labeled for the rest of your life; separate. But Johnny’s eyes on you ease the pain. Lets you breathe. If the worst thing that could happen to you was living out your life in his homestead and being at his side, then perhaps social execution was the only thing that pleased you at the moment. 

You just hoped that it didn’t lead to an actual execution.

“Lord!” The guard returns as Johnny continues to watch you, panting, with sweat dripping down his chin. His ribs hurt something awful, but he only glowered at the men holding him and stayed his violent tongue to let you work your strengths like fine iron wrought in the fire of his hearth. 

Wilkin’s lackey was hurriedly carting the length of the Blacksmith’s sheets behind him—clutching in his fist the vibrant red stain of your blood and displaying it to the light. Thinking about what they saw it as, instead of your wound opening, you cringe and restrain a sound of disgust. 

Even being around Johnny for as little time as you had, despite the kiss and infatuation, you had forgotten how crude the rest of these men could be. It’s like this sanctuary of trees and dew-soaked ground was in an entirely different world, and these intruders were wrecking it. By Johnny’s face, he felt the exact same.

Half of the Scot wanted to save your honor and tell them you were lying, but the desperation of the situation was far more serious than that. He couldn’t let you go back to Wilkin—he’d promised. So Johnny took down a tight breath and stayed silent; face burning and glaring at the ground with clenched fists shaking for blood. 

The guards holding his arms slightly release their grip, listening intently themselves.

Blanking, the Lord’s eyes lock onto the stain as the man brings him the fabric. Not a moment later his hand snaps out to drag it to his face, looking daggers into the redness as his eyes snap from place to place.

“...You did this on purpose,” the slow dead tone takes you aback, hands around your abdomen digging further into your flesh as a dread spills into your stomach with blossoming unease. 

“M-my Lord?” Johnny tenses, eyes sharp like a wolf.

“You did this so you could spite me, you little,” the encrusted dagger is unsheathed from its scabbard. “Whore!”

“Shut the fuck up!” The blacksmith bursts with wrath, jerking forward so violently that he drags the guards holding him along the ground, their calls of alarms making the hounds go ballistic. 

You take a small step back as Wilkin gets nearer to you—the point of the blade setting itself right under your chin; tilting your head up. Breath going tight, you stare with wide eyes and a pounding heart. 

He wouldn’t kill you…would he? 

The Lord’s eyes are brimstone and deeper than Hell, holding sinners in the bars of his pupils while devils of brown specks prod the pool of obsidian. If a man could be on fire and still be living, Wilkin was an inferno incarnate. 

“You belong to me,” he grits his teeth as Johnny’s voice blurs in the background, having to be forced to his knees by three men yet still nearly throttling one with the force of his arms. “I paid for you.”

“Then you should find it a lost investment,” you shakily reply, not knowing how you have the strength to stare into Wilkin’s eyes. But you do. You stare and you hold your hands tight into your flesh until the skin under your gifted fabric aches. A small prick of the blade makes you suck in a tight inhalation, a tiny droplet of crimson sneaking down your throat.

It’s a battle of wills, and before you say what you’re thinking, you’re nearly sure that in less than three seconds you’ll be grasping a slit throat. 

You clear your throat softly and speak in a dim whisper. “How will your guards react to you killing a woman in anger?” Expressions freeze. “What does God say about that?” You swallow, throat bobbing. Hit him where it hurts. “...What would the townspeople say? Mercy is not above our great Lord, that is an earthly prospect. I believed that was your greatest quality, is that not what everyone believes?” 

Wilkin stares, his mustache twitching. Dead face. Dead eyes. 

It’s a long, long moment before anything else happens, and when it does, you flinch.

The dagger disappears from your chin and you instantly back up several steps, breathing unevenly. Pointedly, you place your uninjured hand on your slowly dripping skin. 

Johnny’s taken down three of the guards, their faces bloody and your blacksmith’s nose broken. He yells and screams curses. You feel your heart constrict at the sight, pain zooming down your veins in bursts of adrenaline, but it’s seconds later that Wilkin speaks, loudly so that everyone can hear.

“I would never harm a woman,” you hold back a violent scoff as your hands shake, wanting to be taken into Johnny’s arms now more than ever—feel his heat and inhale his scent. Wrapped in a blanket of steel and ash. “In my good graces, I will pray for your salvation, Miss. But being soiled—” 

“Bloody piss off!” You send Johnny a quick glance at the outburst. He’s forced back face-first into the ground with a grunt and sputtering of grass in his mouth. 

“I no longer wish to be joined with you in holy matrimony. It would be dishonorable to my station.” Dark eyes swim with hatred, but the tone of his voice is easy and pliable. The Lord was a good fake—he plasters on an appeasing smile for his men and waves a quick hand in the air as he turns to his horse. “Release the brute. Let the pair roll in their sin of carnal desire. God will be their judge.”

Johnny struggles as they unlock his chains, but the second he’s out he’s springing full-force towards you; his skin sliding across your cloak as you’re guarded far better than any loyal hound or King might be. 

“Johnny,” you grapple at his biceps, sighing raggedly in relief. He doesn’t brush you off, only curling his side around you and angling his head to the mounted horses; pupils slits and lungs heaving. His nose looks awful. “Don’t, don’t,” you plead, “It’s over.”

The man doesn't respond, looking feral as his hair goes this way and that; coiled around your body about to strike at anything that comes close. 

“I’ll kill him,” Johnny grunts. “I’ll rip his damn throat out for speakin’ to you like that—for puttin’ a knife to your throat. I’ll rip him into bloody bits and pieces, you just say the word, Little Lady.”

Your arms encase the one of his you’re holding, dragging the limb to your chest. Cobalt eyes dart back to your face. It’s a long moment, but his expression softens slightly—the wrinkles beside his eyes easing while his lips twitch down. Blood drips off his lower face, spread around his under eyes, and stains his stubble with crimson gore.

“Please,” you mutter. 

He looks down and nods stiffly, even if he doesn’t like it. 

The horses are rallied, the hounds called, and with a throw of dirt from their hooves the convoy is off. Silence returns in slow increments of nothingness. 

Wind, the call of a bird, and the babble of a far-off stream echo through the pines. Only when they’re entirely out of sight and the dust has cleared that Johnny swiftly moves, picking you up into his arm. You squeak as he carries you speedily into the main house, rushing to place your backside on the table. 

His large hands immediately tilt your head up to spy the tiny mark from Wilkin’s blade, and you feel his shuttered breath against your throat as you go heated. 

“J-Johnny, what are you…” But you don’t get an answer, the man disappearing before coming back with a wetted rag. Once more, the man cleans your wounds with delicate presses of the cloth—ridding you of all blood. 

His jaw is clenched, and as you watch, your hand in your lap twitches. 

In a broken act of pain, you lightly run your fingertips over the swelling of his nose. The man stops, but serious eyes stick to your throat—unable to meet your gaze; there’s a red sheen to his neck and ears. Anger or embarrassment, you know not.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, guilty, and his widened gaze rips itself to lock with yours. Your vision blurs, afraid to touch him fully as if it might burn him.

“No,” he’s shaking his head. “No, you never tell me that. What you did, Dearie…I,” Johnny stutters, closing his mouth before opening it again. “I should be apologizing to you. It wasn’t fair to make you do that. Any of it.” 

A wobbly smile flicks your lips.

“Are you saying I should have left you?” Johnny moves his face farther into your hand, blood contaminating your skin but you don’t pull away. You let him sag into your palm instead, reveling in the scrape of his stubble against your soft hands. 

“I’d not see you harmed,” is all he answers. 

You sigh and blink away your tears, stealing the man’s rag so you can dab at the bloody nostrils. Johnny’s pulse is still fast under you—like the pound of his hammer. 

“Well,” his eyes dig into yours and you smile. “I believe my priorities are the same. I may have only met you yesterday, but I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

“Aye, well, everyone will know how fond soon enough.” He’s more worried about this than you are, a stubborn and almost grumbly tone to his words. 

“Is my purity that much of a sore point for you?” You can’t help but tease him, even in the circumstances. “I had no idea.”

His face goes more crimson than his own blood, and he blinks at you rapidly. 

“I…That isn’t what I…” You chuckle gently and press your forehead to his, whispering. 

“I was just joking.” He sags with relief, his hands coming up to rest on your hips with the care of a man unbefitting to his station. Again, you have to ask yourself how an individual so intimidating can be, at the same instance, kind and generous. 

His lips mutter, brows tight. “Are ya sure you’re alright, Hen?” 

You think, wondering about the run through the forest when this all began, the plea for shelter. Such a deep coincidence that you’d end up here—perhaps the most safe place in the entire fiefdom. Everything had lined up perfectly, barring a few bumps in the road. You doubted Wilkin will mess with this place after the spreading of your ‘promiscuous’ behavior.

He was too sly for outright violence if given the option.

“Yes,” you know, and thin your lips. “What about your nose? A-and everything else?”

“Don’t think about it,” the Scot smiles, eyes still glinting with worry. So many hours and you’d barely gotten any sort of break. “I just want you to rest, then, eh?” 

Maybe it was outwardly obvious, but the entire ordeal had left you drained; shaky, and still coming off of panic. What if they had killed Johnny…? 

You’d go back to Wilkin and live as his wife, producing heirs and locked away in his estate for the remainder of your life. What kind of existence was that? No, you knew, you’d never live like that. 

You’d never live like that here. 

With a shaky breath, you watch Johnny’s eyes flash with concern for a moment by your silence, but before he can speak you’re pressing your lips to his in a firm and honest kiss—sinking in every emotion you could. 

The man grunts in surprise, but doesn’t move back; if anything, his grip on your hips increases, sliding up to your waist. 

After a moment of tasting flesh, you pull back and whisper, “Thank you.”

Johnny breathes heavily, a glimmer in his blues, “Well,” he grumbles, “I’d say you did most of the work.” 

You both share a chuckle before you’re lifted again, carried gently over to the bed without sheets. You’re placed atop the bear fur and wrapped in that instead after your cloak is unclipped and folded neatly, set on the floor. Outside, the call of a far-off storm hits your ears and you blink to the window. 

“Stay with me?” You ask before you can stop yourself or can even think. 

The blacksmith’s breath catches, his fingers flinching as they were pulling the fur tighter around your neck. 

It’s a moment before he asks in a quiet tone. 

“You sure you want this, Dearie?” His lips go tight, eyes narrowing in inner conflict. You stare and already know the answer just by how he speaks to you. “I’m no King. I…I can’t give you fine jewelry or fancy clothes. There’ll be no grand suppers beyond the game I catch or what I can afford to buy. Long winters.” 

The air goes quiet with worship, and your eyes go wide with care. His broken nose is crooked, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. You wonder if that was for your sake or his.

“I’m not someone worthy of your beauty,” he rubs at the back of his head, bending down by the edge of the bed. “Certainly not your smarts. I’m only a blacksmith, Little Lady.”

“Only?” You huff a chuckle. Johnny looks at you in confusion as the black clouds outside roll in, seen through the window of this quaint and lovely home. The hearth is warm, the scent of food still in the air, and the memory of a dash through the forest behind you. 

“If you’re only a blacksmith, Mr. MacTavish,” you’re sent a fake stern look as the back of a hand goes to brush your cheek. You shiver. “Then I’m only a runaway bride.”

“Aye,” Johnny admits with a growing smile of adoration, “but still a bonnie one, at that.” 

“...Stay with me?” You ask again. 

The man breathes out, “Tell me why.”

“The trees do not deny what they need to make them whole, Blacksmith,” you whisper. “Why should I?” 

He’s clambering under the fur, wrecked clothes, and blood on his face but never feeling more whole. Is so little a time enough to fall in love with someone? What deity had tied your souls together so soon with ribbon soaked in rainwater—tinged with blood? 

His lips meet yours as you sigh into him, hands gripping his arms as they circle your waist tightly. Johnny breathes you in and lets his hands span your back, fingertips digging into your clothes. Into his mouth, you whine a plea for him to keep you close and hold you tight. It’s all your need from him. It’s all you want. 

For the wise know best: there is nothing better than a simple life.

TAGS:

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[veritasangel]

Cobalt Honour

Ft. John Price (intro to MC au - here)

sum: price takes it upon himself to train one of 141's recent prospects, personally. hopefully there's no ulterior motive behind his actions

warnings: sfw, fempov, price is a little manipulative, slight power trip, calls you 'kid' & 'doll'

a/n: this is the sfw part of cobalt honour, will upload the smut version soon wc: 1.5k

Price, the president of the 141 MC and had a reputation for being ruthless. A man with a silver tongue, he could talk anyone into anything.

He'd seen your type before-eager, determined, yet not quite perfect. You'd be a clean slate though, and he liked that. He'd take you under his wing, mould you into what the club wants, what he wants.

You'd rolled up to the clubhouse one night, noticing Price's Harley already parked out front. The place was quieter than normal, most of the guys out on runs, or causing trouble elsewhere. Yet Price had called for you this evening. Other prospects were lumped in with Gaz, the club’s VP, learning the basics and running trivial errands. But not you. Price had other plans for you.

You walked through the door as it creaked open, and there he was, leaning against the bar-a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked up when you came in; his keen, blue eyes fastened on yours.

"Doll-" he greeted, his tone low and dangerous. "You're late."

"Sorry-got held up," you said, trying to sound a lot more confident than you actually were. You knew that Price picked up on weakness easily, and he wasn't too fond of it.

He nodded, pushing off the bar and putting out the cigarette in the ashtray. "No excuses. If you wanna be part of this club, you're gonna have to be sharper than that… Come with me."

He didn’t wait for an answer but turned and strode toward the back door. You followed him out into the night, the coolness hitting your face as you went outside. The club's garage was behind the clubhouse, and Price led you there. Fluorescent lights stuttered to life at your entrance.

Tools of every description lined the walls and a couple of bikes around in various states of repair. "I'm gonna teach you something tonight. 'bout what it means to be part of this club. The others might think they know what's up, but you and me? We're gonna do things differently."

"What're we workin' on?

“Not what, but who,” Price corrected. "This ain't about bikes, kid; this is about fixin' you up. And I'm gonna polish you until you shine brighter than anyone else in this damn club, you got that?"

He nodded his head toward the bike on the lift. "We got a job to do tonight. Not one of those bullshit errands Gaz has the other prospects running. This is the real deal. And you're gonna do it with me."

The bike on the lift was a beast, a custom modded Triumph Thunderbird 900, he thought it might have more power than you’re used to handling. But Price knew you could, if he trained you right. He's gonna make sure you're ready for anything the 141 throws your way.

Price snatched a pair of gloves and tossed them to you. "You ever hotwired a bike before?

You shook your head.

He smiled, lips curling upwards. "Tonight we're gonna hit a rival's stash. They've got something I want, and you're gonna take it. But first, you're gonna learn how to do this, quick and quiet."

He moved in a little closer and extended to you a pair of wire strippers. "Watch close."

Over the next hour, Price walked you through it, his hands brushing against yours as he showed you the little tricks. He was patient but firm in teaching. Subtle pressure from him, keeping you on edge but also motivating you to do better. Each time you did something wrong, he'd correct you, his voice smooth with a hint of steel beneath.

Leading a job, especially with Price by your side, was a big deal. It was the kind of test that could make or break a prospect. You hung on his every word. Price was different from the others; he didn't just bark orders or throw you head-first into dangerous situations without a second thought. He was methodical, calculated, and every lesson taught to you was in interest of moulding you into the perfect asset for the 141, for him.

The job went off without a hitch, just the way Price had planned. With you on point and him guiding you through every step of the way as the two of you moved through the rival's territory. Your adrenaline buzzing in your veins as you did every motion precisely.

You'd just pulled a major score with Price, and you hadn't messed up once. The realisation filled you with a heady mix of pride and relief. The ride back to the clubhouse was a blur as your mind replayed the events of the night over and over again inside your head. You'd proved yourself to the one person whose opinion truly mattered.

You followed him inside, the place still empty this evening so it was just you and Price, the silence between you charged with unspoken words.

He said nothing at first; merely lit a cigarette and took a slow drag, his gaze drifted over to where you stood, anticipation and vulnerability across your face as the silence stretched between you both.

"You look like you're waiting for something." Price said in that smooth, teasing voice. "Something on your mind?

You met his gaze, not wanting to show weakness. "Just wanted to hear your thoughts on how the job went.”

"You were there, no? You know how it went." A slow, knowing smile curled on his lips. "God, haven't seen someone so eager for approval in a long time."

You swallowed at his words, because he had a way of making you feel exposed, like he could see right through the façade you so carefully maintained. "I just thought it was kinda a big deal. Wanted to make sure I did it right.".

Price sat back against the bar, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, I'm sure you do. You're hungry for praise… desperate to know you've made an impression.

His words cut deep, irritation and humiliation flared inside you. Still, you just couldn’t ignore the truth in his words. You wanted his approval, like a lifeline. You knew it and so did he.

Price took another drag on his cigarette again, the smoke curling up round him like a shroud. "Tell me, doll, why does it mean so much to you? Why do you need to hear it from me?

You hesitated, feeling shy under his scrutiny. "I just want to know that you think I'm worth the effort you're putting into me…since you're the president.

Price's face softened a fraction, his eyes sharp as any predator that played with its food. "You are more than worth the effort. Tonight, you proved yourself beyond any doubt.

He pushed off from the bar, the cigarette burning down between his fingers as he walked up to you. There was a new intensity in his gaze now, a possessive gleam sending a shiver down your spine.

"You did a damn good job tonight," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Better than I expected. You were… perfect… everything I've been working to instil in you."

You felt the wave of relief and pleasure at the words, hearing the validation you needed finally come through. "Thanks, Prez.

Price smiled wryly, almost predatorily. "You wanted my approval so badly, and now that you got it, how does it feel?

You met his gaze, the weight of his words making you a little giddy. "It feels… good. It's what I've been working for."

"Good," he whispered. "Because I like watching you chase after it. It's a good reminder of the power I have over you here. And let me assure you, I'm far from finished with you yet.

His words are both a promise and a warning. He was the one shaping you, ensuring you could manage in this club and you'd follow anywhere he led you, trying to prove yourself.

Price's hand reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, the touch both tender and possessive. "Keep this up, and you'll get all the praise you're looking for. But it's not just about making me proud, but earning your place here, proving that you earn a spot here… Maybe even beside me.”

You nodded, your breath catching slightly at his touch. "I understand."

Price's smile was a bit wider now, his eyes mirroring satisfaction. "Good. Now, get some rest. We have more to do, and I'll be expecting you to keep up this level of performance.

As he turned away, leaving you with the ghost of his touch and the weight of his approval, you knew this was just the beginning.

༄ MC 141 m.list // general m.list

© veritasangel ↣ do not copy any of my works.

[thetypingpup]

Long haired dragon Hwa balls deep in you and his hair keeps falling into his face and finally he gets fed up and, while still inside you, he leans over to the nightstand and grabs something to tie his hair back. While he's tying his hair you keep clenching around him and it's taking everything in him not to absolutely destroy you

i see this and i raise you: imagine he reaches to grab a hair tie, and his pace doesn't falter for a moment.

imagine his hips pistoning at the same intense tempo, jostling your body with every thrust, pleasure bursting from your centre over and over again. he tires of the hair falling into his face, obstructing his view of you laid out in ecstasy before him. the tickling of hair strands over his eyes is almost enough to make him lose focus, his wings twitching in frustration, so he leans over to the nightstand, reaching for something to pull it back. his hips continue to thrust, the tempo slowed only slightly, but still quick enough to take your breath away. the sight of him gathering his long dark hair, his arms flexing with the effort, is such an enticing sight that you clench around him. he growls, low in his throat, and rocks his hips into your tightening heat. loving the effect it had, you clench around him again, more deliberately this time, just to make him growl like that again. the sudden rushes of pleasure certainly effect him, but they don't throw him off his rhythm. instead, he changes the pace and starts gyrating his hips, keep himself flush against you and grinding his cock deep inside you. the head of his cock practically massages that tender point of pleasure within you and makes you tremble, and your innermost depths mold to the shape of his cock and the bulbous knot of engorged flesh at the base. breathless doesn't even begin to cover what you feel. your head spins, your body completely overwhelmed with ecstasy, and your head lolls to the side, face sinking into the pillow. you can barely keep your eyes open long enough to watch him above you, still fucking you even as his hands are occupied.

"aww, you thought that would trip me up? how cute. just wait til i get my hands free." the flash of his fangs, the sheen of moonlight over his dark horns, and the gleam of his cobalt eyes gives a dangerous edge to his vague vow, and you shudder in excited anticipation.

once his hair is pulled back, nothing obscures the intense expression of erotic determination on his face, determined to keep riding this high and bring you both to your peaks. he pins your wrists down and absolutely rails you, making you choke on your words and sob incoherently. your cries are dampened by the stone walls of your castle tower and propelled into the air through the open window. anyone below can hear you wailing in bliss, can hear his growls becoming loud, blatant snarls as he fucks you relentlessly. his knot pushes deeper and deeper, prodding at your entrance before stretching you out completely, and you scream as he fully inserts himself inside you. circling his hips, he keeps going, grinding into you as if carving out a space for himself within you, the perfect place to plant his seed. you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him in deeper, practically daring him to cum in you and claim you already.

and with a guttural, animalistic roar, he does just that, filling you to the brim with liquid lust.

[atlasifyllm]

i think i've been consistent

bleak part of my brain has been insistent

leave it all behind

shut off your mind

you're an empty human being wearing just a mask

there's nothing underneath, there's no need to ask

end it all tonight

no more need to fight

broken up and down

hollow all around

heart beats too fast

i don't think i'm gonna last

leave me behind because it's easier knowing you're letting me go

it's curtain call, the end of the show

staying at the mirror for one last performance

my own reflection glued in a wince

i know i'm dying here, it's not that i'm afraid of

it's the ugly flesh i own hidden underneath gloves

i think i'm just going to lie here forever

i wish emotions were things you can sever

dissappear underneath where light ignores shadow

you can replace my hue of blue with only indigo

[blu-ish]

Ok so how do you think Shadow reacted when Sonic wasn’t in his arms when he arrived back in green hill

(Sonic prime)

... (Here's my idea as a sample mini-fic cuz I have no self-control.)

He couldn't help the panic that sunk deep within his broken heart. He failed. After everything, and he was still unable to save one of the only people who genuinely cared about him. That was Shadows most rational thought at the moment anyways. Almost tempted to let out a pitiful laugh at the irony of it all.

The hedgehog felt stupid, naive, and absolutely pathetic. Just like before.

What did he think would happen?

His grip loosened after he feels the almost ghostly appearance of the chaos emerald in his quills, the one he'd spent hours scouring for in the past. He doesn't even remember why...

The emerald looked way to much like his eyes, eye's he'd never get to see again.

As much as Shadow was willing to give into the pain, the urge to scream his lunges out, he remembered the mountain-- the prism.

What if...?

Hope burns like a small uncertain ember in his heart, one where the slightest breeze would extinguish it forever. Shadow races up the mountain, emerald in hand, unsure of what he might see--or what he wanted to see. Who he wished to see.

Ruby meets emerald green, and Shadow can breathe again.

...

Shadow tries to ignore the emotional whiplash he had just experienced. He really does. But, he can't help but occasionally stare- no, examine the cobalt hedgehog who sat next to him.

He's here.

He's alive.

His gloved hand twitches, unbeknownst to its owner, it slowly inches its way closer to the hero. Stopping at an invisible barrier, Shadow clears his throat.

"I hope you've at least tried to learn something from all of this."

Sonic's laughter almost makes the agent jump, almost.

"Yeah, yeah. No more smashing super colorful rocks for me, that's for sure!" Sonic played the events they both just endured like another adventure, just another day for Sonic T. Hedgehog. Or so he assumed the blue hedgehog was trying to do.

"I think that would be for the best. For everyone." Shadow concluded, gripping the grass below him a little harder then he meant too. An action that didn't go unnoticed by the hedgehog next to him.

"I'm really gonna miss everyone though, seems kinda silly after everything but..." Sonic sighed, "I'm really glad the guy I ended up getting stuck with was you, Shads."

Turning to face the hedgehog fully. Shadow scanned Sonics face for any indication of sarcasm, only to be met by the most brightest smile he'd ever seen. The warm hues of the sunset didn't help either.

He'd seen Sonic smile, the guy seemed to do it whenever he could. But now, this... felt different, personal. It didn't feel unpleasant either. That scared him, not like he'd ever admit that though.

"And what exactly does that mean?" The darker hedgehog ignored the flush that was most likely on his face right now. Narrowing his brow at the other. He could unpack what he was feeling, later.

"Does grumpy want a list?" Sonic replied playfully. Since when did he start to lean on his side? The blue hero continued, listing his reasons on his fingers.

"Not to mention you've saved my life, more than once, all in practically the same day."

"You saved mine as well, that makes us even." Shadow reminded. It was getting harder and harder to keep eye contact with Sonic. He crossed his arms in mild frustration at himself more than anything.

"We had a bonding moment! You cradled me in your arms, dude!" Sonic exclaimed, moving in even closer somehow to wrap an arm around the flustered hybird.

His mind going blank to find a proper response, he resorted to grumbling. Sonics laughter filled the air again, taking another breath out of Shadows in the process.

"Anyone would've done the same, your life was in immediate danger, I was simply the fastest mode of transportation, simple."

"But it wasn't just anyone Shads... it was you." Shadow had rarely heard the hedgehog sound so serious, but gentle at the same time. As if he was talking to a frightened woodland creature, one that was only mere moments away from fleeing.

He didn't know when they started looking at each others eyes, he also came to the conclusion that Sonics eyes--while similar, shined way brighter than his emerald.

It was Sonics turn to clear his throat, accompanied by a chuckle. "So, yeah... thanks."

What Sonic wasn't expecting was dark arms wrapping themselves around his back. Bringing him close to his rival. Or the soft patch of white fur to tickle so much.

"Don't get used to it.." Was all Shadow said, burying his face unapologetically into his peach shoulder.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Sonic smiled, hugging Shadow tight. The pair stayed like that until the night covered them in a blanket of stars.

It was good to be home.

[biteofcherry]

Hi!!! I ADORE the Nesting universe. Can we please have more drabbles? Does Reader come around to Steve's attentions? What's her favorite thing that Steve does as far as spoiling her? Does she do things for Steve too (and what does he like best)? Does she meet the rest of the family and how does she get along with everyone?

It's difficult for the Reader to decide on her opinion of this whole relationship. Aside from being a ruthless mob boss - a side of Steve that really scares her - Steve's very caring and patient with her. Yes, he is overprotective, but he somehow finds reasonable middle ground to meet her needs and desires too (lbh, he does it in a way that gets him what he wants, but is so subtle the Reader thinks her own demands were met). She can't fully accuse him of hiding her from the world, or forbidding her to do things. Which makes being angry with him difficult.

And Steve does a lot of wonderful things, which would make her fall head over heels if only he wasn't a lethal criminal. She especially likes when he brings her fave sweet treats without occasion, or buys romance novels she likes to indulge in (he sometimes reads them to her in bed, aloud, and then snort that he can do it better... and shows her exactly how).

Most of all, she goes weak for how invested in the pregnancy and starting a family he is. Yeah, he's cocky and arrogant about knocking her up, but he's also actively participating in preparations. The fact he's very calm and supportive when Reader has a few meltdowns and scares regarding giving birth, makes her rely on him more and more. Even if sometimes it terrifies her when he speaks of keeping her full of him time after time.

She meets everyone who is important to Steve - which is a small circle of family and close friends. His mother adores her, though they had one tense discussion about how dangerous Steve is.

However, Steve kind of regrets appointing Yelena and Natasha as Reader's security. They're extremely efficient, but also like to indulge in some of whims he rather doesn't approve of. Like the time he had late meetings and got home only to find out his pregnant wife and her bodyguards were partying at a club...

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Natasha slides next to him before he even notices. She can move like a shadow and it's one of the reasons he chose her to protect you.

"Safe and sound, only releasing some tension." Romanoff chuckles, pointing at where you and Yelena twirl on the dance floor.

You had zero alcohol in your blood, only the fizzy cherry coke, but you feel a little drunk.

On endorphins.

Your face glows, eyes closed in bliss as you dance. The cobalt blue dress you wear is loose - more comfortable for your slightly rounded belly - but it's so short that more energetic twirls almost expose your ass.

A muscle in Steve's jaw twitches as he stares at you.

You're the hottest sight, but you're also showing off something that is his.

You are full of him and some people here still crave after you, as if they could ever scrape the mark of his ownership off you.

Your moves remind him of the night you met. His eyes set on you that evening and he couldn't look away. Perhaps you weren't the greatest dancer in the world, but the way you moved and how you tilted your head made him think of how you'd look when he fucked you.

You dance like that now, too.

As if you're begging to be fucked.

So maybe it's you who still doesn't fully accept the fact you belong to someone.

Steve undoes a button on his jacket, white beater beneath glowing bright under the strobe lights. He slowly strides towards you, people parting in his wake; a predator zeroed in on a clueless prey.

He gives a nod and Yelena smoothly dances away before you even notice.

Then he presses himself behind you, wrapping an arm around your middle, his hand splayed on your belly.

You jump at the first brush of a big, sturdy body against yours. But the possessive move of his hand and the scent of him (so familiar by now) makes you freeze.

"If you needed to release some tension," Steve murmurs into your ear, "I know better ways to do it."

You gasp out his name and try to turn around, but his hold on you tightens.

He starts moving, and forces you to move along with him, rocking your hips into his as the beat of the music turns more sensual.

His low voice in your ear makes you shiver. Your breath hitches when his other hand slides up your bare thigh and beneath your dress.

"If you wanted to dance," Steve's tone turns darker in the unmistakable sign of sealing your tormented fate.

"-you can give me a show."

Suddenly, he turns you around, so you're facing him. Both of his hands are locked on your hips, the fabric of your dress bunched up indecently.

"I'm taking you home." Steve declares. "You'll dance for me, little wife."

"And you won't get to release your tension until I'm satisfied with your performance."