#Gun barrel care tips

[rypulmedia]

Can You Repair Gun Barrels At Home

As a passionate firearm enthusiast, I often wonder: Can I fix gun barrels at home? With more states supporting Constitutional Carry, keeping firearms in good shape is key. This article will look into DIY survival techniques for gun repair. It’s important to be responsible and safe while maintaining our guns. We’ll cover how to spot common problems like rust and pitting. I aim to give gun owners…

[kitteninabunker]

cw: gunplay, dubcon (??), semi-public sex, gagging, mentions of death but nobody dies so rest assured, spit, pretty rushed, lil drabble be i had to write about my man being icky b4 i forgot >.<

"are you gonna be obedient? or should i splatter these pretty little guts all over this wall?"

you don't know how you got here, and by here, i mean in an alleyway, with your brand new white skirt pooled around your ankles and nearly torn to shreds, your freshly manicured nails digging into the muscular flesh of a strange man who's stuffing your slick cunt with the shaft of his gun, his index finger is dangerously close to the trigger as his wet tongue peaks out from between his scarred lips to swipe the shell of your ear.

isn't it just your luck that you ran out of instant ramen tonight, meaning you had to walk outside to the closest convenience store all alone? hey, it isn't your fault that you're a broke college student who's just trying to make ends meet. the news warned civilians of a man lurking on the streets, described as tall, black hair, and incredibly dangerous, but they didn't mention hot. it just so happens that the same man, serialkiller!toji, has you gagged with your own panties, your back arched, stifling your cries and whimpers so not even the oblivious pedestrians passing by the whole scene know just how much danger you're in.

you slowly nod your head in compliance, careful and nervous not to make the wrong move just in case this creep decides he wants to end your life with a bullet through your uterus. "good," toji growls, slowly sliding his gun out of your tight little pussy, leaving it clenching around nothing as he brings the firearm up to his mouth to lick your sweet juices off of it. "j-just take my money, anything!!!!" you're desperately trying to plead with him, your voice muffled by your panties as tears stream out of your eyes, leaving the makeup on your face streaky. oh, who were you kidding? he clearly didn't care about robbing some girl for her money, your purse had dropped onto the ground with all of your belongings spilling out when toji grabbed you, your tiny pink pocket book sits there and you want to kick it toward him. there had to be a possibility that money would divert him from whatever he has planned for you, right?

let's say he did wanted to rob you, why would he bother to strip you naked, making you arch your back as the bright red store lights shine down on you beneath the dark nighttime sky, highlighting the curve of your hips and ass, making your slick folds glisten? he's trying to humiliate you, proving he can break any bitch into being his slut.

"i don't need your money, babygirl."

dammit.

"you're gonna give me this tight, virgin pussy." toji declares, his voice low as goosebumps riddle your skin. "college girls study better whenever they're bred by big, scary men like me, hm?"

well, it's not like you've ever had anyone's dick inside of you. his hypothesis could be correct, but you had bigger fish to fry now that the cool barrel of his gun is pressing into your temple, wet with his spit and your own slick. "d—don't kill me..." a part of you wants to shut your eyes and accept your fate, welcoming whatever is waiting for you in the afterlife, wishing he'd pull that trigger to put you out of your current misery. "scared little lamb." toji chuckles, retracting the gun from your head as he slides it into his back pocket. "m' not gonna kill you either."

the confirmation puts you a bit at ease, this totally isn't how you're gonna die!

toji's brings his calloused, large hand to rub your soft belly as he holds your waist. he swiftly unzips his pants and tugs them down, before the fabric can even hit his thighs, his fat, mushroom tip hits his abdomen as his cock flings out. he holds the base of his dick, slapping his hard length on your asscheek. you gulp thickly, its not even inside of you, yet you can still sense how bad this thing is gonna stretch you out, you don't know if you're ready for it.

you sharply suck in a breath of air as he moves his dick to slide it between your drooling pussy lips, the aching tip brushes against your clit which makes you arch your back deeper. "a-aaah!" you gasp, and toji quicky slaps his hand over your mouth. "quiet, little one." he says, lining himself up with your fluttering hole. "don't wanna get caught out here, now do we?" you shake your head in response, dare you say that you don't wanna get caught bent over by a killer? even if help arrived? toji spreads the bead of precum leaking out of his slit around, mixing it with your slick as his tip prods at your entrance.

then, you feel the burn, the stretch of your hymen as toji slowly pushes his hips forward, his thick pink tip slipping inside of you as you curl your fingers into his skin to grip his arms tighter. "do you want this?" toji asks, leaning his head close to your ear as he kisses it. want what, exactly? a crazy guy fucking you in a dingy alleyway? you'd appreciate it if he would at least buy a motel room, but you can't really complain, or think as his fingers move to your clit and make your brain short-circuit. “yeshhh...” you slur out, already so cock drunk and he hasn't even put his cock fully inside.

toji trusts his hips forward, his entire shaft slipping inside of you as your nails dig deeper into his skin. you forget about the possibility of dying right here tonight, the only thing you can focus on is the way his big cock just feels sooo good inside of you, almost as if you were made to take this psycho's dick. you feel your walls clamping down on toji's cock, molding to it's shape which sends a jolt of pleasure through the both of you.

the slick, wet sounds of your creamy pussy taking him in so deep are the only noise coming from the alley, drowned out by the nightlife in the city as you mewl incoherent babbles as toji keeps fucking you, gripping the flesh of your ass tightly as your plush skin fills the gaps of his fingers. "nnngh—too much..." your soft, whimpering voice escapes your parted lips, your knees tingle, slowly giving up as they struggle to keep you upright.

"you like getting your pussy stretched open by sickos like me?" toji asks, slapping your asscheeks and leaving a stinging red hand print on it. you nod your head, biting down harder on your panties as he fucks you from behind. he doesn't let you adjust to the feeling of his thick cock splitting your pussy open, no, he loves the way that warm, tight mouth between your legs grips onto him so tight, he's only fucking you so he can feel good. "you're taking me in so deep," he groans, his thrust growing sloppier. "no wonder you girls get pregnant so easily."

he spreads your fat cunt apart so he can stuff his cock deeper inside of you, his tip kisses your cervix almost instantly as he bullies himself into your tight heat. his fingers keep rubbing slow circles around your sensitive button, making your soft thighs shut around his wrist. he watches the white ring of your slick bubble at the base of his dick as he slams his hips against your ass, the thick push of pubic hair tickles your skin but turns you on nonetheless.

before you know it, you're cumming, squirting all over toji's dick as he stays inside of you. his finger flicks your clit harder as your juices spray out. you literally see starts as toji grips your jaw tightly to keep your quiet as you reach your high. he pulls out, giving his cunt-juice-soaked shaft a slow pump as he nuts on your lower back, spreading your thick sheet of slick around his tip. you feel the warm spurts of cum hitting your skin, toji wipes some of it up as he brings his finger up to your lips, pulling your panties out of your mouth so you can have a taste of his load.

you tighten your lips around his thick finger, suckling his cum off of them as the pad of his thumb pressed into your clit. "that taste good, baby?" he asks, biting his lip as he grabs your arm to turn you around, grabbing your face as he squishes your lips. "open." you open your mouth, sticking your tongue out as toji leans over your head to land a glob of spit on your tongue. you pull your tongue back into your mouth as you swallow his saliva, he takes your hand and slaps a heavy wad of cash into your palm.

"thanks for the free pussy."

[sttoru]

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. dom!sylus x female reader. smut, pwp. gun play. degrading. cowgirl position. power trip. hunter - prey-ish? reader gets called ‘sweetie, kitten, sweet girl, slut.’ not proof read !

“careful, sweetie,” sylus’ husky voice rings in your ear. your hand trembles as you hold onto the large hand that’s pointing a gun right at your chest. you’re sweating—not knowing if it’s from fear or excitement.

the scene was a familiar one. you’ve been in this position before - on his lap - with a gun involved. yet this time you’re both so intimately connected; your clothes scattered around the velvet chair, your hips trembling as you ride him. the same man you swore you hated.

“it’s quite funny, no?” sylus inquires, unable to hold back a grunt when you stare at him with such a drunken look in your eyes. you’re drunk on the adrenaline, the barrel of the loaded gun pressed against your flesh. a hint of a smirk tugs at his lips, “how the tables have turned.”

your hips don’t stop moving. you pull them up and push them back down, the back and forth rhythm not to be missed as well. he fills you up too well—his pink tip prodding at your sweet spot with precision. it doesn’t help your case at all. especially when you’re whimpering and moaning about how good it feels.

it’s you who’s supposed to hold that gun up to his chest. that’s how it went last time, but alas. this is your second failed attempt to show your dominance over him, onychinus’ leader.

“it’s also quite pathetic to see you give in so easily to me, kitten,” sylus continues, teasing and belittling you. he presses the barrel right above your heart, his finger right on top of the trigger. your breath hitches and yet you can’t help yourself—your body seeks the pleasure by itself. he scoffs, “so desperate. is it that good? does it feel that good to have me all the way inside you?”

you shiver at his words. you can’t respond when you’re busy moaning the name of the silver haired man. he’s so big, you’re absolutely cock drunk on him. you don’t want to admit it. you refuse to, though the answer to his question is still as clear as day.

“sh-shut up,” you try to retort through a choked up moan. the lewd noises of your wetness swallowing him up to the base repeatedly, with each thrust, echoes through the room. it’s not like sylus can deny the fact that it turns him on to see you like this neither; he’s rock hard.

sylus shakes his head with a low chuckle. “you seem to have forgotten that you don’t have the upper hand right now,” he sighs, the metal of the gun gliding up your skin to your chin, tilting your head back. your eyes widen and your hand squeezes his larger one that held the gun.

he bites back a groan when your sloppy cunt tightens up around him instinctively, “do you need me to remind me of your place, sweetie?”

“or do you simply like putting yourself in harm’s way?” sylus adds, his free hand guiding your hips in a strangely gentle manner, just so his fat cock could hit all the right spots. “either is fine by me. i love to tame disobedient prey like you.”

he leans his head back and his red eyes roam over your body. your skin is glimmering with sweat, the dim light in the room giving it a soft glow. his gaze stops at your bouncing tits for a second before returning to your face.

“i—i just want..” you stammer through whimpers. you can barely think, your thoughts are an absolute mess. you don’t know if you should fear the fact that your life is being played with while you’re in such a compromising position, or if you should just enjoy the addicting sensations the situation brings along.

sylus encourages you to keep on talking by tapping the barrel of his gun beneath your chin again, his right eye faintly glowing a brighter red. you gulp as you bounce on his dick. you know your inner desires and needs have already been exposed to sylus—he probably knows what you need, yet he’ll still make you say it to him directly.

“i just.. need you,” you finally manage to form a proper sentence. you’re unable to take your words back. you don’t care at the moment; you’re focused on chasing that sweet high.

sylus’s long fingers tighten their grip around your hip. he closes his eyes for a second to recompose himself before opening them again. “who knew you’d be such a needy slut,” he mutters underneath his breath, trying to keep calm when you admitted to needing him in such a whiny tone.

“need me, hm?” sylus grins as he finally got you to be vocal about your true needs. “need me to fill you up that bad? to pound you brainless? to have you submit to me while i show this slutty cunt of yours what it’s like to have me fucking it?”

the words fall off his tongue with such ease. the sudden dirty talk and change in tone makes your stomach do flips. his free hand reaches up to tug your hair back harshly while he whispers that in your ear.

“yes, fuck—yes, need it so bad,” you nod mindlessly. you don’t care about anything as you’re riding him. you’re willingly handing your destiny over to sylus—which drives him insane. the thrill of having that power over you makes his finger tremble on the trigger. the power trip is messing with his brain.

his eyes darken for a few seconds while he regains his composure. he can’t wait to flip you over and have his way with you.

sylus grins before kissing your ear and neck, bucking his hips up to hear you mewl from pleasure. he pulls away from your skin to look at you with his signature smirk, teasing you once more, “then, who am i to deny my sweet girl?”

[nanaslutt]

gun play with doctor zayne <3

ʚ cont: fem reader, gun play, orgasm control, praise, zayne is head over heels for reader, dom!zayne

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

It's almost too much—the pleasure that takes hold of your body with each thrust of Zayne's mercyless hips. Your body spasms, trembling around him with intensity that steals your mind to another plane entirely, but still, he doesn't stop. Doesn't stop thrusting. Rubbing. In just the right spots.

The cold press of metal chills your overheated skin as the barrel of a gun presses to the lithe of your throat, sliding upwards to raise your chin. "Look at me." The voice belonging to the male bringing you world-ending pleasure is as cold as his fingers, shrouded in patches of ice from his evol spiraling out of control. It seems you aren't the only one losing yourself to the bliss of another's body.

You obey. Jaw slack, obscenities in forms of beginnings of words, and half-hearted pleas tear from your ruined throat. Your eyes lock with his, half out of focus and clouded with lust--mirrors to your own. The barrel glides over your chin before the tip of the pistol introduces chills to the warmth of your plush lips. You part your lips wider on instinct--long trained from the expectancy of his fingers while he takes you from behind in the shadows before the sun bleeds color into the morning sky.

"Suck." Zayne orders, the plap plap plap of his hips echoing around the walls of his bedroom, bouncing around in your ruined brain like the clashing of a commotion much louder. Thanks to your heightened and ruined senses.

You welcome the barrel past your lips and onto your awaiting tongue, where the taste of metal blossoms like the bitter tang of mortality. "Good girl." He praises, eyes studying the way you accept his touch in whatever form he decides to give it to you. Zayne glides the gun in and out of your mouth in shallow, careful strokes that oppose the harshness in how he treats you below the belt.

The contrast is enough to make you dizzy, to send your eyes rolling back in your head while moaning around the gun—too fucked out and riddled with pleasure to care about the danger of such an act, no matter the fact Zayne has already emptied the magazine. He didn't tell you he did, becasue he knows how the thrill makes your cunt spasm around him until your roaring while your find your pleasure, but you know all the same.

"That's enough." He orders in that breathy voice of his so full of dominance that you are helpless to submit to the order. His hips still, and a whine lodges in your throat as he slides the gun from your parted lips, the metal exiting warm instead of its usual, unsentient cold. You're seconds from questioning him, from begging him to keep going, to stroke that spot inside no one else can--

The warm barrel presses against your forehead, and you feel yourself squeeze around his penetrating need. Your eyes snap open, more alert now as the gun rattles against your temple. Zayne's eyes appear to lack emption to an outsider, to someone who isn't used to reading between the cracks and lines in those gorgeous, overwhelming eyes--but to you, you see the softness, the appreciation that you hand yourself over to him like this, body, mind, and soul, and trust him entierly.

"Zayne…" You gasp, hips rolling on their own accord to still him into moving.

His jaw works under heavy teeth, clenching together with the weight of them. The pressure of the gun digs into your flesh harder, but not enough to sting. Just enough to remind you who is in control. "You aren't afraid of me." He says, not asks. You nod. "You like this." He says, and it's then that you realize his words are to reassure himself.

Reaching out while holding his seemingly impassive gaze, you brush your fingers against his waist and hold him there. "I like it." You whisper, nodding as he leans down, the gun slipping to the side of your temple. "I love it."

Zayne's cock throbs inside you, kicking against tight walls. "Yes." He moans, eyes flitting between your eyes, holding as much desperation in the depths of them as his own. His lips skim your own. "You…"

You nod, reaching your other hand in a silent plea. Your hand wraps around his own, that holds the gun to your temple. Zayne merely watches you, arousal twitching being the only sign of his love for this as you slide your finger over his that hovers over the trigger.

His lips part, and his hips jerk. Breaths caught between lovers lips grow harsh and ragged, trapped in the space where nothing exists save for the two bodies that have become one. He's practically panting as you apply pressure. His eyes turn glazed as he reads the hunger in the lines of your face, in the expression morphing your features.

You pull the trigger, and the gun clicks.

And Zayne?

Zayne groans as his body stills, and he finds his pleasure inside you.

[madewithsilk]

ᴄʀᴀᴡʟɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴇʟʟɪᴇ || ᴘᴛ 2 ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ

— ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ; ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴇʟʟɪᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴇᴍᴇꜱɪꜱ ᴜꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴇʟʟɪᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ɪɴ. ʏᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ ʙʟᴜʀꜱ ᴀʟʟ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴᴀʙʟᴇ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇꜱ.

— ᴄᴡ; ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɢᴜɴ ᴘʟᴀʏ, ᴅᴜʙ ᴄᴏɴ, ᴅᴀᴄʀʏᴘʜɪʟɪᴀ, 0ʀɢᴀꜱᴍ ᴅᴇɴɪᴀʟ, ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ

Ellie's hand were shaky, her grasp on the gun getting tighter and tighter as she stared at you. Her eyes had a spark of anger, her thighs clenching together too. Your nude figure crawled to the edge of the bed, tears still visible against your flushed cheeks from having your face pressed against the mattress.

Ellie's eyebrows were furrowing, watching your messy, disheveled look. She stood at the edge of the bed, towering over you, unsure of what to do. "Els, please," You whined, knowing it wouldn't do much to help your case. Her vision narrowed, darting to your hard nipples and mascara-ridden eyes. Your teary lashes flutter up at her, then darting to the gun in her hand.

A whimper escapes your lip, biting your bottom lip. "Y'wouldn't, right?" The little pout on your face didn't soften Ellie up this time, a scoff was the only thing you got in return before she reluctantly pressed the gun against your forehead. "Should fuckin' kill you after you did that shit to me." She spat at you, head tilted while the barrel pressed harshly against your face but it felt like the tip of the gun was kissing your forehead.

She ran the gun against your cheek, wiping the incoming tears condescendingly. You shuffled on your knees against the mattress, "M' sorry Els," She pressed the barrel against your cheek harder, squishing it upwards. Tears streamed down your face, filled with desperation for your girlfriend and fear that was getting you off. "Fuck are you sorry for?" She nearly shouted, her face getting closer to you, feeling her breath against you.

"Weren't sorry when she was ramming into you, huh?" Her knees bent, attempting to get closer to you. You were a whimpering mess, hands scurrying to her chest. She interrupted the beginning of your sentence when your lips parted to speak, "Shut the fuck and listen to me before I blow your brains out." You whimpered, hands surrendering back onto your lap. Her eyes slightly softened at the way you poured, the way you whimpered, she couldn't be as mean as she really wanted to.

You had an expression of ill temper painted on your lips, wiggling around with a pout gracing your lips. Either way, you nodded and gazed up at her with doe eyes that always made Ellie fold. Ellie's hand lifted, coming down on you with a slap against your cheek that echoed in the room. Your eyes widened, whimpers spilling from your mouth. "Don't talk. I swear to god if you speak—" You shook your head in response, tears spilling with more intensity.

Ellie hummed in slight praise, roughly handling you to lay on the bed. "Gonna take everything I give you, right? You're a big girl tryin' to prove that you're good too." You cry, thighs subconsciously shutting from anticipation. Ellie tuts, prying them open. "Suck it up, baby, you did this to yourself, huh?" Your hands wrapped around her neck, attempting to find some sort of comfort even if it was minimal. "She's not here anymore, she wanted me to fucking kill you, yet you let her fuck the life out of you? You that much of a whore?"

The degrading words she hissed at you had you blubbering even worse, trying to grasp onto her and make her like you again. You couldn't help letting Abby sink her cock into you when she gave you the saddest story ever and especially when she looked so needy to fuck your holes. Yet, when presented with your upset girlfriend, you just wanted to please her again! "Maybe if you weren't so fucking trusting," Ellie said through gritted teeth, finding your clit with her thumb to rub lazy little circles on it. "Maybe if you weren't so gullible and realized not everybody who wants to fuck you actually cares about you," You sobbed, yet the pleasure overcame the disappointment in yourself.

"Know how much I fucking worried?" She smacked you again with her free hand, pumping her digits into your sopping hole. "Thinking you were being— shit–" She stopped ranting to catch her breath, really feeling the way you clenched down on her fingers and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. "Baby, fuckk," She leaned closer to your body, your bouncing tits, your fucked out expression. How could she stay mad at you?

Her fingers curled into your g-spot, encouraging you to be louder, and you obliged. Your nails were scratching at her back, the headboard hitting against the wall. Her fingertips hit your velvety walls and all you could do is babble into her ear. "Cum-cumming-" She pulled away the moment you said that, hearing your whiny huffs and she let out a small chuckle. "You wanna cum and haven't even apologized properly?" You recall muttering a half-assed apology she immediately rejected.

She lifted herself from your body, getting further to see your whole frame. Your body was curled into a vulnerable form, limp and craving the orgasm Ellie stripped away from you. She grabbed the strap on harness Abby had deep inside your cunt, swiping the white ring of cum from it. "Made you feel this good, baby?" Ellie started to strip and all you could do was watch and run your thighs together in desperation to be touched, and maybe if you were good she'd let you cum.

She attached the harness onto herself, coming to where you were on the bed and kneeling, letting the silicone dick hit your cheek. "Suck it, baby, yeah? Taste yourself," You writhed before her, taking all your energy to get into a comfortable position. You began with kitten licks on the tip of the strap, tasting your own cum on the silicone. Agitation rolled over Ellie's body as she groaned and fisted your hair, pushing your head onto her dick. "Don't have the right to be a teasing bitch right now," She said while gagging you on her cock, drool coming down your neck as your eyes went white.

"Yeahhh—" She watched you humiliate yourself just for her, undoubtedly. "Shit, just wanna stuff your cunt," She pulled your head away by tugging at your hair, a popping noise once your lips disconnected from her cock. "Els', jus' wanna be stuffed, please," Your begging had her hand at your chest, groping gently and pushing you onto your back. "Spread your legs, baby, n' keep begging like that, alright?" She had softened up, watching your arms hook under your knees to keep them bent against your chest.

Ellie didn't waste a second, pressing her body flush against yours and connecting her lips with yours. Her tongue explored your mouth, sucking onto your bottom lip with urgency. Your tongues didn't get a break till her dick pressed up against your entrance. You stopped kissing back, a small gasp leaving your lungs. Ellie pushed in slowly, yet when she bottomed out and watched the fucked out appearance you flaunted, her self restraint escaped her.

Her hips thrusted deeper into you, kissing your cervix so sweetly before finding a relentless pace. "M' so sorry– so-" Your rambling didn't go unheard, she panted into your ear, nodding for you to keep going. "I'm so sorry, Els', please please-" She chuckled, hardly able to move in and out of your squelching cunt with the way you clenched around her and gripped her cock. "Gonna cum? Make a mess on my dick, baby?" You nodded and babble thank you's to Ellie, heat pooling at your tummy along with a knot that was about to burst.

Ellie pressed down on your tummy, a moan ripping through your throat. "Yeah, good, fuck," You whimpered after the stimulation passed, breathing heavily into Ellie's neck.

@thatgrlnany @sleepingwasp

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

A hand grips your shoulder. "We'll take care of them. Keep low and find a place for all of you to hide. Do not come out until we say."

His words blur together, but you manage to act accordingly, ignoring the pit in your stomach when he disappears around the truck. The concrete is covered in glass and rusted debris, so you keep low without letting your knees touch the ground and motion for the others to follow.

The closest place is an old café, the door closed with chains but the glass window shattered enough for you to crawl through. You pull the knife from your ankle as you move everyone behind the cash register, gripping the handle tight once you lean your back against it. The café is quiet. Still. No one else is here. You steady your breath. Staring at you are the double doors to the kitchen in the back, a thick waft of mold radiating, and behind you are tipped-over chairs and tables.

The noise outside has drifted. When you take a quick peek, you don't see anyone near the truck anymore. It is as if the three of them have followed whoever was shooting.

"Twix, I—"

You look back. Blue is holding her hand out, a shard of glass thrust in her palm.

Blood oozes.

You have no supplies on you, but you carefully pinch the glass between your thumb and forefinger. She bites her lip as it wriggles free, releasing another gush of blood. As if on cue, the kitchen doors burst open with ear-splintering screeches, and three Greys surge toward you.

Blue's bloodied hand reaches for her ankle knife as one tackles you, grinding your spine into the counter's edge. Two gunshots ring out over the snarling in your face. You thrust your arm against its throat, keeping the chomping jaws at bay, and with your other hand, stab the knife into its skull three times, until it whines like a dying animal.

When you shove the corpse to the tile floor, you see the two others on the ground. Blue is pulling her knife from one skull, and Ari has a gun in his hand.

"I only have one more bullet," he pants, double-checking the barrel.

"Someone could've heard the gunshots," Nereida whispers frantically.

"Then we find somewhere else to hide. Come on." Your eyes land on a graffitied door on the side wall. It leads into an alleyway that smells putrid. You motion for Ari to give you the gun as you lead the way, sandwiched between brick walls. You can still hear rounds firing from the street. They stutter in sync with your heartbeat.

You shove a rusted crate that blocks the path. You catch sight of movement, and something scurries between your boots. Blue squeaks and grips Ari's arm, your hand tightening on the gun—but it's only a raccoon.

"There."

You spot a sizable dumpster around the corner, where the narrow alley widens enough for cars to pass behind the buildings. Nereida helps you shove off the debris on top and heave open the lid. A thick waft of rot rises, along with a buzz of fruit flies. The dumpster is half-filled with blackened garbage and charred bones, but no Greys. You don't have time to find another spot as two male voices echo from down the alley.

"I heard it over here!"

"Let's check, come on."

Shit.

You lace your fingers for Blue to step on them. "Quick, get in."

Once the kids are inside, Nereida grabs the edge and hoists herself up. You glance back, stomach coiling as two shadows approach the corner. Quickly, you close the lid after her, scatter the debris back on top, and scurry behind a nearby crate, palm sweaty around the gun.

A fevered study of the shadows reveals two healthy, fit men. One bullet. Something in the second one's gait seems slightly off. You make a split-second decision, peek over the crate, and aim for the first man's chest, doubting your ability to land a headshot.

He falls dead with a thud and then you are launching blindly at the second man with your knife, but you fail to pierce flesh when a strong grip snatches your wrist. The man's rifle skids across the ground and your back is slammed against the wall, your skull colliding with the brick hard enough to make stars dance across your vision. A muscled forearm presses into your neck, effectively cutting off your air.

"Fucking bitch."

Even through the blood rushing between your ears, the growl in your face is—familiar.

You blink up at a man swallowed by a massive burn scar.

The tip of his nose is gone, with eyelashes and scalp burnt away, revealing poorly healed ripples of flesh.

One eyelid fails to open properly, the skin too scarred.

The recognition unfurls your eyes.

He presses harder. "I know you, don't I?" Anger cuts through his gaze. "Ah. That's right—a thief and a killer. You're full of surprises, sweetheart." The curl on his burnt lips makes you flinch, but there is nowhere to go. "I guess you found new friends."

"I guess—I guess you did... too..." Short gasps leave your mouth.

"Shut up," he growls. "I don't want to hear a word from a stuck-up bitch like you who thinks her tits and her cunt are worth more than my goddam face." He is yelling now, spit flying in your eyes. "Don't you dare look away from it! What, not proud of your handiwork?" He breathes hard and looks you over with a snigger. "Finding you is just my luck. I was going to go easy the first time, but now I think I'll kill you then enjoy you. How's that sound? Your corpse being passed around? Hope your cunt is as good when you're dead—"

White-hot anger ripples through your veins and you snarl before hurling a wad of saliva in his face, using the brief distraction to drive your knee into his groin. He staggers back enough for you to escape his hold and push away from the wall.

Gulps of air feel painful down your throat. You back away, readjusting the hold on your knife while he rubs his eyes furiously. 

"You're sick," you growl, voice hoarse and low. 

"And you're not, princess?"

"I'm not a goddamn rapist."

"You ruined my fucking face," he retorts, stalking you down the alley. At least you are drawing him away from their hiding place—you make an unnoticed glance at the dumpster to ensure no one else has approached, relieved to see the lid unmoved. When your eyes flick back to him, a sick curl twitches on his lips. "You're not innocent here. You're damned like everyone else. That ride of yours now has a shot tire, and that boat—" he chuckles, "—what? Thought you were gonna get out of this hell? We made sure to put a hole in that, too."

His words sink in. 

For a moment, horror grips you.

But you channel it through your veins as something useful—rage—and launch at him without abandon. He anticipates an attempt to stab his side again, so he blocks there, but instead, you reach for his marred face and claw the unhealed wounds, reopening them. He howls like an animal, stumbling back and cradling his cheek as blood seeps between his fingers. 

"I'm going to kill you, bitch—"

He blindly reaches for the rifle on the ground but you are quick to kick it away. You jump on him, this time bringing him to the concrete, which scrapes against your exposed skin as you wrestle to come out on top. But he is stronger. Heavier. For the second time you become pinned, he tries to dig his hands into your throat. The lack of oxygen threatens to turn the world black, but you slap a hand back on his face and rip off his scarred eyelid before it can.

He roars.

You spit in his face.

Your knife—you lost it in the midst.

As blood pours from his eye, you outstretch an arm and feel for the handle.

The leather is in your palm.

You stab his side.

You shove at his shoulder to get him off.

Then you pin him down, and plunge the knife over and over into every piece of him you find. Neck, chest, cheek, shoulder.

Again and again.

A slashed jugular. Ripped arteries.

Your vision is consumed by blood. You let yourself drown in it. Hot, thick—

Arms grab you by the waist and lift you into the air.

You attempt to wriggle free and dig your knife in them, but the person is quick to disarm you.

"Twix." 

A skull face stares down at you. Your bloodied fingers wrap around Ghost's shirt as you pant heavily. It's him. He's here. 

"Where are they?" he shouts over the ringing in your ears.

He sets you down, gripping your shoulders to steady you. It takes a moment to gather your senses, to comprehend his words. Your hands, shirt, and face are drenched in blood. Your head throbs with weight. Slowly, the world snaps back into focus. You glance around, spotting Kyle and Price standing behind him.

"There," you finally breathe out. "The dumpster. They're...they're in there. Safe. They're safe."

His eyes flick over the length of you, perhaps to ensure all of the blood is not yours, before the three of them thrash off the debris and lift the lid to the dumpster around the corner. They help out Nereida, Ari, and Blue. 

"Ghost." You try to swallow, but the pain hums with each attempt. His eyes snap to yours just as he checks over Blue. "He... They've shot a tire."

"I know. I've got a spare."

"The kayak, too. How are we—"

"We figure that out later. We need to leave." Price slings the rifle over his shoulder and grabs his wife by the arm. "Those fucks are going to be drawn straight to us now."

Blood. Right. 

You push through the ache in your head and run after them back to the truck. The absence of gunfire signifies everyone else has been taken care of, but just as predicted, a chorus of moans begins to filter through the buildings. From windows, underneath cars, and benches—Greys begin to crawl out. The faster ones are quickly shot by either Kyle's handgun or Ghost's rifle. Price helps everyone into the car and slams the door shut as Ghost and Kyle continue firing.

"Wipe yourself, quick. And change inside." Price throws a rag at you. Your backpack.

You get into the passenger seat, wiping your face and hair with a splash of water from Blue's canteen, then toss the stained rag out onto the street.

You don't care if anyone can see as you slip off your shirt, throwing it out the window, and slipping on a clean one.

Outside, Price and Kyle shoot away any Greys that approach as you suspect Ghost is changing the blown out tire, because you can't see him even in the side mirror. 

Within ten minutes, he flings open the door and takes seat behind the wheel. This time Price and Kyle hop in the truck bed with their guns as Ghost starts the ignition with a loud rumble, veering sharply back onto the road. 

Time has been stolen. It is high afternoon, the sky a clear blue even though the streets you leave behind in Halstead are tainted red.

Now the map is in your hands, but Ghost seems to know the way from here.

"How long can the spare go for?"

"Long enough." His words are clipped. "But the kayak we need to figure out."

"It can't be fixed, can it?"

His silence is your response.

Your mind races.

Minutes blur. Behind you, Nereida quietly helps wrap Blue's hand.

Colchester whirls by without obstructions, but you keep looking out the window and squinting, paranoid. You make it to the coast within an hour. The buildings turn into colorful, seafaring cottages and the streets turn to uneven cobblestone. Seashell chimes dance in store fronts that are plastered with old signs reading KEEP OUT IF INFECTED. Ghost makes a sharp right down a narrow street and parks the truck in front of a lone, blue cottage that seems remote enough to be safe. Even if the kayak was fine, you'd have to stop for the night in order to get out on the water at the start of morning.

A flock of oystercatchers scatters as the truck doors slam open and close. The air, thick with salt and spume, is cooler here, the breeze tugging at your tangled hair, where bits of dried blood still clings. The view of the sandy shore and rocky pier would be beautiful, if your mind weren't elsewhere, if the day hadn't been marked by panic.

Ghost circles around to look at the kayak. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Price mutters.

He helps him pull it out. 

Blue and Ari sit on the steps to of the cottage's porch and listen in silence. 

Nereida watches from beside you, tucking a sweater on against the chill.

Ghost flips the kayak, revealing a bullet hole that goes through one end and out the other. Anger radiates from his tense shoulders. "Christ."

"We can't patch it like we did the raft, can we?" Kyle asks, bending on his knees to look at the damage.

Price raps his knuckles against the hollow sides. "No, it's hard plastic. It would need welding to fix holes like that."

The understanding lingers in the air as you cross arms over your chest. "I'll stay behind, then," you speak up. Nails cutting your palms. You're damned like everyone else. Nereida looks at you with wide eyes, touching your arm. "If we can't fix it, then all we have is the raft and it only fits six. You guys take it in the morning and I will stay behind here—"

"No one is staying behind," Ghost grits fiercely. He gestures at the truck bed. "It doesn't even matter if we got rid of a person. The supplies have to fit, too. Even if we make it across, we're dead without the ammo and food."

Price trails his thumb over the hole in the plastic. "Two would have to stay behind in order for us to fit all the supplies." Your breath hitches as you watch him calmly stand up. "Or... two would have to swim."

"Swim?" you repeat. "You can't just swim it. I mean—it's open water."

"Nothing we haven't swam in before." Kyle leans against the side of the truck, crossing his arms. "But it's further across than the strait. Jesus, what is it? A 40, 50 kilometer swim?"

"Then we take turns," Price says. "Two of us at a time."

"I can take a turn," Nereida offers. "I used to swim in college. I mean, it can't be so bad if we go in intervals, and hold onto the raft."

You breathe deep, looking at the water that crashes upon the shore in the distance and then at Ghost, who is already staring at you. "I can take a turn, too."

"The three of us will start it off. If we need you two to cover, then you'll be ready to go. The kids stay in the raft."

You swallow. "It's not just about getting tired, we need plenty of water to drink. You can still get quickly dehydrated, and the temperature of the water—I mean, hypothermia can set in fast even it is warm."

"We load up on clean water tonight and have blankets and towels ready to go," Kyle says.

You glance back at Ghost. The rise and fall of his chest turns more steady as he nods his head in resignation.

"That's our only choice, then."

The evening is thick with silence.

No one has the energy for conversation, only exchanging brief requests or simple instructions. Starting a fire is risky even here, but you need clean water. A freshwater creek lies a few kilometers back, so Price and Ghost take the truck while the rest of you work on inflating the raft for tomorrow. Whatever happened between you and Kyle goes unspoken, both of you focused on the task at hand, taking turns pumping and checking the seams for anymore holes. When the two return, you help boil the water over a small wood-burning stove in the cottage, praying the smoke rising from the chimney isn’t too noticeable in the growing breeze as the sun sets.

The cottage is mostly bare, with only a dining table, a knocked-over chair, and a stripped bed frame in one of the rooms. The bathroom is quaint, its sea star wallpaper faded, and a warped mirror hangs above the sink. You stare at your reflection while the others lay out sleeping bags on the dusty floor, turning in early to conserve energy for the new plan to cross the channel. Ghost has taken first watch, sitting out on the porch with a rifle.

You listen to their soft murmurs outside the bathroom door as you work on getting out the rest of the blood in your hair. There is a red mark on your throat that is sore to the touch, and the back of your head still feels like someone has taken a hammer to it. Your eyes seem darker than the last time you saw them. You take another rag, wet it, and wipe it all over your skin. Then, you pad back out where the last lamp has been turned off and only moonlight through the boarded windows is left.

You slip into the empty sleeping bag next to Blue and stare at the ceiling. It is impossible to sleep—to even close your eyes for longer than a few seconds. Your heart refuses to even its pace, furiously pumping blood through your veins.

After an hour of lying still, the itch becomes intolerable. You slip silently from the sleeping bag, grab your backpack, and creep to the back door by the kitchen. It opens to a patch of overgrown grass. The cold air raises gooseflesh on your arms, but after emptying your bag, saving only the clothes, and tying it up on a branch, your blood runs hotter. Teeth gritted, you pound your fists into the makeshift punching bag, breathing hard through your nose to keep the noise to a minimum. 

You hit it until your lungs burn cold, and take a pause only to grab the backpack, close your eyes, and lean your forehead against it while breathing deeply. 

"I would say you can't sleep because you're excited for a swim tomorrow, but I know better."

His voice is just behind you, a rough murmur over the distant lapping sea.

You don't turn around. "I'm thrilled for it, actually."

A pause. Then, "Quite heroic of you. Offering to stay behind."

"I wasn't trying to be a hero. It just made the most sense."

You let out one last huff and then settle back into your stance, reopening your eyes to take another swing, but a hand on your wrist wretches you away. You glare up at him as he holds both of your closed fists, peering down at the raw, reddened knuckles.

You’re ready to argue—to tell him to leave you alone and let you hurt your own hands if you want to—but instead, he surprises you by letting go and stepping back. He chucks off his jacket and tosses it to the ground, unrivaled strength evident in the width of his bare, inked biceps. His feet widen, and his fists rise, silently beckoning you.

It’s been over a week since your last sparring session, but as soon as your fists are raised, the familiar rhythm takes over. He doesn’t hold back—not here, not ever. You abandon strategy, driven by the primal satisfaction of ramming your knuckles into his ribs. The adrenaline surge becomes the perfect distraction, each punch feeding your hunger for more. Your breath quickens, harsh and ragged, as you throw punch after punch. Most of your hits are deflected with effortless grace. He mirrors your every step, matching your intensity with his own.

He sweeps his leg out, sending you to your hands and knees. A growl escapes your lips as you spring back up.

He circles you like a vulture.

"I saw his face."

Cold sweat trickles down your bruised neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It was burned. Well, what was left of it. You fucked him up more than necessary." He lowers his fists, eyes locking onto yours with an intense scrutiny. Your nostrils flare as you aim a swipe at his jaw, but he catches your forearm, yanking you close until your chest is pressed against his. With a firm grip on your chin, he tilts your face upward, forcing your narrowed gaze to meet his."You can't hide, Twix. Not from me."

"He was the one who almost raped me, is that what you want to hear?" You dig your free hand into his chest. "And I killed him."

The shade of his irises darkens. "You did what you had to do—what I knew you could do when I left you. You protected yourself and the others."

"I enjoyed it. I wanted to kill him, and I have never wanted that before." You swallow through your sore throat and feel a subtle tremor up your spine as the fresh images brandish your mind. "I wanted to feel his blood on my hands, and if you hadn't stopped me, I would've kept going."

"He deserved it ten times over. I would've done the same."

"And what do I deserve?"

His voice is harsh. "You deserve to cross the channel tomorrow, and keep going. It was life or death. He got death, and you got life."

"And how much longer do I get it? Until the next time people start attacking us? The next horde of Greys? Even if we make it there alive, it will never be a normal life. I can never be a normal person again. Never. I feel like...like there is something broken and rotten inside of me, a-and maybe it was always there, like you said. But only now can I truly feel it."

By the last word, your voice has quieted to a harsh whisper. You avoid the stare bearing down at you by turning your chin. You failed to realize how close your faces have become. Your gaze drifts to the arm still holding you, prominent veins trailing beneath the inked skin, and you swear you can see a pulse in them as fast as your own. Heated breaths pass between your bodies in silence before you look back up at him.

"You murdered someone, didn't you?" you breathe out. "Before shit happened. Outside of the military. Actual murder."

His jaw ticks. "Yes. I did."

The blunt admission doesn't surprise you, nor does it frighten you.

He lowers his face a bit, enough for his exhalation to leave gooseflesh across your cheeks. "Ask me if I enjoyed it. Go on."

"Did you?"

"Very much so."

You swallow hard. "I guess you haven't been normal for a long time."

"No. I guess not," he murmurs.

The air feels thick between you. He studies you intently, fingers uncomfortably tight around your wrist, when the tip of his masked nose nudges tentatively—experimentally—against yours. Your breath hitches at the top of your throat. Your fingers absentmindedly slip under the hem of his mask on their own accord, peeling it up his neck to reveal a stubbled, scarred chin and full, pink mouth.

He doesn't move to stop you.  

You study the sight before you—one you didn't see so close up even when he broke his nose.

Then—the last thin thread of sanity within you snaps. With a surge of abandon, you firmly close your lips over his.

Heat instantly spreads through your mouth, through your limbs, and down to your socked toes. It is enough to flood you with the raw need to taste more of it. Your hands lower to twist tightly in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer, and for a moment, those warm lips move slowly against yours. Then, he firmly presses on your shoulder and breaks away with a thin thread of saliva joining your mouths.

"Ghost." You pant raggedly, eyes darting across his face. Humiliation is ready to sink in at his rejection, but he growls under his breath and kisses you again—harder this time, drawing you in with a hand to your jaw.

It quickly turns into a clumsy, greedy mess of clanking teeth. One of your hands curls around the short hair at the nape of his neck. It is difficult to comprehend that it is his tongue, hot and demanding at the seam of your mouth, pushing in once you part it open. It is his hand moving from your jaw to your hair, fisting it to the point of pain, while his other grips your hip and backs you into the tree.

Your spine presses roughly against the bark. The heat and solidity of his chest against your breasts makes your mind go numb. You can't think about anything, not the day behind you or the one ahead, only feel. Blood courses through your veins with the same heat as when you fight him, but instead of growling in anger, you release a throaty sound of desperation, moving your hands to the backs of his shoulders and digging your nails into the flexed muscle. It encourages him to grind his hips against yours with a low groan, striking an unfamiliar wave of warmth between your legs.

You try to recreate the satisfying friction, greedily bucking into him, but it's difficult with the standing position. The mess of emotions inside you is impossible to sift through, but one certainty stands out: you need more of this, whatever it is.

You attempt to lift your legs and lock your ankles around him, biting his lip as a demand for him to help you, but his hand suddenly releases its hold on your hip and he rips away from your mouth, breathing hard through his bitten lips.

"That's enough," he says roughly, stepping away.

What?

It doesn't feel like even close to enough.

Before you can reach for him, he gives you his back and leaves you there, trying to regain your breath. 

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

THIS BODY IS NOT MINE.

PAIRING — pietro maximoff x gn!reader

CONTENTS — one-shot; coarse language; angst; minimal fluff if you squint; hurt/comfort?; self-destructive tendencies; blood/injury; obviously not at all canon compliant but i honestly could not care less!

SUMMARY — your pain has made you reckless, and it’s getting harder for pietro to watch you bleed.

WORD COUNT — 3.2k

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

Like with most other things, it happened suddenly and quietly. 

One minute, you were stepping off a quinjet and onto the tarmac back at SHIELD headquarters in Washington. Your fellow agent and your best friend followed closely behind as you shared a few laughs, still high off another successful mission. The Triskelion stood tall in the near distance, the sun’s rays bouncing off its windows as you crossed the runway. You lifted a hand to shield your eyes from the blinding light for only the briefest of moments. 

The next, Steve Rogers’s voice was blaring over the PA system and you found yourself staring down the barrel of a gun. Your friend, the one who’d taken you under her wing when you first joined SHIELD, who taught you everything you needed to know about being an agent, your most trusted and respected colleague, was the one pointing it at you. 

For a moment, you thought it was all just some kind of sick joke. You told her to stop messing around and boldly pushed her hand away, your stomach dropping when the weapon fired and the bullet struck the asphalt just inches from your feet. You looked up ahead and saw the rest of your team split up, facing each other with their weapons drawn, in the exact same predicament. 

Then Steve’s speech began to register. 

SHIELD is not what we thought it was. It’s been taken over by Hydra. 

They could be standing next to you. 

If you launch those helicarriers today, Hydra will be able to kill anyone that stands in their way. 

Unless we stop them. 

And just like that, you were embroiled in a life or death struggle with the woman you’d fought side by side with for the last decade, who you would have been proud to call a sister, who turned out to be a fierce lieutenant of Hydra’s insurrection. 

You remember it all in perfect detail. The stench of gunpowder in the air, the distant sounds of explosions and falling bodies, the weight of your concealed weapon against your own hip a grim metal promise of more violence to come. 

The iron grip on your left wrist as your other hand pushed against her, trying to stop the tip of her blade from piercing your throat, her gun having been kicked out of her hands just seconds earlier. 

The desperation in your exhausted muscles as you fought back against the sharp sting of betrayal and heartbreak. 

The terrible knowledge that if you wanted to live, if you wanted the others to live, there was only one viable choice. 

Even though you ultimately emerged triumphant, the student having bested the teacher as it was always meant to be, you didn’t feel particularly victorious. 

She just looked up at you with her face split into a wide bloody smirk, like the friendly smiles and affectionate looks from your memories had been a figment of your imagination. 

And because she just had to have the last word as you raised your service weapon and aimed the muzzle at her forehead, “Hail Hydra.” 

You wake with a jolt, a scream trapped in the hollow of your throat. Your heart thunders almost painfully against your ribcage, a sheen of cold sweat clinging to your skin, and the snow beneath you stained pink with frozen blood. It takes you a few seconds to remember where you are. 

Right, the mission. 

You and your team had walked into a Hydra ambush, left with nowhere to run and facing heavy fire. In order to ensure maximum survivors, you broke away from the group despite their protests in your ear, creating a diversion long enough to allow your colleagues to pilot their jet to safety. 

You’ve managed to evade capture for now, but you didn’t escape unscathed. You feel around with trembling fingers, gasping and flinching in pain the moment they come across a wet patch on the side of your tac-suit. You lift your hand, cursing quietly when your fingers come away red, the sharp tangy smell of copper filling your nostrils. 

Your comms weren’t working. The nearest safe house, which should have a working radio, was still another two miles out, but you didn’t have the energy to get up. Your limbs felt too heavy and your head too light from the blood loss, and you’d collapsed on a frosty patch of dead grass and closed your eyes. With the trail of red droplets you’d left in the snow, it was only a matter of time before you were found. 

Whether it turned out to be friend or foe was but a flip of a coin, and, well, you’d never had much luck to begin with. 

Even as the semi-familiar contours of the surrounding forest begin to emerge from the darkness as your eyes adjust, the visceral images of your dream cling to your mind and continue to blur the lines between past and present. 

Despite a bright and full moon hanging up in the inky sky above you, a beautiful sight you hadn’t had the time or the heart to appreciate lately, something like fear courses through your veins. It’s hot and acidic, clawing its way up your throat like bile, as memories of everything you’ve lost and everything you’ve had to do that day flashes before your eyes. 

The aftershocks of your nightmare reverberate through your body, the pieces of your broken past barely held together by sheer willpower, dwindling by the day—as though a single touch could shatter you into a thousand irretrievable pieces.

Anger tears at your insides, a scorching reminder of the rage that used to fuel you through your search for order and justice. It was necessary back then, reminding you of what—and who—you were fighting for. 

Now, it impulsively propels you headfirst into whatever mission finds its path to your desk. Now, it blinds you to consequence, to remorse, to humanity as you leave no survivors in your wake. Now, that same rage leaves you feeling hollow and adrift in the aftermath. 

And despite the entire year that’s gone by since the fall of SHIELD, the spectres of your past continue to find you in the dark, waiting to drag you back into the depths of your own fears and regrets. 

What were you fighting for this whole time? 

Every single time you returned to HQ battered and bruised, every grueling hour you’d spent training your body until it screamed in protest, and every single drop of blood you’d ever spilt—whether it was your own or otherwise—what was it all for? 

You were not an agent of SHIELD, a name you used to wear like a badge of honour; it turns out you were just another unwitting, stupid puppet of Hydra. Your life’s work amounted to nothing, the name tarnished and forever disgraced. 

And now, you’re alone. 

Normally, whenever you wake up after a particularly vicious fight—something that’s been happening more and more often lately—you were at the compound, tucked away safely in a cot in the med-bay with someone sitting in the chair next to the bed, keeping moonlit vigil until you returned to the land of the living. 

A lot of times, it was Steve. He would be leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees with that all-too-familiar wrinkle between his brows, waiting for you to wake up so he could both breathe a sigh of relief and start admonishing you again without feeling too guilty. 

I have half a mind to put you on desk duty, agent. You’d long ago stopped trying to remind him that he isn’t your captain anymore, and you are no longer an agent. 

What are you, then? 

Other times it was Natasha, a painful and bright-red reminder of things that have come to pass, sporting her own bandages and bruises as she puts together her mission reports. She’s done better for herself post-SHIELD, an Avenger through and through. She has a place here, but you? You only have this job because she and Steve vouched for you, and even then there’s some constant need nagging at you in the back of your mind to prove yourself. 

Who are you? 

Every time someone’s indecipherable gaze lingers a little too long, or even so much as looks in your direction, something pricks uncomfortably at your spine. 

Whose side are you on? 

Sam. Jesus. He really has no idea just how alike he and Steve really are, does he? He would sit there with his back ramrod straight and his arms crossed over his chest, wearing Steve’s signature disapproving look as though he’d been trained to do it. But Sam would soften eventually, always, his warm eyes full of quiet worry in a way that only made it harder to face him. 

Sometimes it was Wanda, who would be tempted to use her powers to help stitch you back together. But she was still unpracticed and insecure about her magic; setting bones, staunching the free flow of blood, and suturing lacerations shut required a much more delicate touch than, say, tearing an army of robots to pieces. 

Or Pietro—

Oh. You swallow hard. That one hurts. 

Just like you, Pietro wasn’t all that intent on making friends at the compound. Wanda fared much better in that aspect, her smiles blossoming wider and wider across her gentle features the more she got to know the team. 

Her twin, however, would always brood from the sidelines, watching intently as though ready to pounce if anyone made so much as what he perceived to be a wrong move in her direction. 

He was protective, you knew; for a long time, Wanda was all he had. The two of them have been through hell and back together, but now her world was expanding to make room for things that didn’t always include him. 

The old you might have wondered if that made a part of him a little sad, but the new you—well, you couldn’t afford to worry about someone else’s sadness. His keeping to himself actually worked in your favour; you weren’t looking to be anyone’s buddy either. 

But despite the attempts at distance, being part of a team meant that he was watching your back out in the field, especially since you weren’t looking out for your own interests. One of Pietro’s strong arms would hook itself under your knees, his other wrapping around your shoulders, before he was rushing you out of the line of fire. 

He’d casually question whether you were trying to get yourself killed, not looking at you because he already knew the answer, even though you never gave him one. 

“Then do it on your own time,” he’d said as he set you back down on the ground, his voice void of emotion or warmth, but if you were to pay a bit closer attention, his brows were tightly furrowed and his mouth turned down at the corners. “The Captain is such a pain about paperwork.” 

“Was that a joke, Maximoff?” You’d rolled your eyes, not in the mood as you tried not to think about how his warmth lingered everywhere he’d touched. 

“Of course not,” he murmured as he took large strides back towards the proverbial battlefield, “is it a joke if nobody laughs?” 

And then he zipped out of sight and suddenly you were alone again, just the way you liked it. 

But the signature resentment and outrage simmering in his icy blue eyes, one you recognized all too well, didn’t seem to burn quite so hot whenever he took you back to the compound in the event your own legs wouldn’t, one warm hand on your waist and the other holding your arm around his broad shoulders. 

His calls of your name sure didn’t sound as detached and blasé as he might have liked them to, the lilt of his accent seeping into the edges of your subconscious, “Stay awake, we are almost home.” 

“Paper… Paperwork,” you muttered between laboured breaths with your eyes closed, trying so hard to keep marching in time with him. You heard him laugh—though it was more of a chuckle, so low and so brief—for the first time that night. 

His sharp edges didn’t seem quite so sharp when you searched his features for signs of deception, ones you should have recognized years ago, ones you might have ignored in the moment which ultimately cost you everything, and found none. 

Pietro would search you back, his face blank but his eyes almost like they were pleading, and you were always the first one to look away. 

Damn, it all happened so quietly. 

The tentative conversations that took place in the quiet of the med-bay—“does it not hurt?” followed by a “not at all” that really meant “all the fucking time”—him watching as you nursed your own injuries with a quiet stoicism that he couldn’t seem to understand. 

The late sleepless nights spent in each other’s silent company, sometimes staring off into space or distractedly at a series of flashing images on the TV. The closing distance between bodies, the soft brush of his fingertips over the swell of your shoulder, the lingering smell of soap as he sped back to his room without so much as a “good night”. 

The rush of joy when you boarded a quinjet and saw him already there, knowing that he was joining a mission with you. The thrill that shot up your spine when his hand closed around your wrist and he levelled you with a striking blue stare, a silent warning to be careful, a wordless plea to come back in one piece. The mildly triumphant looks exchanged after a mission successful, but only just barely—you knew he’d long ago clocked your growing reckless and wild disregard for your personal safety. 

Until you began waking up in the med-bay more and more, but Pietro was sitting in that chair less and less. He began asking Steve for reassignments whenever the two of you were grouped on missions together. He drew away, and it hurt so much more than having the pieces of you held together by nothing but strands of thread and rows of staples. 

“Some teammate you are,” you muttered sarcastically the next time you saw him for long enough to hold some semblance of a conversation. You meant for it to sound less like an accusation and more like a joke, like you did not care because that was the whole fucking point. You cared about nothing and no one now, so whatever they did couldn’t ever hurt or surprise you anymore. 

That pang in your chest as he kept his back to you? It meant nothing. 

That strike against a chord of longing stretched over your heart as he walked away? Inconsequential. 

And the heartache as the distance between you grew and grew, until it seemed so utterly insurmountable? What did that fucking matter? 

That, after all, had been ever constant since the Triskelion came down in a hailstorm of bullets and debris. 

But—fucking hell—you miss him, you realize. You close your eyes again, trying to fight the familiar sting of tears and the burn behind your eyelids. You miss him more than you miss your old life, your heart decides, the treacherous thing. What are you even supposed to do with that knowledge? You would never tell him, anyway. Not in a million years. 

But you are at the whim of the universe, because there’s the sound of an aircraft overhead. There’s a gust of warm wind that passes over you and it smells like jet fuel, recycled air, and slightly burning plastic. 

And then you feel it, a familiar warmth on your wrist as he presses two fingers gently on your pulse point. You hear it, the whisper of your name that sounds like it means something whenever he says it. 

You’re too tired, or maybe too afraid, to open your eyes. His warmth recedes as what sounds like the medical team takes over, crouching over you as they begin dressing your injuries and packing your wounds. The pain is less keen as sleep begins to pull you under, as they insert an IV drip into your arm, as they place you on a stretcher and wheel you back towards the jet. 

The warmth soon returns, however, lacing its way between your fingers and heating the skin of your palm, just before you fall back asleep. 

When you wake again hours later in the med-bay, you open your eyes and see the turbulent blues of a terrible sorrow. 

Pietro inhales sharply when your eyes meet, but he stays curled up in that chair, his lips looking painfully raw as though he’s been chewing on them all night. As always, his anger rolls off of him in quiet waves, and as always, it seems like he’s more angry with himself than with you. 

“You refuse help,” he finally says, breaking the silence. He turns away to look out the window behind him, watching as the snow continues to fall. “You disobey orders. You never listen.” 

You would scoff if you didn’t think it would hurt like a bitch. That’s a bit rich coming from him, since he fights Steve every step of the way almost as much as you do. 

“You’re scaring everyone,” he continues, but you know what he really means to say is that you’re scaring Wanda. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone else, after all. “It’s like you go out of your way to get hurt on every mission.” 

“Why do you care?” You snap back weakly, like a wounded animal that’s been backed into a corner. Pietro turns to face you again then, his handsome features stoic as usual, which frustrates and deeply unsatisfies you. 

“You think I want to? I didn’t!” He suddenly snarls, unfolding himself from the chair to stand, to reach out and place one hand on each side of your cot, caging you in and towering over you. “You seem so intent on dying, aren’t you? Well, I’ve had enough of watching people I love die.” 

“Oh, dear,” you lament out loud—the people he loves, he says, as if it’s not the most devastating thing—closing your eyes against the ache of an affliction you didn’t think you’d ever suffer again. “How unfortunate.”

“Yes,” he concurs, and he does sound rather anguished. “There is nothing we can do about it now, is there?” 

Not strong enough to stay and watch you put yourself at risk, but not strong enough to stay away when you bleed either. And then his hands are smoothing over your forehead, brushing away some stray strands of hair from your face. 

“Look at me,” he pleads in a whisper so soft, you can’t help but comply. So carefully, he leans down and brushes his lips against your brow, then your temple, the apple of your cheek. 

Each time he pulls back, you surrender a broken shard of your heart to him. He gathers them in his hands and begins the painstaking task of putting you back together. Each kiss he places on your skin comes with a silent appeal—live, live, please live.  

At least for tonight, you yield to his desperate request. 

Your sorrow can wait.

fin.

AFTERWORD — my first fic of 2025! how'd i do? 🤭

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. followers with zero engagement, serial likers and blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[princessbrunette]

you’d always been a nerd, there was no doubt about that — it’s only now you were older, you were known as a nerd who was filling out her bikini top, and jiggling in her bikini bottoms. now, unlike yourself — you sit on a little boat out on the water with the infamous pogues.

it was jj who invited you here. it was always jj — he’d been enthralled to see the sexy little thing you’d grown into adulthood as. he’d spotted you whilst working at the library, frowning over a file book of library card entries with cute pouty lips and reading glasses that he wanted to cover in cum. hed always thought you were cute at school, but now he just had to have you. he’d used his charms on you, and now you were nervously tucked into his side, ‘making friends’ with his friends as he’d described it. “gotta get ya out there, there’s a whoooole life to be lived outside these books, you know that?”

he was burrowing through his backpack, leaning over on the boat beside you to find the weed he’d packed, clearly set on corrupting you for fun.

“its the best of the best— like, perfect for a beginner—” he rambles, dumping things out his backpack struggling to find the small baggie of prerolls he’d prepared.

“jesus, jj do not corrupt the poor girl.” john b bites back the entertained smile, lifting his head from where he lounged in the sun to look at you. “you sure you’re okay with this sweetheart? can totally… you know, stick to what you know.” he shrugs, sympathetically and you shake your head, wide eyes finding the blondes.

“its okay, told jj i’ve always wanted to try. he said he’d hook me up.” you smile politely, still a little shy around the group.

“yeah but he’s being weird about it.” kiara glares at her friend with her nose turned up, nudging him with her foot nearly knocking his balance off. “dont be a creep.”

“look i’m not being a creep, alright! ‘said she wanted to try, and i’m being a good citizen and simply helping this sweet young lady out dabbling in just a lil bit of herb okay so i don’t wanna—” he dives headfirst into another one of his rants, but is quieted by your gasp when a couple of items fall out his backpack, including a gun.

“nice work.” pope shakes his head and your eyes widen, looking around wondering why no one else is concerned.

“why do you have a gun, jj?” you scandalise and he picks it up casually, flipping it in his hands making you shuffle away, jaw agape.

“gotta protect my people, what’s wrong wi’that? look i’m a pro at usin’ this thing— set up a little target practice in john b’s backyard and lemme tell you, i have quite the aim.” he waves it around making you stiffen up, touching his bicep to stop him from being so reckless.

“god, you must be careful with that thing. they’re dangerous jj! i read that these pistols just go off at random all the time, you could seriously hurt someone and i don’t wanna be the person who gets shot by accident! do you even—” you freak, and he turns his body to you shuffling closer and silencing you.

“shh, shh, shh, shh — hey. it’s all good. i would never accidentally shoot a pretty girl. trust me, i’m so careful.” he smirks, bringing the tip of the barrel to your lips making you freeze with wide eyes. to keep you there as he speaks, an arm slings over your shoulder, his clammy hand gently grasping the back of your neck. you know you should be scared, the boy seems reckless and unhinged — and worst of all, his friends seemed used to it which tells you he does this shit all the time — but something about it made your cunt throb, dampening your bikini bottoms and subtly pressing your thighs together as you felt your skin heat up.

maybe it was all the books you read, but you’d always loved a bad boy.

“seriously bro? you’re scaring her.” kiara complains, leaning across and yanking the pistol out his hand and shoving it back into his backpack.

fast forward a few hours, and you’re back at the chateau, the only ones inside in john b’s bedroom. you’re looser, high and relaxed from the joint jj had talked you through smoking — and now you were laying your head on his bicep, his free hand down your panties rubbing your copious juices into your swollen clit.

“cant believe you’ve never been touched like this, mama. been missing out on heaven, right?” he grins, leaning down to kiss at your cheek when your eyes flutter closed, so out of it and blissful.

“mm… wanted this since…” you trail off, lips parting and brows furrowing when he curls his finger inside you.

“nah, go on. since when… tell me how long this pretty pussy’s been horny for papa j.” he dirty talks so well you clench hard around him, working up the courage. it didn’t take much, the intoxication and lust making you brave.

“since you put the gun to my lips.” you admit quietly and his jaw drops gleefully, speeding up his fingers.

“seriously? damn i knew you were gonna be a freak. it’s always the quiet ones, always dude.” he celebrates to himself before staring down at you adoringly. “man, i’m gonna have so much fun with you, pretty girl.”

[sv3t1ana]

<< Master list ⋮ Next chapter >>

SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.

PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ usage of weapons, lowkey soft Sukuna <3, themes of depression, Sukuna kills someone

WORD COUNT ᯓ 2.4k

Chapter 4.

You woke up half-asleep, the remnants of a nightmare still pressing down on your chest, suffocating you in its weight. The memory of shadows and whispers clinging to you like an unshakable stain. But it didn’t matter, not when Sukuna’s calloused, unforgiving hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you from the depths of sleep.

The ground beneath your bare feet was uneven, and your body dragged along, each step more laborious than the last. The air was thick in humidity, feeling a sense of impending doom hardening every second. The world around you was barren, lifeless. This place felt abandoned, the tall grass whispering against your ankles sticking out of your too-short pants. He just pulled you through, grip never loosening but steps confident and unhurried.

You stumbled over rocks and roots, struggling to match his pace and body unwilling to cooperate. He didn’t care. The quiet menace in his gaze you couldn’t see urging you forward.

Rusting targets were scattered like forgotten remnants of a war long over, their bright red centers staring back at you. The air smelled faintly of rust, the unrelenting heat of an early morning surrounding you. Above, the skies were dark with storm clouds, the kind of clouds that threatened more than rain.

Without a word, Sukuna reached down, movements smooth and practiced, and began to prepare a rifle. The sound of metal sliding against metal filled the silence, a sound that’s foreign in this godforsaken place. He handed it to you without hesitation, the weight of the gun a stark reminder of the task ahead. The cold metal settled against your palms, the smooth surface slick. It felt heavy, too heavy. You wondered how many people blinked at the end of the barrel and didn’t live to see the next day.

You took it, steadying the barrel with one hand, the other adjusting the weight. It felt alive in your grip, as if it were pulsing with power, like it was more than just an instrument of death.

The tip of your finger wrapped around the trigger, pressing it lightly. And with a calculated breath, you locked your gaze on the further target, feeling Sukuna’s eyes on you like a smoldering ember at your back. Steadying your hands, your breath, the rifle kicked back in your arms as you squeezed the trigger- click. A shot.

It flew with a piercing hiss, true trajectory missing the mark mere inches away from the large red dot at its center.

“Bet that was a mistake,” he scoffed, voice thick with derision.

You glared in response, teeth gritting and shooting back a biting remark. “Maybe if you didn’t drag me out here at the ass crack of dawn, I wouldn’t be half asleep.”

The words hung, and you could see the subtle change in the way his eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like any other time, where the women around him cowered, begged, feared. No one stood up to him the way you did, not someone who knew their fate.

He motioned for you to shoot again.

You did, the rifle an extension of you as your movements got smoother. Each shot rang out, the sharp clink of the bullet hitting the target and resounding through the air like the sound of destiny being sealed. One by one, you hit each target, the steady rhythm of your shots a quiet defiance against the world that had pushed you into this life.

Clink, clink, clink.

Sukuna’s eyes didn’t leave your back, watching with a strange, cold intensity.

You weren’t just doing this for him. You were doing it for the life you both hated and loved. The weight of the gun pressing in your palms nothing compared to the weight on your chest. The reality of it all, how easy it would be to end someone’s life with the pull of a trigger. A bullet that could pass through your ribs as easily as it would through theirs. It was that simple.

You tried not to think too much about it, about the fact that your own survival depended on the same thing. But it was impossible not to feel the truth of it settle deep. This was no longer some detached, distant thing. The line between who you were and what you had to become was getting harder to see.

Sukuna’s voice breaking your thoughts. “Better. Don’t get cocky on me, though. You still have a lot to prove.”

You didn’t answer. You were here because you had no choice, because survival didn’t care about who you were before, only who you were now.

And apparently you were someone who could pull the trigger of an AR-15 and not feel anything.

-----

You woke up the next day, fresh off a measly four hours of sleep, trudging through the hideout filled with furniture but lacking life. The residue in the air thick with violence, broken promises, and an eternal stiffness that grabbed each of your limbs. Your body was aching, hollow from hunger, hair matted, not brushed in days. The same oversized clothes clung to your body, torn and disheveled adorned with holes you could never patch. Your face a canvas of neglect, an expressionless mask painted with dark bags beneath your eyes, the kind that spoke of sleepless nights and haunted thoughts. You looked like someone in mourning, someone who had lost everything and had no idea how to carry on. But the truth was worse: you hadn’t lost anything, this was only the beginning of the spiral.

Sukuna noticed. Of course he did.

You entered the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cluttered counter and holding it beneath the faucet as water trickled out. It was cold, well water that tasted like dirt and metal. You didn’t care, only craving nothing more than to escape the weight of your thoughts and dull the ache.

He sat at the table, chewing slowly, eyes flicking up as you stood there, expression blank and sipping the glass like you were a ghost moving through a house that no longer remembered you. He didn’t speak at first, but you could feel the judgment in the weight of his stare, like a pressure heavy to ignore.

“You look like shit,” he finally muttered, voice low but sharp. It wasn’t the usual mockery that danced his lips. No, his brows were furrowed in something deeper, something rare for him, concern. It was the look of a mad father, a man who had seen too much and knew too well the dangerous fragility of the one he was watching.

He watched, not with disdain, but with a strange unsettling mixture of frustration. You were a walking contradiction, a fragile, broken thing, yet capable of destruction in a way that softened him. You were dangerous in a way that caught him off guard. You weren’t only a weak, helpless pawn, but someone who could hold the world in your hands and jump with it, nothing but focus and raw capability.

And yet, you had the audacity to look like this.

He didn’t say anything, but you knew he saw through the veneer defiance you wore like a second skin. The way you locked eyes with him, not a flinch in your gaze when you met his with exhaustion, lids heavy in malaise, your body as much of a casualty as your mind.

You didn’t flinch when his words stung.

But in a swift movement he was up, crossing the room to you. Without a word he gripped your shoulders, forcing you back toward the room you’d been sleeping in, his hands never relinquishing their grip, his fingers like iron on your skin.

“Fucking idiot,” he mumbled, almost to himself. Tone cold like he was disappointed, frustrated in a way that left you confused. “Take care of yourself. Can’t have you falling apart before a job.”

With that, he shoved you into the connected bathroom, not waiting for a response. The door slammed behind you with finality, leaving you alone with nothing but the weight of his foreign sense of care, though unspoken, it was unmistakable.

You stilled for a moment, heart beating in the hollow silence that followed, mind racing through thoughts. You looked down at the pile of clothes he’d thrown on the bathroom floor. Fresh linen, the scent of clean fabric so alien to your senses it felt like a betrayal.

Your hands hovered over them, cold from the touch of water still on your skin. Why should you give a damn about clothes, about survival, when it felt like there was nothing to survive for?

But something lingered, a subtle shift. You didn’t remember the last time anyone cared about your life more than you did.

This was the truth you didn’t want to accept.

Sukuna wanted you to survive. Truthfully, he had no reason to care. But the way he shoved you into that room, something in his irises telling you he wasn’t finished with you yet.

No matter how much you loathed it. No matter how much you resisted the idea of being more than what you had to become. You had to survive. And that meant looking at the girl in the mirror, the one that had been slowly dying, and making the choice to live.

With a deep breath you sorted through the clothes before stepping into the shower, the water cascading down your bare body a brief reprieve from the storm inside your head.

He wanted you to be something more because he saw it in you. And you hated him for it. But you also hated yourself for needing to be.

You wrapped up the shower, skin left prickled by the cool air. Your hair hung wet, dripping, soaking the back of your shirt and trailing down your spine in thin rivulets. You stood in the dark bedroom, the faint light seeping in from the small gap between drawn curtains. The sheets were a mess, pillows scattered like abandoned thoughts. You rolled your eyes, a quiet exhale slipping past your lips, reaching out to pull open the curtains and letting the light bleed in.

The bed was always your battlefield, so many nights spent staring at the ceiling at a poor attempt to drown your thoughts. You moved to fix it, smoothing over the sheets, the motion barely registering in your mind as you fought to ignore the noise of Sukuna’s voice in the other room. It was muffled, yet you could still catch the low hum of a conversation, something about transactions, something about a deal.

You could see the corner of his figure through the crack in the door, pacing with a certain kind of energy that you had become accustomed to, an agitated rhythm that could only belong to a man with too much blood on his hands. You were about to turn away when you caught him yelling into the phone, a sharp string of words before he hung up.

He turned, gaze locked on yours. His pupils were intense, focused on you like you interrupted something important.

A shiver ran through you, not of fear but curiosity. This time you approached, on purpose.

“I had a run-in with someone,” you began, voice steady. “A cop. A corrupt one. Threatening to turn me in if I didn’t go along with his demands. I didn’t say anything but I’m worried about you getting exposed.”

There was no fear in your voice, rather the cool pragmatism of someone too tired to be truly scared anymore.

His expression didn’t change immediately, instead his jaw clenched. Teeth grinding together before he looked at you, eyes darkening in a way that made the room feel smaller. His voice was unwavering. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it.” He stepped closer. “You focus on the job.”

“Job?” you echoed, an eyebrow arched.

He huffed, grabbing a stack of papers and laptop from the coffee table and shoving them into your hands with little ceremony. “Two days,” he said, voice low and clipped. “You’ll be walkin’ into an office. Exposing a network. Some corporate assholes funneling money. Someone tryin’ to fuck with me.”

You stood, holding the weight of everything and letting it sink in. A job that would only pull you deeper into a world of corruption and violence.

He left soon after, the sound of his boots heavy on the floor as he moved toward the door. Multiple guns lining his waistband. A Glock, a Ruger, a few others you didn’t recognize but knew were lethal in the hands of someone like him. A man used to handling power in the most violent ways.

He was no longer a stranger to risk, his face and name becoming familiar on local news stations as the very streets he walked. He was a threat, one that everyone knew about but dared not approach.

He never hid. No one could hide from Sukuna.

He found the pig, of course. Because no one hides from Sukuna.

“You think you can threaten her, huh?” His voice was low, dangerous. He had the cop pressed against brick in a grungy alleyway, nearly shaking under Sukuna’s hold when he pressed the tip of the gun against his throat. “You’re either too fuckin’ dumb to know who you’re dealin’ with, or you’ve got a death wish. Let me help you out with that.”

Sukuna had given the cop a chance to run away, knowing his mere presence was enough to get him off your tail. But he refused, refused to the face of violence itself. And nothing pissed Sukuna off more than a pig saying no. So it was done, the cop gone and dirty corruption buried with him.

By the time Sukuna returned to the hideout it was dark, and there was nothing left to speak of. No mention of the cop or the death he’d dealt. But you could feel it, see it in the way he moved, how his posture had his head held high, shoulders back, the quiet pride of a job well done.

Though he never said a word to you about it, you knew. You knew exactly what had happened. He took care of it, tying up the loose end and eliminating the threat that hung over you like a shadow. He wasn’t just making sure you survived, he was making sure no one threatened you.

For the first time since you were a child, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

And as you stood, watching him move around the house with that same unwavering confidence, something changed. You hated to admit you were beginning to trust him, hated the realization that, in this world of deceit, he wasn’t just some force of nature, and you weren’t just some pawn to him.

You weren’t sure exactly when it happened, but you trusted him. And that thought, as unsettling as it was, felt a little less terrifying than it should have.

taglist: @cutesytwt, @tojis-ball-sack, @gojoscumslut, @sukubusss, @vicravluv, @newasskid, @grignardsreagent

[witchygagirlwrites]

Rogue-Part 8

Jay Halstead x Reader (nicknamed Rogue)

Just as you’re closing Ryatts case, finally getting a win tragedy strikes back home. You rush back to Chicago but it seems like you weren’t as missed as you thought or were you?

Warnings: violence, talks of rape, death, seemingly cheating?

A/N:DONT YELL AT ME YET!!!

“Rogue, a word?” you turned to Agent Palladino walking up to where you and Lyla were talking. “Yeah?” he nodded to the room off from the conference room all of you had currently taken over in Paris so you followed him. Once the two of you were in the room he turned to face you “This is the final raid on the Gada organization” 

“That’s great” you breathed and he held your eyes “The man taking credit for the five shootings, Ryatt’s included, will be in the residence we plan to take. Will you be able to take him alive unless you’re pushed into a corner with no other option?”  you froze, feeling your fingers numb at the tips. Everything the last couple months away from home, missing your unit, the distance you could feel in every phone call with Jay had led to this. “Unless my life, a fellow task force members or a civilian’s is put in immediate danger with no other foreseeable way out I’ll bring the bastard in wearing my cuffs” 

He nodded and handed you the file that was tucked under his arm “This is his photo and his name. I’m trusting you” you opened the file and a photo stared back at you. A white guy in his late thirties, early forties maybe. Dark blonde hair and brown eyes. “Jakob Micheals” you breathed the name responsible for every inch of pain you’d endured since the moment Ryatt stepped out of that cab.

Luca put his hand on your shoulder “Do you want to take a moment and step away to call Halstead? Get your head on straight?” you nodded “Yeah, I’ll do that” he gave you a small smile “I’ll give you some privacy”

Once he walked out you pulled your phone out and hit Jay’s number. Normally he’d answer on the third ring at most but this time it went to voicemail “Hey, it’s me. Um..we found him Jay. Jakob Micheals. The man who killed Ry. We’re um we’ll be gearing up in the next hour or so. If you get this before then please call me..I’d really love to hear your voice before I face this..I love you with everything baby”

You tried Erin’s number and it went to voicemail too. “FUCK” you wanted to throw your phone. What the hell was going on back in Chicago? You hit Nadia’s number. She always answered. You waited and waited then it went to voicemail too. “Hey Nadia, um I just needed a friendly voice. I love you” 

You didn’t really know anyone else to call. Platt or Voight wasn’t really comforting. You could call Kev but damn why wasn’t your boyfriend or either of your best friends answering? You sighed and slipped your phone into your pocket. You couldn’t do this right now. 

You stepped out of the room and nodded to Palladino “Let’s get it done” he nodded and looked around “You all heard her. This is the end of the road boys and girls. Every raid, every bump and bruise has led to this. We gear up, we hit em hard and fast” 

Luca knew going in where your eyes would be glued to so the moment you spotted Jakob he yelled your name but you could’ve cared less. “FBI FREEZE” you hollered but he turned to run out of the house so you fell in behind him. “Hell no” you heard Layla and Lionel both fall in step with you. 

Layla went left and Lionel went right, hoping to sort of corral him where he would have nowhere else to go. When he realized he was quite literally blocked in he tried to pull his gun but you already had yours pulled “Get on your knees” he grinned at you but about then Layla and Lionel both came up on his sides, shoving the barrels of their guns into his neck “She said on your fucking knees” Layla repeated and he slowly went to his knees as Lionel plucked the gun from his waistband and looked to you “Want the honors of him wearing your cuffs?”

“You bet your ass I do” you holstered your gun then walked over behind Jakob “Look at me” he turned to look at you “I remember you” you nodded as you put the cuffs on him “You killed my brother you piece of shit and if it’s the last thing I do I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again” “Poor thing” he mocked. Lionel and Layla cut their eyes at you then both purposely turned their backs.

Since Jakob was on his knees and cuffed you kicked him dead center of his back, causing him to land face first on the concrete. You heard the telltale crunch of his nose breaking before blood started pouring out of his face. Lionel turned back around “Look at that, the clumsy bastard fell” and snatched him to his feet.

Layla slipped her arm around your shoulders “Are you ok?” you glared at Jakob as Lionel drug him away “No, but I’m better now. That bastard isn’t free anymore” 

Everything was wrapped so you and Layla headed back to your shared place to crash. In a few days to a week or two you should be headed home. She grinned at you when you walked over the threshold “I’ve got an idea”

You raised an eyebrow because in the weeks you’d been working with her you’d learned the redhead saying she had an idea could mean damn near anything. She waved towards her arm and the sleeve of tattoos on it. “This case was important. It was your brother’s murder for god's sake. You need something to commemorate closing it. Something to honor everything you’ve done, not just for Ryatt but for the other four families as well. Let me buy you a tattoo in honor of your brother”

You rolled your bottom lip between your teeth then nodded “Ok” she laughed “Really?” you shrugged “Not like anyone back home is answering me and I’d like to have something to honor Ryatt and closing this damn nightmare chapter” she smiled and slipped her arm around you “Attagirl. Let’s go”

Jay sat away from everyone else listening to your voicemail “Hey, it’s me. Um..we found him Jay. Jakob Micheals. The man who killed Ry. We’re um we’ll be gearing up in the next hour or so. If you get this before then please call me..I’d really love to hear your voice before I face this..I love you with everything baby”

It had come in while they were in the air. He didn’t know what to do. Should he call you now? How the hell could he tell you Nadia was dead? How the hell could you go from facing one loss to the other? Erin was falling apart. He damn near had to carry her away from the dump site. If something happened to you, if this finished what Ryatt’s death started.. 

“What is it Jay?” Voight walked over and he glanced up “Rogue found the guy. She called me to tell me that they were going into the raid while we were in the air but how the hell do I call her and tell her this?” he felt tears threaten his eyes again. “I can call Palladino, get on a conference call and do it. You don’t have to” 

“You handled Ryatt’s death too” Jay whispered and Voight shrugged “I’m more used to it than you are kid. It’s fine. Just go be with the team. I got it” Jay nodded blankly and walked away to check on everyone. Mouse stood when he saw Jay walking back over. Voight scrubbed a hand down his face and walked into his office.

In the time you’d been working with him Luca had never called you out of bed. You had no clue what was going on. You sat across from him in his rental car just outside the place you and Layla were sharing as he hit his phone “I’ve got her here with me Hank”

“Hank?” you asked and heard Voight’s rough voice come through the phone “Sweetheart, we lost Nadia” “Lost? What..what do you mean lost? She was doing good. She was applying to the academy”

“We caught a case, serial rapist and murderer. Nadia caught his eye and before we knew what was going on he grabbed her. The reason Jay didn’t answer when you called was because we were on the way to New York to work with Benson’s unit in hopes of recovering her alive”  

“He killed her?” you whispered and wasn’t sure he heard you until he said “She put up one hell of a fight” you felt that weight that was just starting to lift come crashing down but only one thought stopped it “Oh god, Erin” “She’s not doing good” he replied and you breathed out slowly, tears streaming down your face “I’ll be home as soon as I can” “Call me when you get home and stay safe kid” “I will. Thank you Hank” 

When he hung up a choked sob escaped your throat and Luca looked at you “I don’t know if I should hug you or what” you laughed humorlessly “I don’t know either. What if he wouldn’t have gotten her if I would’ve been there”

“No, hell no. You do not do that to yourself. You can only take on so much” He was quick to say that and you nodded “When can I go home?” he rubbed his hand down his face “Let me make some calls. I’ll get you on a plane within a day or so” “Thank you”

You tried to sleep on the plane ride but your dreams kept jumping from Ryatt to Nadia to something happening to Jay. You ended up asking the stewardess what was the max amount of coffee you could have and getting that to stay awake the rest of the time.

The plan was to go to Erin before you ever even went home to Jay. You desperately wanted to see him but you needed to see her first. You could only imagine the hell she was putting herself through if you were feeling the guilt you were.

______________________

When the plane landed in Chicago you grabbed your duffle and hailed a cab. You tried calling Jay but it went to voicemail so you gave up. Wasn’t like you didn’t have a key. You gave the cabbie the address to Erin’s building and leaned back in the seat.

When he pulled up you passed him the money and hoisted your duffle on your shoulder before stepping out. You decided on the stairs just because the plane ride and sitting still that long had been hell on your back. 

You walked up to the third floor and yawned when you stepped off. You readjusted your bag as you walked around the corner and froze dead in your tracks. Jay was at her door. The two of them were standing close, talking. The set of his shoulders, how he was leaning into her. How she was looking up at him..no.

“Do you want to come in for a drink?” she asked and your heart ripped apart when you heard his voice “I think we’ve had enough to drink” he leaned in closer to her and she leaned up…you didn’t need to see anymore. You spun on your heel and ran back to the stairs. The flights that had just taken you maybe seven minutes to walk up took a total of two to go down. 

_____________________

You ran out to the sidewalk and waved down the first cab you saw and practically dove into the backseat before the tears finally hit you. It didn’t occur to you that you were openly sobbing until the poor guy asked “Are ok?” you looked up at him and whispered “Take me to the Hampton inn hotel please” he nodded and pulled off from the curb “Are you sure you’re ok?” “No but no one hurt me physically sir” 

“Miss, are you sure I don’t need to call someone?” you glanced down at your phone, the wallpaper a photo of you and Jay as you whispered “I have no one to call” 

Part 9

@desimarie12

@allisonargent144

@nevaehstreater18

@elvenpirate51

@voidvinyls

[tarot-archives]

hands. hands. and more hands. —Simon Riley

fluff | comforting simon and scolding him

Simon always had calluses, even before enlisting. His hands were etched on the butcher knife from frequent use. To the point that even the owner had to buy a new one for himself. The handle fits perfectly, with deep engravings of his print, and thick calluses pressing on its body to reshape the figure.

Now, Simon had returned home from training. His hands, were more worn than before, with scars and burns painting on the canvas of his skin. He didn’t have anyone to take care of him after all. No one to scold him for the mud caking under his nails. No one to swipe his hands away if he hadn’t washed them before eating.

Bottles of hand cream on your nightstand take twice as long to finish since he was shipped out too.

But he’s here now. The bed dips, it’s no longer a place fit for two. He’s grown bulky, more lean than fat, his back straight after months of corrective training. You wonder about the history of his scars so you asked.

“This one was from doing push-ups,” he proudly said. 

“Just push-ups?” you were disturbed that push-ups can leave serious scars. “why is it on your knuckles then?”

“Had to do them against the gravel. Under the heat of the bloody sun,” Simon thumbs over the discoloration on his skin. “It was hot enough to cook an egg and burn through skin. Even had those hard pebbles that push up the bone.”

You grimaced, “the bone?”

Simon looks down at you, then snickers, “almost, but not yet. No.” He lies more easily now. Gentlemen know not to burden a woman’s heart. Especially his best friend.

You sighed in relief. Your fingers now brushing over his palms. The question, tipping itself over the edge of your tongue, as you hesitate to ask. But Simon knows you enough not to wait for a verbal query.

“These ones were from the rope,” he turns his hands to face you. Thick skin on his fingers, especially on his thumb.  All of the digits are dry and in need of a deep clean. He looks down at your furrowed eyes and disappointed glare.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn’t want to make a fuss about it since Simon was the strongest person you ever met, but how could you make him understand your thoughts. That you are mad about his lack of self-care. That his hands found home at the barrel of the gun instead of a knife. Both items share the same violence. Both professions are bloody and messy. Both his choices were out of necessity for his family.

Simon doesn’t speak as he lets you feel his rough skin. Your digits travel in between his fingers, over his knuckles, finding a new reason to be more worried than the last. But as you were about to lift your hands away, he entwines his hands in yours. 

He made sure you won’t run as he says: “There’s no reason to worry.”

You shake your head in disapproval, “How could I not?” Your voice cracked. Warmth spread to your cheeks at your choking defeat. “What would you do if your best friend always put themselves in danger?”

“Save them from dumb decisions,” Simon answers. 

“But I’m not at the battlefield,” you gripped his hand harshly as an outlet of your frustration. “what can I do when you’re halfway around the world. And it would be months before I can hear again from you.” 

Despite your strength, it was nothing to him. He had experienced the butt of a rifle lodged into his hand as punishment. Your hold wasn’t a means for pain, but a way for you to deliver the words you left unsaid. So he returns the gesture, thumbing your skin in small circles, speaking in the language you spoke— the love language of touch. 

So you lean into him, understanding the silence and his affection. Realizing that his hands weren’t always a place of violence. It was your safe space, before the blood and the gore. 

He held your hands when you were anxious during preschool. He held your hands to keep you by his side amongst the busy street. He held your freezing hands when you left your mittens at home. And in more sacred moments when his lips touched a cut to heal it faster….

It was never about fixing him up. It was always about taking care of your best friend. All homes, when not properly maintained, tend to ruin quickly compared to others. And taking care of Simon was your way of making do or returning his kindness. 

“I need you to take care of yourself more,” you ordered.

“yes, ma’am.”

“you can’t keep coming back here expecting a manicure.”

“Of course,” he brushed away your gentle reminders. His arms pull you into a hug, purposely tipping you over to fall towards him. Simon was never the kind to fuss over the weight of your body over his. His heart welcomed you, accepting you as a part of him and all the burden you carry. 

[nsharks]

part twenty-five preview

A hand grips your shoulder. "We'll take care of them. Keep low and find a place for all of you to hide. Do not come out until we say."

His words blur together, but you manage to act accordingly, ignoring the pit in your stomach as he disappears. The concrete is covered in glass and rusted debris, so you keep low without letting your knees touch the ground, motioning for the others to follow.

The closest place is an old café, the door closed with chains but the glass window shattered enough for you to crawl through. You pull the knife from your ankle as you move everyone behind the cash register, gripping the handle tight once you lean your back against it. The café is quiet. Still. No one else is here. Thick heartbeats swallow your eardrums. Staring at you are the double doors to the kitchen in the back, a thick waft of mold radiating, and behind you are tipped-over chairs and tables.

The noise outside has drifted, and when you take a quick peek, you don't see anyone near the truck anymore. It is as if the three of them have followed after whoever was shooting.

"Twix, I—"

You look down. Blue is holding her hand out, a shard of glass stuck in her palm.

Blood oozes like lava.

The kitchen doors thrash open with ear-splintering screeches.

Three Greys surge toward you. Blue's bloodied hand reaches for the knife at her ankle just as one of them tackles you, pressing your spine into the edge of the counter. Two gunshots ring out over the snarling in your face. You thrust your arm against its throat to keep chomping jaws away, and with your other hand, stab the knife into its skull, three times, until it whines like a dead animal.

When you shove the corpse to the tile floor, you see the two others on the ground. Blue is pulling her knife from a skull, and Ari has a gun in his hand.

"I only have one more bullet," he pants, double-checking the barrel.

"Someone could've heard the gunshots." Nereida stands and heads to a graffitied door on the side wall, which looks to lead into an alleyway. "Come on. We need to hide somewhere else."

[what-if-i-like-my-mechs-older]

(Gun play between TFA Optimus x G1 Megatron)

Orion had barely blinked, one moment Megatron was there, the next a Walther P38 with an extended barrel was in place of The Decepticon Leader, laying there on the seating.

Wrapping an arm against him self, his other hand up to his mouth, a finger curled to his lips as the other three digits held the pad.

"Hmmm someone's an eager puppy."

He let his hands fall by his sides again and sauntered on over , carefully spreading his fingers over the gun casing, teasing at the grip and trigger.

"Should I pose with a mirror? No doubt you'll want to watch me as I play with you."

Orions voice was low, oh he could feel him responding even like this.

(lord can you imagine him Sounding like Armada Megatron when he starts talking seductive like, cause they share the same VA)

Megatrons form shook , this was absolutely thrilling he had no idea what Orion was doing to do with him and that was what made it all the more tantalising.

"Megatron."

"Yes, Pax?"

"Is your safety on, it would be rather terrible if I pressed you anywhere and you made a mess of me in a way other than we plan to."

There was a distinct click and Orion just shook his head.

"Well...that certainly would have been a mind blowing experience if you took out the back of my head."

"What do you-"

Orion picked him up, his hand firmly around the grip as his finger slotted perfectly into the trigger ring, the barrel now sliding along his glossa , gently nudging the back of his throat.

"Click , click, bang."

Orion chuckled pulling the trigger. Careful that his fangs didnt bite into him.

The way his laugh lightly vibrated over Megatron's entire form told the Decepticon two things.

One

That this was going to be fun.

Two.

Pax had played with guns before.

Feeling him push down on his trigger as if he had every intention of firing him, was a dangerous game for an Autobot and Decepticon.

Yet here he was trusting him not to send a blast of concentrated energon through the back of his helm.

"You liked that didn't you."

He didn't even need to ask , he knew, as he dragged the barrel back along his tongue and placed a teasing kiss to the Decepticon symbol.

"What else have you used besides me?"

Megatron was definitely curious as his plating shifted to let out steam.

"Hmm in my world, Starscream used his null rays, both of them, and sometimes on a long night the handle of my axe."

Megatron envisioned Orion on hands and knees and if the Decepticons were the size Orion had shown him, Starscream could easily have held both those null rays and used them to fuck Orions aft and valve with one hand.

Orion continued stroking along the barrel, sitting down, setting the pad aside as he sensed Megatron's field spike and bloom as if it'd grabbed his wrist and squeezed.

"You want to hear more don't you Megatron. Are you sure, even if it's Starscream?"

"No, because it's you, I want to know how you whimpered...how you squirmed, how you-"

"How I had him on a leash and collar and told him to fuck me faster with them?"

Orion smirked as he practically felt Megatron tremble in his fingers. Tapping the barrel against his helm temple, wrapping his own field around Megatrons, letting it caress his internals before pulling the trigger

"Click , click , bang , my baby shot me down."

Megatron audibly moaned as Orion kept teasing him, the silver plating parting again to let out another burst of steam.

"I was on my hands and knees, pulling at that leash, ordering him not to hold back..."

He slowly traced the barrel down his body , thumb massaging along the back of the grip, finger tip rubbing along the trigger , up and down. The barrel tip over red metal, over black glass and to his grill.

"See the thing about my grill, I learned, it marks as deep as someone can go, Starscream barely fit, but ohhhh, oh the risk that he really could destroy me..."

Megatron was drawn down the silver metal, over each layered plating, tink, tink, tink...

Please he begged internally , please press the barrel to that yellow stripe he was so close to, only to be laid against his thigh.

"His fingers would wrap around my thighs, my waist so easily as if I were nothing more than a rag doll..."

"Don't tempt me Autobot, I would happily raid the Autobots base and take their size adjuster and put the same difference between us as you had with Starscream and yourself."

Orion's top lip curled in a smile as he licked along the body from barrel root to tip, sliding it back into his mouth and sucking suggestively on it , his head gliding back and forth as he moaned softly , only to whisper then against the grip.

"Is that a promise?"

He teased before biting hard enough to leave a mark.

Megatron let out the most desperate sound he'd ever made in his existence.

"Fuck...you Orion..."

Orion's smile was one of the most wicked wonderful things he'd ever seen, he knew he was driving him crazy.

"Oohh that's not how we talk to our handlers now is it?"

He crooned, feigning sweetness and continued

"You put yourself in my hands to be taken care of , but if you want, I can just stop."

"No, no please...bite me again, make something break if you see it fit as punishment..."

Megatrons field reaching out again, he couldn't believe he was submitting like this, but he wanted to he the first and only gun with sentience buried inside Orions valve, to experience something no one else had.

"Hmm, don't tempt me."

Orion was quiet as he relaxed against the back of the couch, one arm across its back as he used his finger tip to run slow purposeful circles around the trigger ring, while tapping the muzzle to the window of his chest in thought.

Megatron was however too lost in the way Orion was touching him, the way his fingers would curl and squeeze and release the grip.

Orion wouldn’t open up his chest, the amount of gun play he could do by threatening to shoot his spark...he could only think how he only wanted that one mech to touch inside the cab...that was interesting.

"Orion, please you know where I want to be, stop being a tease."

Megatron snapped, bringing him back to focus as he lifted his hand and looked him over as if he was having to think about it.

"Do I know where you want to be? Perhaps you should enlighten me my Lord."

He rested him against his lips

"Do you want to be here?"

"Orion. I'm warning you."

"Or here ?"

He trailed the barrel down his waist to rest against his inner thigh

"Or here?"

"Pax."

Megatron warned.

"I'm not putting you in dry."

Megatron stuttered, of course his gun form would be uncomfortable without lubrication.

"Top draw next to the couch."

"That's a good gun, now let's get started with the real fun should we."

(Will be continued, but seriously contemplating adding someone else into this mix.)

Previous

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[rottin6]

mdni. 18+ | bartylily. cw: gun kink.

in lily’s defence, she did just start dating him so how was she supposed to know the rules? barging into her boyfriend’s room wasn’t the best idea, but the best lessons, as she knows, are learned from experience. barty’s sitting there when she walks in, lazily sprawled out on his bed, his chest bare with drops of sweat. he stares at her expectantly.

her focus is stuck on the gun, the silver barrel of it resting against the crease of his hip like it was anything but. “your parents never teach you how to knock?” he’s pissed off at her, but lily doesn’t care. she opens her mouth to speak, then closes—then opens again to mumble an incoherent apology, before moving to back out of the room. it’s then that barty lifts his left hand, the one holding the weapon and lily stops in her tracks, fear clouding her mind.

his eyes narrow at her, his back up against the headboard. he motions the gun as if he were waving her to move forward, “come here.” lily moves, hesitantly of course. she knows he wouldn’t hurt her—or she thinks so at least, and yet, she becomes weary of him. she crawls onto the bed, slowly, sitting in between his legs, and she can’t help the gasp that releases when he moves the gun against her cheek, gently forcing her to look at him.

“i asked you a question, doll.” he murmurs, tapping the barrel against her cheek, and instinctively, a heat begins to form in the pit of her stomach.

lily’s voice is pathetically small—meek when she speaks. “yes—no, i’m sorry, barty. was just excited to see you.” his jaw’s clenched as he hums, dragging the tip of the gun along her jaw sideways, stopping when he reaches her chin. lily’s surprised at herself, at her breathing for staying scarily even as she holds eye contact with him.

he continues to study her, looking for any sign of fear. he keeps his brows crossed, “you missed me?” he says, his voice low, lips barely moving. there’s a fondness in his eyes that calms lily, and suddenly the gun held to the bottom of her chin is the least of her worries. she nods carefully, an animalistic urge to rub her thighs against one another.

“mm-hm.”

there’s a beat of silence and then the corners of his lips twitch, “good.” barty’s eyes fall to her lips, all bitten and chapped from her habits. then, he inhales, “you’re pretty.” and all lily can choke out is a thank you. she doesn’t know why she’s so tense—on edge, but the compliment sends shivers right down to her toes. then, before she even knows what’s happening, barty’s pressing the gun against her lips, tapping it lightly and his eyes wide, full of expectation.

it comes out as a harsh breath when he speaks: “open.” and lily can’t help but gape at him, coming to the realisation that he’s gone and finally lost his mind. but the look on his face is a completely serious one, and he tries to force the barrel past her teeth. his right hand pulls on her hip, rubbing slow, comforting circles on the skin as he mumbles more, “c’mon baby, give me more.”

the gun’s cold against her teeth, the metal reminding her of the piercing on his tongue, and when it slips past her lips and onto her tongue, lily lets out a moan, one she had no idea was building up in the back of her throat.

she takes the gun in her mouth and barty’s sick when he’s watching her, his mouth curling upwards. “good. good girl. show the gun how much you missed me, and maybe i’ll let you show my cock, instead.” usually lily would jump at the opportunity but she really couldn’t care less. she doesn’t care if she doesn’t get to suck him off, because the feeling of the gun sliding in and out, slowly, from his guidance, is enough to satisfy her. barty coos and praises her as her eyes roll further back into her head the more he speeds up, his hard cock throbbing against her thigh.

barty’s impatient though, and though lily could sit there forever, he wastes no time in pulling out, manhandling her face down into his bedsheets and positioning his cock into her dripping hole. “fuck,” he says, “you got this wet from a little bit of sucking?” he pants, heavy from the way her sticky walls cling onto his length. he’s violent with it, unforgiving when he rams into her, and lily makes the mistake of trying to push him back away from her—to slow him down.

lily feels the coolness of the gun barrel press against the back of her head, and a soft click follows after.

“you fuckin’ try that again and see where it gets you.”

for @sommerregenjuniluft always x

[whateveriwant]

Happy Sunday! Whatever you do, definitely don't imagine Simon stuck in a time loop, forced to relive the worst day of his life over and over again 😀

The worst day of Simon's life? you might wonder. What would that be? Good question!

How about the day that Simon, at the tender age of four, came face-to-face with the boogeyman himself? His mother had warned him of the ghoulish entity, the one who lurked in shadows, inflicting pain on those who would seek to misbehave. What she didn't tell him, and what Simon would discover for himself that night as he awoke to the sounds of screaming, was that the boogeyman was no mere specter. She didn't tell him how he punished indiscriminately, uncaring if you were a woman or child. She didn't tell him how he wielded his fist like a hammer, his breath stinking of booze and cigarettes. And she didn't tell him (because how could a mother begin to explain to her young son?) that the boogeyman would wear the face of his own father.

Or how about the day that Simon realized he made the biggest mistake of his life? When he first joined the army, he had lofty ideas of honor and glory; action and duty; responsibility and yes, if it came to it, even sacrifice. Call him naive, but what else could you expect of a boy who's been fed nothing but a trough of propaganda his whole life? Simon surely didn't realize, not as he signed his soul over for a pair of dog tags. He didn't realize, not as he queued up with other lost boys for his chance to play soldier. He didn't realize even as he was shipped out with less than two months of basic training under his belt. No, Simon didn't realize until it was already too late, until it was staring at him across the blood-soaked trench with glossy, unblinking eyes. It was only then, looking into what remained of the face of a friend, that Simon realized there is decidedly very little that is ‘dolce et decorum’ about dying in war.

Or there's the day Simon discovered hell exists right here on Earth, and it's ruled over by a devil called Roba. Simon had thought that living a life already full of pain and horror would have thickened his skin like the rings of a tree, making an impenetrable armor even a mortar couldn't dent. But all it took was the careful orchestration of one wicked man to prove that even the toughest of trees can be felled. Day in and day out, he endured a steady stream of beatings, tortures, and assaults. Day in and day out, he was forced to the brink of his sanity, tipping over it once or twice. Day in and day out, the once unbreakable soldier entered a new circle of hell, and as he descended, finding each pit worse than the last, he wondered if he would ever make it out alive.

Or there's the any number of days (and there are a dreadful many) that Simon lost the only things in his life that ever truly mattered to him. The day he came home, the taste of betrayal acrid on his tongue, to find four mangled corpses had replaced the people he called family. The day he failed, the target vanishing like smoke from a gun barrel, his hands wet with the blood of the sergeant he had come to consider a brother. The day he never saw coming, the day that smashed what was left of his heart into pieces, the day he lost the best thing to ever happen to his miserable excuse of a life; the day he lost you.

It was years later, long after he'd hung up his masks and tags, that they came for you in the dead of night. Payback, they'd said, for something he'd done when he was still in the service. Though you had no affiliation with that period of his life, they knew that by taking you – by hurting you – it was the perfect eye for an eye. All Simon could do as they bound and beat you was watch from across the room, his own chains rattling desperately. He watched as your fingers bent at odd angles, your clothes adhered to your skin with blood, the bones in your face shattered and swelled until you were unrecognizable. You were strong – stronger than Simon ever wanted you to have to be – but that didn't stop his heart from breaking with every abuse your body received. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he tried to get through to you, even as the sickening crack of your femur threatened to drown him out.

It was hours (it felt more like decades) that you were both dragged through this misery. Simon watched the whole time, hot tears obscuring his vision, his voice keeping you awake between the syringes of adrenaline pumped into you. But eventually there came a point in which you slumped, a sort of finality to the way your limbs sagged, and Simon couldn't help how his own heart stopped pumping. The room was loud in his ears, louder than it had ever been thus far, and yet, not a single sound was made. He shook his chains to rouse you. Get up, he ordered. Get up, my love. Get up! he begged, screamed until his vocal chords shred. His pleas were met by only silence, a slowing trickle of blood leaking from your mouth, and when the ones that did this to you declared that revenge was now claimed, Simon knew the last thread that wove any sort of meaning into his life had finally been cut.

Any one of these days could be a contender for the worst day of Simon's life, an eternity of torment looped within a 24 hour cycle. And no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries to change things, it's never enough. He is never enough.

[rodolfoparras]

Thinking about Noir and the kinks he likes to indulge in

Pairing: Spider-Man Noir x Male Reader

content tags: 18+, MINORS DNI, gun play, Sub!Noir, Dom!Male Reader, humiliation kink, watersports, dry humping, oral fixation, degradation

A/N: I’m sorry for any mistakes and I hope you enjoy!

“Are you scared?”

What was essentially supposed to be a quiet patrol had turned into something else with Noir perched on your lap, hands cuffed behind his back and with a gun pointed in his face.

Is he scared?

Noir eyes the weapon in your hand. It’s the one you keep on you at all times. It’s one that’s usually in your glove department but now is in the palm of your hand. It’s the one he doesn’t know if it’s loaded or not with your calloused finger teasing and taunting the trigger while pressing it directly to his forehead.

Blood’s roaring in his ears, shaky breaths escaping his lips and body shuddering where you’re pressing the gun against him.

However it’s not fear that he feels with the way his cock is twitching in his pants, eyes half lidded and pupils blown wide while his cuffed hands are trying to reach out.

Noir shakes his head and presses himself closer to the weapon, firmly enough to leave an indent.

You just hum in content, before you drop the gun from his forehead to instead trace along his jaw, before lightly putting pressure on his throat and watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he nervously swallows.

“Please please don’t tease cant cant do-” he gasps out, words dying down as you push the gun harsher against his windpipe.

“Not another word, detective Noir,” you say with a smile on your face as you catch his gaze only to see the wide eyed look on his face , cheeks flushed and mouth agape, but once again not a speck of fear can be found his face.

You hum in content before you continue to trace the barrel along his collar bones, making sure to harshly graze the marks you left from the night before.

He whimpers and whines, body jerking away from the rough touch only to be yanked back in place by the handcuffs.

“Easy there doll, you’ll hurt yourself” You say, trying to suppress the smile on your face as you continue to trace the gun down his chest dragging it close to where his heart lays.

You hear him take shaky breathes as you drag the cold barrel along his nipples until they’re hard as pebbles and the skin around it is flushed an irritated red.

You continue tracing down his abdomen, finally reaching down to the outline of his boner, where his cock is weeping, so much so he’s managed to create a wet patch in the uniform he’s wearing.

You lightly push and press the tip of the weapon against his dick watching the way he squirms as a gasp escapes his lips

“Oh- oh god -please” Noir whines out, hips bucking pathetically up against the gun.

“You don’t listen do you?” You say, and take the gun away while glaring up at him. He quickly realizes that he spoke when he was supposed to be quiet and is about to apologize before you cut him off “open up”

He quickly complies, lips parting to leave room for the gun before you gently slide it into his mouth. “Suck”

Noir eagerly wraps his lips around it, tongue languidly dragging along the length of the barrel before completely sinking down on it.

The gun feels cold in his searing hot mouth, the barel a welcome weight on his tongue, and the smell of gun powder ever so prominent as he sucks on it.

He cant help but think that he enjoys it, a lot, eyes fluttering shut, needy noises escaping his lips as he eagerly sucks on the gun.

“Oh fuck just like that,” you groan out “suck it just like you’d suck my cock”. Noir suckles harder, brown pinching together as drool trickles down the grip.

“Fuck, you wouldn’t even care if you got your head blown off, you just want something in your mouth like the little slut you are huh?”

His eyes snap open at those words, body going taut as his gaze falls to the gun in your hand, down to the spot where you’re index finger continuously taunts and teases the trigger.

He looks absolutely obscene as he meets your gaze; eyes half lidded, lip stretch around the barrel with a look of anticipation painted upon his face.

You tilt your head, brow raising in surprise as you finally recognize the look in his eyes.

You can barely suppress the smile on your face as you fully press down onto the trigger.

His eyes flutter shut, brows pinching together as he prepares himself for what’s to come,

Clink.

The sound of the empty gun going off can be heard loud and clear before it’s overpowered by the sobs escaping Noir’s lips and as your eyes trail down to the lower half of his body you notice a small stream prominently appearing on his jeans, the patch growing larger with each second that’s passing.

You laugh hysterically, eyes wide in disbelief, as you take in the sight of him.

“Oh fuck did you just piss yourself?”you say still laughing in disbelief while looking down at the wet patch on his jeans.

However Noir doesn’t seem to notice or doesn’t seem to care as he resumes sucking on the barell while rolling his hips.

“Jesus Christ you don’t even care do you” you sneer, hands curling at the back of his neck and tilting his head to meet your gaze.

“Look at you grinding in your own piss just to get off, fucking disgusting”

As if finally realizing what he’s doing, he stops moving, and meets your gaze with a guilty look painted upon his face but it doesn’t take much for him to start moving again as he hears you say

“Come on why stop now, make yourself cum,”