#attempted gun murder

[columboscreens]

[velvetrambles]

Chelley but make it Murder Drones!

Bonus (simpler) accurately coloured Wheatley under the cut

[jenny-ate-ink]

Okay, okay, so hear me out:

Modern Au!Linked Universe x Stardew Valley crossover with Lon Lon Ranch being the players farm, and all them are related in some way, either being father and son, uncle and nephew, or cousins, and where the Goddess is uniting them in canon it's instead trauma (because love me some good whump)

I already came up with some (very) rough design drafts, a family tree, new "modern"/more human names for them based on their titles, and backstories for Time, Twilight, and Wild

Here's the designs + a bonus transparent version

(Like I said, it's a very rough draft, the first draft, in fact. Warriors needs tweaking, and Legend needs to be a tiny bit shorter, etcetera)

Here's the family tree I came up with (also a draft):

And I'll put the few backstories I came up with under a read more sense they contain a lot of triggering material (like I said, trauma is the uniting thing here lmao). Everything is tagged, of course, so I recommend looking that over first

(*Note: click to read)

[emberwritesinsight]

HELP THEY TRIED AGAIN? AND FAILED AGAIN? OH MY GOD I'M LAUGHING MY ASS OFF

[zyxwvutbackwards]

Comic UTC - TW: (attempted) gun violence, (attempted) murder, discrimination - read at your own risk, and please take care of yourself!!

HELLO IM BACK — AND WITH A COMIC!!! Sorry for the worsening quality as it goes along and sorry for the very poor pacing - this has been in the works for a while atp, and I realized if I didn’t finish it now I wouldn’t finish it at all 😭 hopefully it isn’t too sore on the eyes!

Anyways, when I first heard about MR Mycheal - and how good etiquette and even good intention would do nothing for him like it does for regular Mycheal - what came to mind was that the most well meaning thoughts have insults laced in them and the most polite people keep their distance. When humans do try to hurt him, he knows just how scared they are; he knows, that in their mind, they think that they’re trying to protect themselves from a monster. He’s the monster, of course he is, certainly not the one trying to kill him. No wonder he thinks all humans are evil…even the “good” ones insult him. How unlovable and alone must he feel? To be rejected by creatures like that?

Anyways, this comic is just to explorer some of the experiences MR Mycheal may have had that make him so much less trusting than the OG! It’s set in kind of a generic time frame, as I don’t know when Mycheal was “born,” and intended to be set just before he stopped making direct contact with humans overall. Hope that makes sense!

MR Mycheal/Mushroom oasis is by @deerspherestudios

[painsandconfusion]

Off Guard

Whumping the Whumpers - Part Thirty-eight

(tw: electrocution, escape attempt, concussion, torture, death mention, murder mention, plotting murder, handcuffs, stun gun, blood, beating, unintentional self harm (bloody knuckles)) [Previous | Masterpost | Next]

Ethan’s fingers tingled as he walked, flicking them against each other by his side to stave off the sensation as he moved down the hall. 

He didn’t want to be too loud. Not tonight. The light was off in Nate’s room, so the bastard must finally be getting some half decent sleep. No reason to wake him and have the idiot trying to take over the scene. Again.

He shoved open the workshop doors, ignoring the slight grinding whine the hinges gave off - though still subconciously noting to add some kind of oil or whatever the fuck you do with hinges later. As the lights snapped on, the pitiful lump of a man in the middle of the room curled into his chains, a small sound of displeasure coming off of him.

“What, were you sleeping? I’m sorry-” Ethan stepped up to him, almost delicately pressing a foot down onto a dried slurry of blood that gashed over Crawford’s thigh. 

“Hnn-stopstto-”

“Hmm… I dunno, maybe beg a little more and see if it puts me in a good mood?” The edges of his mouth seemed to shift, tugging like curtains pulled by a string on the other side of the room to coax a smile out of him. 

Getting there, at least.

It was an almost completely forgotten sensation. Smiling without meaning to. It pulled an entirely different set of muscles than the simple, polite curve he gave to people he wanted to shut up or leave him alone. Different than the ruse he put on or the sarcastic toothy grin he threw in Nate’s direction in place of a verbal response. This was something different entirely. Like a little parasite had carved up inside his cheek and gnawed at the thin strands of muscle until they tightened like strings of a violin, ready for the steady screech of rosin to truly set them alight.

“Y’mdnr-”

“Hmm~?” Ethan’s foot ground in further, leaning in to see Crawford’s face as the man squished it against the cement. 

Another incoherent slurry of sound pressed from the man’s throat, still curled into a ball around the spot where the shackle lashed him to the ground. 

Ethan rolled his eyes, pushing off the man with a small kicking shove before crouching down and squirming his hand into the knotted ball of a man to grab his jaw. Twist him round. Hear his neck crackle with the fresh movement after nights sleeping on cement.

“Use your words,” he prompted, forefinger alone relenting the grip to taptaptap on Crawford’s jaw.

.PaiN.

Pain.

Ethan knew pain.

Close friends as they were for so many years, it was strange he found himself at a loss for its name when it reared its ugly head once more, overwhelming his mind in a single snap of blank, processing emptiness.

Ethan felt the echoing crack as his head hit the concrete, remnants of what he was finally recognizing as electricity buzzing down his twitching legs.

Some strangled growl ripped up his throat as he tried to right himself enough to grab for the man who was shoving on top of him, but his arms were slow - groggy from sleeplessness, shock and lost, aimless electrons trying to find their way underground. 

He shoved at Crawford only to feel the prongs of the stun gun shoved hard into his collarbone, burning agony through the skin and crackling as if eating through the bone itself as he thrashed to shove the searing pain away.

My name is Ethan Scott. The mantra lit up the back of his skull without prompt or ask. It was just there.

It begged him to fall stoic. To sit still and take it. Be tough. Be a good b-

No.

No-

NO.

My name is Ethan Scott and you cannot break me.

He won’t sit still- he can’t. Taking it isn’t strength right now, taking it is defeat.

Crawford was the one in chains today. 

Ethan’s hands scrabbled for Crawford’s arm, finally knocking the thing off of his flesh with a roaring gasp, shoving the other man off of him as best he could. 

Knuckles snapped against his nose, crunching it back. Some dull part of his mind calculated that that wasn’t even half the force of Crawford’s normal blows, but it locked up his mind anyway, pushing his gaze hazy and blurred as heat snapped across his sinuses and exploded behind his eyes. 

There was blood. He could taste it.

Shoving numbly, he was barely keeping up enough to track the bastard’s fingers knotting into his hair and slamming his head into the ground. Again. Again. Again-

And it stopped.

The weight lifted off of him in a blur of white and charcoal grey, sound muffling to the side. 

Ethan shoved back, hand moving to his face to press against the bleeding and squeeze his eyes shut to will vision to return to him. His head was spinning, like he was about to tip over and crack against the ground again. 

He shoved it back. Forced his eyes open and made them focus on the sounds and movement to his left as he shoved himself up on an elbow to squint at the unknown blur.

It took a moment to process exactly what he was seeing. 

Nate was a cheerful kind of bitch. The asshole whose smirk you could never wipe off. The life of the party. Class clown. Charmer. No matter how many screams he ripped out of Ethan, he did it with a gentle, almost seductive tone, grinning, smirking, or smiling almost fondly. He’d only seen Nate angry the once. When they’d met for the second time. 

But this savage blur in front of Ethan’s bleary eyes had him wondering if he was knocked into a dream. Blood splattered up Nate’s face from the sheer force of his hits as he drove his fist into Crawford’s face again and again, snapping it back and forth against the unforgiving cement. He didn’t even have to pin the man down - the whelp on the floor couldn’t do anything but try to throw his arms up in front of the blows, shielding his face. 

Nate didn’t seem to care. He hit them too. Silent yet somehow screaming a rage tha echoed through Ethan’s skull.

Ethan sat there for several long seconds, trying to blink away the mirage in front of him before it slowly sharperned into clarity. It was really happening. 

A dull thought finally graced his addled mind. He’s going to kill him.

Immediately a panic pressed up through Ethan’s veins like acid, snapping him to attention and the closest thing to lucidity his star-studded mind could handle. He shoved up to his knees and flopped forward to tackled Nate off of the man. “St- sstop- STOP!”

Nate shoves at Ethan, trying to throw him off enough to get back to Crawford. Ethan could practically see the red smeared over Nate’s eyes as he shoved the man’s hands away, fogged body easily ignoring the nails slicing blood from his arms in their desperation to return to their proper target.

“NATE STOP.” Ethan finally just grabbed Nate’s face, forcing it toward him. 

Nate’s eyes stayed on Crawford, but he did slow, chest heaving and teeth barred like some kind of animal.

“..that’s enough-!”

Nate tried to shove off the words along with his hands. “He w-”

“I get to kill him. Me. Not you. Me.” 

Nate’s breath stuttered off its ragged rhythm, and his jaw set, lips pinched tight as a glare snapped to Ethan’s eyes at last. 

In a surrendering kind of huff, he shoved Ethan off of him again. This time Ethan let himself roll to the side, lying with shallow, echoing breath on the ground as Nate shoved out the workshop doors at a brisk walk, sticky hand leaving a smear of blood like claw marks over the edge of the door.

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @wormwriting @distinctlywhumpthing @whump-cafe @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @azayta  @batfacedliar-yetagain @there-will-always-be-blood @siren-of-agony @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions-deactiva @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101 @pickywhumpreader @whumpberry-cookie @morning-star-whump @nailevislev @throwawaywhumper @the-mourning-star @d-cs @pigeonwhumps @suspicious-whumping-egg @snakebites-and-ink @whumpedydump @orphans-parent @whumplr-reader @rainbowsandwhumperflies @starfields08000 @sunnyesunny @crystallizedme @lumpofsand @taterswhump)

As always, lmk if you want to be added to the tag list!

[melljam]

so this is the second time jake and eli got slammed into the ground together

oh the head injuries,, theyre brutal!!

although no accidental kiss this time because jake is facing downwards … so he’s just tasting river water instead lol

[blueskittlesart]

i feel like im back in public high school

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

Numéro 23

Part 2

Guess what, ya girl finished a snippet on the plane!!

Words: 1.28 k

TW: Violence, bone fracture, slightly depressed and pretty anxious hero, questionable agency, bone fracture, guns, attempted murders, restraint mentioned

The file was dropped onto their desk curtly, no words spoken, like every other assignment Hero got. Their newest target didn't have a name, no alias of some sort, and the picture of them had shown them fully masked in a sleek, black suit, no inch of skin showing; a faceless caricature. However, their kill count, in three digits, was important enough that any other details seemed inconsequential next to it.

Besides, Hero had been taught to treat their targets more like tasks than people. 

So the crime-fighter trained till they were left dead on their feet, till their knuckles were all ripped skin and covered in bloodstains, till their exhausted muscles felt like they were on fire. 

“Hero! Don’t you think you’re going a little overkill, boss?” Sidekick asked, folding their arms across their chest and leaning against the doorframe.

The young hero was the closest thing to a light in the agency’s pitch black darkness; the soul that gave life to a lifeless place, like a flame lighting the slowly dwindling, half-melted candle that was the older crime-fighter’s life. 

“I. . .can’t, Sidekick,” the hero replied breathlessly, hauling their form up for yet another pull-up, having done so many that they’d lost count. “This new target is unlike all the others before the-”

“Yeah yeah, but when are you not being paranoid about one of your enemies?” the teenager replied, cutting them off. 

“Their kill count is in three digits,” the crime-stopper retorted almost impatiently.

“Bloody hell,” Sidekick interjected, eyes going wide.

“Watch your language,” Hero chided, but a sly smirk danced across their face. 

“Okay, I wasn’t expecting that, but what good will it do if you show up to fight this bloody - sorry - serial killer exhausted? Weren’t you the one who kept lecturing me on the importance of rest for maximum work efficiency?”

The hero may have been stubborn, but they realised their protegé was right. They couldn't risk showing up to fight someone like their mystery killer while tired, so they decided to make their way home.

Normally, a hot bath would easily clear their head. Sure, they could still feel the tension blissfully seep from their form, the warmth relaxing overworked muscles, but their mind remained a raging firestorm of anxiety. It frustrated them how they couldn't even enjoy something this simple, the one moment where they no longer had to think or be whatever the hell they needed to be at the moment. "At least I smell nice," they scoffed, wishing to get this over with much faster. 

They let out a heavy sigh, leaving the tub and slipping into a bathrobe, trudging to the desk in their room to use the old, but still functional laptop. Ironically, being a hero barely payed for rent. 

For someone so high and mighty, their little terrorist wasn't completely difficult to find. Or maybe the hero was really a 'natural with the keyboard', since it had taken them a bit of hacking to find their target. Who's to say? 

Changing into their suit, Hero stared at their reflection with such intensity, that it would look to most people like an attempt to shatter it to a thousand shards by just looking at it. In reality, their own harsh gaze bore into the dark corners of their mind, wondering for the umpteenth time if they were enough. It didn't matter because they'd still have to do this anyway, whatever the cost.

"Target spotted," they whispered into their comm, standing on their knees for long enough that their muscles ached, waiting for their enemy deigned to show up. 

"I will engage now." 

The killer's movements resembled that of a panther, and the crime-fighter would have been lying if they'd denied finding it graceful. They were fast and agile, almost impossible to keep up with, not even giving them the chance to reach for the gun in their waistband. But the hero was no slouch either. They aimed a harsh kick to their enemy's shins, their body slamming into the asphalt with an audible thud. Still, the figure in black remained undeterred, kicking the crime-stopper on top of them in the ribs, sending them toppling down across the street, making their head throb and effectively destroying their flimsy communicator.

The hero swore, muttering something ironically much more profane than what they'd chastise their sidekick for, but they rolled away, out of the bastard's reach, quickly getting back on their feet. Their assailant was quick on their feet, chasing after them, but Hero was faster. They'd managed to slip behind an old building, trying to quiet their laboured breathing. They slowly reached for the gun in their waistband, removing the old magazine and replacing it with a new, loaded one.

They waited painstakingly for their target to reach the perfect spot.

Bang. They fired, aiming for the kill, three perfect shots. 

Except the bastard was wearing bullet-proof armour, the bullets ricocheting off of them uselessly. They were certain that underneath their dark cowl, the criminal must have had an infuriatingly smug smirk on their face, but right then, they recieved an entirely self-satisfied tilt of the head to the side. 

Their only option was to destroy a piece of the armour and shoot them there. 

The fight between them continued being a draw, one striking, their opponent blocking, and neither causing any real damage. Until the killer had managed to back Hero into a corner, kicking them to the ground and twisting their leg into a horrid angle, the crime-fighter crying out in pain as a grotesque crack rang in their ears. Tears sprang in their eyes and with whatever little movement they could manage, they furiously ripped their nemesis's mask off.

It wasn't the face of a stranger, like they'd expected, nor was it the face of someone entirely close to them, not that there were many people, aside from their sidekick, who obviously wasn't the ruthless murderer before, instead, it was their quiet lab partner from college, Villain, the one that sat next to them every day, brought them coffee and the occasional dessert, and doodled silly cartoons in their notebook to keep them both sane during boring classes, the closest thing they had to a friend that had nothing to do with the agency.

Their mouth was left agape, their eyes wide, their whole world spinning, but Villain didn’t even blink. They fired, straight into the hero's chest, utterly remorseless, no readable expression on their stone hard face.

Hero woke up. Woke up? What the hell? But Villain had killed them, yet here they were, lying on a soft mattress underneath a wonderfully thick comforter, with their leg in a cast, bandages crisscrossed across their chest. The only thing ruining the strangely mellow coziness they felt (possibly painkilling drugs) was the fact that they were handcuffed to the nighstand. 

The bullet had missed their heart. But surely an expert marksman like Villain wouldn't miss, right? This, for some strange reason, was intentional. 

We like to believe that our expectations have a foundation in truth, that they are of considerable value, that they can have even the slightest effect on any future outcomes. Yet, that is a fool's dream, a fruitless effort to calm a racing mind in fear of the unknown. Just when you are at the peak of your certainty, when you fully believe your fate is sealed, a spontaneous twist, the slightest change sets you on a path you were never aware existed. Our choices, our words, our actions have meaning, yet they only hold the power of a few tidal waves in the vast unpredictable ocean that is our future because destiny is a weapon one can only hope to master.

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @usernotfound000 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @shr3ya @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

[angstfactory]

@ravensrevcnge

A lot had transpired within the last couple of weeks, so much that it was almost too much for Vicente to truly keep documented. And then today happened... It confirmed what the hunter had already discovered after piecing together the clues-- a sinkhole, the strange goings on around town, the smell, the body Eden showed him, a fake Juni standing there in the flesh... Demons had invaded Raven's Peak.

They were rare, so very rare. Even Vicente had only dealt with them twice before in his life, once when he was very young and ten years ago. That knowledge is likely what saved him today, the protection spell and knowing that these troublesome creatures would never avoid such a hearty buffet being laid out so nicely before them in the celebration of the town's centennial. With that in mind, Vicente had made his own plans today, under the guise the blame for it would land on the demons wrecking havoc. As soon as the chaos erupted, the hunter got to work.

What could take out an ancient vampire? There were whispers and stories that said they couldn't be killed, that nobody in life had never been able to before. Vicente refused to believe that. Today, he would test the waters.

Noah Morgrave was inside Midnight Mirage. A shrouded figure stole forward, setting fire to several different areas in a calculated attack-- one that encircled the building. They were baby flames, but they were all the accelerant needed to draw in the chaotic spirits from nearby who fanned those flames and set the place ablaze in full-force. The cloaked figure shrunk away as quickly as it'd come, to wait for the results and move in when the time was right.

[that-sad-guy]

rip

[ravenzeppeli]

Claimed

Chapter 42 - Shattered |Prosciutto x Reader Angst|

Warning: strong/violent language, suicide attempt, threats, emotional abuse, strong verbal abuse, physical abuse, dark chapter. MA.

The mistake that you made was that you assumed that you were safe here, that these men would at least have the decency to never kill you. Sadly, you found yourself mistake, almost getting strangled to death all for something foolish. Maybe this was all a mistake, maybe being here's a mistake. All of this was becoming too stressful for you. You felt yourself starting to break. You no longer care about your life.

With delicacy, you pressed Prosciuttos gun up to your head, your hand resting on the trigger. If you do this, you'll be free. Once a man tries to kill you, they'll try it again. You had to kill yourself before he killed you. Before they all killed you. You were a fool for thinking that you'd ever matter to any of them. Not even Melone or Pesci cared. It was all an act. You knew it was all an act.

As you felt yourself close to pulling the trigger, your hand was suddenly slammed against the counter, the gun knocking out of your hand and going off, a loud gunshot echoing throughout the house. Before you could even react, arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you up.

"Stupid!" Prosciutto screamed, dragging your body across the floor as if you were a ragdoll. Your feet struggled to keep balance, your shoes squeaking as they dragged across the floor. "I told you never to touch my gun, and you press it against your head!? You plan to blow your brains out after everything I've done for you! Get the fuck out of my house, weak bitch!"

Silence overtook you, your heart shattering inside your chest as you realized how alone you truly were. Prosciutto wouldn't have cares that Formaggio tried to kill you. He would simply ignore it. If it weren't for Illuso stepping in, you would be dead. If it weren't for that piece of shit Formaggio never would have found out about you watching them. Fuck them, and fuck Prosciutto too. They were no good, and they would never understand how badly that they've hurt you. You were growing tired of these negative feelings. You just wanted it to stop.

As if you were nothing to him, Prosciutto roughly pushed you out of his room. You shamelessly stumbled forward, a low gasp escaping your lips as you crashed into a familiar, hard chest. With haste, you were grabbed and spun around, one massive hand wrapping around your throat and one around your waist.

"What happened? I heard a gunshot." Risottos voice filled your ears, voice low but filled with adrenaline.

Prosciutto walked back into his house without answering Risotto, leaving his door wide open. His harsh words cut you like a knife, but you were used to his abuse and ugly words. Prosciutto was in no way a kind man, and he was never the type to comfort you. Inside and out, he was an evil man with no good qualities aside from the fact that he's physically attractive. You couldn't believe that you almost fell in love with him, those past positive feelings being replaced with an even stronger hate towards him.

You attempted to pull away from Risotto, hot tears filling your eyes. "Let me go!" You screamed at him, wiggling violently in his arms. "Let me go now!" The anger you had was misplaced, but you didn't care. You just wanted to scream and be angry.

Maybe Risotto did deserve your anger, considering he was the reason why you couldn't break up with Formaggio or Prosciutto. His unfair fucking rules kept you on a tight leash and you had no choice but to listen to him. Not only was he your boyfriend, he was also your boss. It was so fucking unfair.

"Calm yourself," he muttered, arms locking around you, squeezing tightly, your body practically flailing to get away from him. To have your own free will. "You will calm down and submit to me now! I haven't had to put my hands on you, but I will!"

The sharpness in his yell was harsh, your body instantly freezing, head hanging low. You couldn't do this anymore, you couldn't feel this pain. "You hate me!" You cried out. "You all do!" Despite still yelling, you froze in his arms, your body not being able to help submitting to him. It was like he had you under his spell, hot tears now pouring down your face as you stiffened against his brick-like figure.

Prosciutto came out before Risotto replied, his hands filled with your things - your carry-on suitcase, your toothbrush, your laptop, your phone, as well as your mp3 player. "You'll never step foot in my house again, stupid cunt!" He stepped past you, tossing your things off of the porch, your clothes spilling out onto the lawn. "Dumb bitch! Trying to blow your brains out with my gun, I should fucking beat you! You're lucky!"

"She tried to shoot herself?" Muttered Risotto, a darkness in his tone that instantly brought fear into your heart. "After everything you've been through with us, you were going to blow your brains out in Prosciuttos kitchen? He trusted you in his home and you betrayed that."

In this moment, all you could think of was wanting Melone here to protect you. Like a fool, like he would actually side with you over his team. These men didn't care. They would soon kill you. You knew it. Formaggio won't let his anger go. You knew that he was coming for you. Or maybe Illuso was. You were replaceable. Just a toy. An object. You were nothing.

"Neither one of you love or care about me," you whispered, voice so low that Prosciutto suddenly appeared in front of you, leaning down slightly, his eyes filled with hate as he stared at you. "I don't want to be with you. I never did."

Prosciutto raised his hand to slap you, thick blonde eyebrows pulling down into a scowl. With an open hand, he popped you in the mouth, your teeth cutting into your bottom lip. "Shut your fucking mouth and learn your place, brainless girl! You should be thankful to be here with us, to be taken care of and spoiled! Ungrateful cunt, you're replaceable! Average at best, nothing special! I could pay for better pussy out on the streets, and I have!"

An awkward silence hung between the three of you, your head hanging low, the tears continuing to fall.

"I don't want you," he added in, "you're available. That's the only reason I allow myself to touch you and fuck you. Learn to be grateful, because we are all better than you! You're nothing without us, even with us you're fucking nothing! The only thing you got right was that I don't love you! Why would I love a weak, suicidal cunt!? Fuck you!"

"I want to leave," you whispered, feeling completely defeated by Prosciuttos' harsh words. A small part of you always felt like he loved you. That small part immediately washed away, his words permanently engraving in the back of your mind. Never would you let yourself forget that he hates you and doesn't want you. That would always stay with you, haunting you.

Risottos grip left your body completely your body completely. "Go sit on my porch," Risotto mutteted, "I'll collect your stuff and bring it. Stay exactly where I can see you and keep my eye on you. Sit on the steps." He stepped away from you, walking over to Prosciutto.

Quickly, you turned away, walking down the steps and passed your scattered clothes. Looking down, you saw your phone and mp3, leaning down, you quickly scooped it up. "Y/N, I said now," warned Risotto. "Do you want to anger me further!? You're already going to get it when we step foot in my fucking room for attempting to kill yourself. You've pissed me off. A threat against your own life is a threat against me."

This was a dangerous situation. You weren't safe and only had one thing on your mind. Risotto was going to kill you, just like Formaggio tried, too. He was going to hurt you. You couldn't let that happen. You were terrified of Risotto and what he may do to you.

Moving fast, you began to walk over to Risottos' front porch, flipping your phone open. You went to Melones name, pressing the green call button as you slammed the phone into your right ear.

The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered, "Y/N! My love, I was just thinking about you."

A sense of comfort as well as dread washed over you. "Melone," you whispered into the phone as you sat on Risottos porch, keeping your head down. "I need you to come get me. I'm at Risottos. I need you to - " You were cut off by the phone snatching out of your hand, Risotto appearing in front of you in seconds.

With a shake of his head, he snapped your phone in half, tossing it to the side, his large frame towering over you, casting a dark shadow over your entire body. "I really do care about you," he muttered, voice thick with venom, "that is why I'm going to have to do this to you. This will hurt me worse than it'll hurt you."

"Please don't hurt me," you begged, a stiffness coursing throughout your body as he grabbed your wrist, roughly yanking you to your feet. "You don't understand! You don't know what was done to me, and you don't even care!" With a sudden rage, your other hand raised, roughly pushing into his chest, causing no impact.

"Oh?" A look of surprise spread across his face, eyes dropping down to stare at your hand. "You know what, Y/N, I've had enough with you lying and hiding the truth from me. I think it's time I show you what happens when you lie to me and attempt to take your own life."

[hazbinned]

@angie-long-legs said: "Are you really going to pull that trigger?" For Val

How had it come to this? Valentino had Angel pressed up against the cushions of the couch, the barrel of his gun pinned to the side of the spider's head.

'Moneyshot,' he called it. Bejeweled with craft store rhinestones and hot glue, his name spelled out by hand on its side. It was colorful, dazzling, decorative... deadly.

And loaded to capacity with Angelic bullets.

How could something so cheerful-looking be the harbinger of such a permanent type of destruction? And why had Valentino suddenly whipped it out on Angel?

Backtrack to three hours ago-- it had been a bad night. Valentino was lost in his own thoughts and memories for once, and drugs weren't helping. Neither was alcohol. Plus, everyone around him seemed to be getting the scripts wrong. Constantly. Then one of the cameras had tipped over, and they'd needed that camera-- there was no replacement. Filming had to be postponed.

He'd received a call from Vox shortly after. Vox was going to be busy tonight; he had a press conference to attend, and then he had to stay late and work on some ads after that. No date night. Not tonight.

Vox was 'sorry.'

Valentino had tried to keep it in, for once in his reckless life. But when Angel had shown up to his room, trying to placate, trying to get on Val's good side... the moth had lost it. He'd snapped.

Out came the gun, and down went Angel against the sofa. Val didn't even look like himself, pink eyes glowing red behind his heart-shaped glasses.

Finally-- Angel Dust, his number one up-and-comer! His heir! His protégé! Shot dead in the studio!

Val wasn't even angry. He was grinning! His eyes were wide and joyous, glad to finally be rid of the rebellious star who had tried to cost him everything-- Angel Dust, the one who refused to stay! Angel Dust, who was trying to get free... Angel Dust, his lover, his enemy!

Valentino had wanted to kill him before, but Vox had intervened. Now, Vox wasn't around to see. He was too busy with whatever work he'd snubbed Valentino for to be checking in on his precious little cameras.

This was Val's chance.

"I am!" Valentino sang, finger on the trigger. He dug the gun in harder. "Oh, Angel-- ¡Lo siento mucho, tengo que matarte antes de que me mates!"

He needed to. Or else it would happen!

"Please, can I kiss you goodbye?"

[steddieunderdogfics]

For the Monday Challenge, fic with 0 comments: 24 AU-gust: Crime, by Medusapelagia https://archiveofourown.org/works/49610941

24 AU-gust: Crime by Medusapelagia

@medusapelagia

Rating: Mature

1,655 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Tags: AU-gust | August Writing Challenge 2023, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Eddie Munson, Blood and Injury, References to Drugs, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Attempted Murder, bratty Steve Harrington, Gun Violence

Summary:

Eddie throws the smoking gun into the river and then lights a cigarette while lying against the car. “Everything done?” “Tsk, are you really asking me if I have done my fucking job, Hagan?” The boy shrugs “I only wanted a proof.” “You‘ll have your proof by tomorrow morning in the news. Now give me my money.” Hagan gets the briefcase and gets closer to Eddie. “Push it toward me.” He demands while he keeps smoking as he isn’t eagerly waiting for the cash. Hagan pushes the briefcase toward him and he stops it with his foot. “I hope everything is inside.” “Five grands and the little extra you asked for.” “You know what will happen if you try to Fuck with me, right Hagan?” The boy nods and gets in the car while Eddie keeps smoking his cigarette. Thomas Hagan is just the son of a rich man who doesn’t like competition, that’s why they hired Eddie.

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Challenge Monday. The challenge this week was find fics with 0 comments.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[kjack89]

Back to Where We Started (Chapter 3/4)

Third part of the E/R Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU. Read Part 1 here (tumblr | AO3) and Part 2 here (tumblr | AO3).

Modern AU, established E/R.

NAME: [REDACTED – CODEWORD CLASSIFIED] ALIAS: GRANTAIRE SMITH OCCUPATION: ASSASSIN PREFERRED METHOD: SNIPER

Three Years Ago

Grantaire glanced through the scope of his rifle, the oppressive humidity threatening to cause sweat to drip into his eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Grantaire had figured out how to mitigate it years ago, but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant sensation.

Not that lying on his stomach in a grove of trees some 500 meters away from his target was any more pleasant, but that he’d gotten used to even sooner than the sweat.

“Target in sight,” he reported, knowing the tiny earbud barely visible in his ear was also a microphone. “Standing by for go order.”

“Copy,” said Joly, sounding bored. “How’s Burundi?”

A fly buzzed in Grantaire’s ear and Grantaire swatted at it, annoyed. “Great,” he said shortly. “Try to schedule my next assassination here too, would you?”

Joly chuckled as a second voice hopped on the line. “Evac route secure,” Bossuet said, “with contingencies one, two and three in place, just in case.”

“Three contingencies?” Grantaire asked mildly. “Are we planning on the entire world falling apart, or…?”

“Hey, with my luck, you can never be too careful.”

Grantaire grinned, all too aware of Bossuet’s luck, and was ready to make a comment as such when a third voice chimed in, this time disapprovingly. “Gentlemen,” Javert said, “let’s keep chatter on this channel to a minimum.”

Grantaire’s shoulders automatically straightened when he heard Javert’s voice. “Yes, sir,” he said, looking through the scope of his rifle again, though his target had barely moved. “Can I ask something, sir?”

Javert sighed. “You’re going to ask it regardless, so you might as well.”

Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth before saying, somewhat cautiously, “As you know, I’ve been here for a few days, getting acquainted with the place and the general’s movements. Everyone that I’ve spoken with says that General Lamarque is a good man, that he wants to repair a lot of the damage done by previous, corrupt administrations and return power to the people of Burundi. Which begs the question—”

“Are you questioning your orders?” Javert snapped, unusually terse, even for one of his darker moods.

“No, but—”

“But nothing,” Javert said. “Your orders are in service of your country—”

If Grantaire had anything resembling a self-preservation instinct, he would’ve dropped it. Of course, if Grantaire had anything resembling a self-preservation instinct, he wouldn’t be in this line of work, so it was somewhat of a moot point. “How is increased instability in this region in service of anyone?” he asked. “Except for, say, global shipping magnates who need the Horn of Africa unstable to justify price gouging?”

Javert sighed, and Grantaire could just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “And here I thought you didn’t care about anything.”

Grantaire scowled. There was little he liked less than having his own words flung back in his face. “I don’t.”

“Good,” Javert said coolly. “Because if you’ve somehow found morality, we’re done, and you’re stuck in Burundi with an illegal firearm, a forged passport, and no means of getting home.”

Grantaire ground his teeth together. “Might be worth it,” he muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire said, before adding sourly, “sir.”

“Good,” Javert said. There was a brief moment of silence, then: “We have the go order. As soon as you have a shot, take it.”

“But—”

“Take your shot, Grantaire.”

Grantaire swallowed, hard, and looked back down the scope of his rifle, his finger resting lightly on his trigger. Someone moved in front of General Lamarque and Grantaire held his breath, but the person moved away, leaving Grantaire with the perfect shot, and—

CLICK.

Three years later, and the only shots Grantaire was taking were with his camera. And the occasional shot at a bar, though it wasn’t like he and Enjolras frequented any of the local establishments. Enjolras had never been one for drinking.

One of a hundred small differences between them that had seemed so minor three years ago and now stretched like an endless chasm between them.

He had hoped couples therapy would help, even if he’d been reluctant to go initially, but thus far, there’d been no change. 

Grantaire sighed and shifted. He was half-lying in the otherwise empty stands of the high school football stadium, trying to get the perfect shot of the team practicing for the local paper. He didn’t usually do newspaper assignments, on the off-chance his name in print somehow wound up in the wrong hands, but he doubted anyone would pay any attention to the credit on a story about a high school football team with a five-game losing streak.

He sat up, deeming the pictures he’d gotten as good as he was going to get, and was surprised to see Enjolras striding toward the stadium from the parking lot.

Well, that was new. Enjolras never came to see him work.

Maybe the therapy had more of an effect than Grantaire gave it credit for.

Maybe—

The telltale ping of a bullet striking a metal bleacher not even two feet to Grantaire’s left was enough to tell him that this sure as shit didn’t have anything to do with therapy, and he scrambled to his feet, reaching automatically for his own gun, only to remember that he hadn’t brought one.

Because he was at a high school, in America, and he wasn’t a fucking idiot.

Enjolras, evidently, had no similar compunction.

Enjolras raised his hand to fire off another shot and Grantaire darted backwards, swinging around the bleacher railing and taking the steps two at a time to get to the bottom. From there, it was an all-out sprint to his car, well aware that Enjolras was in close pursuit, well aware that even with a silencer, someone was bound to figure out that Enjolras was shooting at him.

And inevitably, someone would wonder the same thing Grantaire was: why the fuck was his husband trying to kill him?

As soon as he was in his car and away from the school (with only two bullet holes in his back windshield), Grantaire called a number he hadn’t called in years. “Thank God you’re alive,” Joly said, sounding genuinely relieved, and Grantaire almost cracked a smile until he caught sight of Enjolras’s car in his rearview mirror.

“For now, at least,” he said, taking a left so sudden that his tires squealed. “I’ll take it you have a better idea than I do of why my husband is trying to kill me?”

“Two sets of documents, both classified higher than top secret, were leaked this morning,” Joly told him. “One involved you, and your identity, and the assassination of General Lamarque.”

Grantaire swallowed and nodded. “Right,” he said. “Well, I guess I probably should’ve expected something about that to leak at some point. What was the second?”

“Intelligence on the movements of an international terrorist organization know as Les Amis de l’ABC,” Joly said, a little grimly. “And that’s where your husband comes in. Because somehow, of all the gin joints in all the world, you wound up in the one that an international terrorist decided to walk into.”

Grantaire almost laughed, thoroughly convinced that Joly couldn’t possibly be serious, but then he realized that Joly hadn’t exactly sounded like he was making a joke. “He – what?”

Five minutes, and three very circuitous routes later, Grantaire was convinced that he’d finally lost Enjolras – and that he’d never really had him in the first place. “Well, at least it explains why he tried to kill me,” he said, a little hollowly, staring down an unfamiliar road without really seeing it. 

Joly cleared his throat. “Speaking of trying to kill you, you’ve probably thought of this already, but you can’t go back to your house?”

Grantaire frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t you think that’s exactly what he’ll be expecting? He’s probably booby trapped the entire thing.”

Despite everything, Grantaire cracked a smile. “Is Bossuet on this call?”

Joly was cautious in his response. “He’s listening in. Why?”

“Because I can only imagine him giggling at the word booby.”

“No comment,” Joly said with a sigh, which meant Grantaire had been correct. “But I mean it, you can’t go back there. At least not by yourself. You need—”

“What, a human shield?” Grantaire asked with a snort.

“If you can find one, sure.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “That’s not—”

He broke off abruptly, the idea coming to him in a flash of sudden genius. “Grantaire?” Joly prompted, and Grantaire grinned.

“Yeah. I just thought of someone I can use.”

“Oh?”

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah. Since we were speaking of boobies…”

— — — — —

Grantaire opened the front door and took an immediate step back, his hand automatically falling to his side and the gun he had holstered under his jacket. “Wow,” his next-door neighbor, Marius, said, peering inside excitedly. “So this is the place. I’ve been dying to get a look.”

“Take your time,” Grantaire said, following him in. 

Marius shook his head with something like wonder as he glanced around the foyer. “Wow,” he repeated. “I can’t believe I’ve never been in here before.”

He made to turn towards the kitchen but Grantaire stopped him, grabbing him by the shoulder and steering him in the opposite direction. “Let’s start in the living room.”

Marius didn’t protest, too busy gazing at the floors. “I love these floors,” he told Grantaire, who was, in turn, busy checking every sightline for anything out of place. “What are they, teak?”

“Red oak,” Grantaire told him, sidling past him to peer around the entryway into the dining room. Something was out of place, but Grantaire couldn’t put a finger on it, and it was taking everything in him not to draw his gun.

“You know, I inherited my house from my grandfather, I’m sure you must’ve met him,” Marius said, though Grantaire was barely paying attention. “What color are these walls? I’m thinking of redoing the upstairs hallway and I think—

“Honestly, I don’t remember offhand,” Grantaire told him. “Why don’t you keep looking around? I just have to pop upstairs and check on something.”

He didn’t wait for Marius’s reply, pulling his gun as soon as he was out of Marius’s sight and taking the stairs two at a time. He moved swiftly but efficiently, checking each room before he finally got to the bedroom he’d evidently been sharing with an international terrorist for the last three years, and he held his breath before he pushed the door open.

And that was when he finally realized what was out of place.

The drawers on Enjolras’s side of the dresser were half-opened, and empty. The closet doors were wide open, revealing that Enjolras’s side was completely cleared out. His half of the bathroom sink, as clean as if a toothbrush and bottles of hair product had never even sat on it. Every knick-knack, bauble and sock that had belonged to Enjolras had disappeared.

Enjolras was gone.

Five minutes later, Grantaire had unceremoniously ushered Marius from the house, promising that he’d send over the name of the paint once he remembered. 

Then he remembered that there was one other place he’d forgotten to check for booby traps.

He drew his gun for a second time as he crossed the yard to his shed. The dark room was just a cover for the far more important set up underneath, and he just hoped against hope that Enjolras hadn’t thought to check beyond the surface.

When he yanked the door open and saw the hidden trap door open, and the light from the downstairs flickering, he knew that Enjolras had.

When he smelled the telltale scent of gasoline, he also knew that Enjolras hadn’t bothered booby trapping the house.

He got ten feet from the shed before it exploded, sending him flying in a spray of wood splinters and shattered glass, and he lay on the lawn for a long moment afterwards, blinking dazedly up at the sky before groaning.

“Son of a bitch.”

— — — — —

Where did someone go after killing their husband, especially when that someone didn’t have a passport or means of fleeing the country yet? 

After driving around aimlessly for a few hours, Enjolras figured he might as well take himself out for dinner. Maybe even enjoy a cocktail in Grantaire’s honor.

There was exactly one semi-fancy restaurant in their town, and at the hour, it was barely even a third full, and everyone else in the place was at least an octogenarian. One old couple was even dancing, because life seemed full of cruel ironies.

Not that witnessing someone else happy and in love was particularly cruel, in the grand scheme of things, but as Enjolras watched them, taking a sip of champagne that the waiter brought, he couldn’t help but think that, prior to about twelve hours ago, he might’ve even believed that that would be him and Grantaire one day.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, and Enjolras shook his head, feeling foolish. He hadn’t actually known Grantaire, any more than Grantaire had known him. What was there to miss, other than the best sex Enjolras had ever had?

And the way Grantaire made him eggs every morning when Enjolras actually slept in. And the way he laughed at Enjolras’s jokes, no matter how stupid, that deep rumble of a belly laugh that Enjolras could feel even more than he could hear. And how Grantaire had never tried to make Enjolras into something other than what he was, had never had any expectations for their life together other than them just existing together in the same space. And the way Grantaire said ‘I love you’, as if it was just as miraculous as it had been the first time around.

He hadn’t known Grantaire. Or maybe he had, in all the ways that mattered.

Frustrated, he reached up to brush the tear off with the back of his hand, freezing when someone’s hand closed around his wrist. “You know, I thought I’d come up with something clever to say by the time I got here,” Grantaire said. “But all I could think of was that there are easier ways to blow up a marriage.”

Enjolras closed his eyes for just a moment, torn between relief and fury that Grantaire was still alive. ���LIke what?”

He opened his eyes to look up at Grantaire, who gave him that stupid smile that he loved and hated in equal measure. “Try this: I want a divorce.”

“Do you?” Enjolras asked, taking another sip of champagne. “Or do you want me to ask you?”

Grantaire just shrugged. “I asked you to marry me. Seems only fitting you be the one to ask for the divorce. May I sit?”

He gestured toward the open seat across from Enjolras. “No,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire sat anyway. Enjolras ground his teeth together for a moment before casually rearranging the napkin in his lap to cover the gun he’d just grabbed from his bag. Grantaire tracked the movement, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He casually tipped his own napkin into his lap, and a moment later Enjolras heard the telltale click of the safety being switched off.

For one long moment, they just stared at each other, as if seeing each other for the very first time. Which in a way, Enjolras mused, they were. He broke the silence, impatience sparking within the tension. “So what do you want?”

Grantaire leaned forward. “Well, at the moment, I’d settle for a drink, but—”

“I’m serious.”

“And I am wild.” That small smile again, the one that drove Enjolras completely crazy. “Something you’ve probably never given any credence to prior to today.”

Enjolras hadn’t, not really, but he didn’t like being reminded that he had spent all this time underestimating Grantaire. He looked away before repeating, “What do you want?”

“We appear to have a problem,” Grantaire said, tracing one finger along the linen tablecloth. “You obviously want me dead. And I’m less and less concerned about your wellbeing. So where do we go from here?” He arched an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Do we go for a shootout here? Or to minimize civilian casualties, should we take this somewhere more intimate?”

“As if you’ve ever once in your life cared about civilian casualties,” Enjolras said coolly.

Grantaire didn’t even flinch. “Right back at you, babe.” Silence again stretched between them, but this time it was Grantaire who broke it. “Dance with me.”

Enjolras blinked. “You don’t dance,” he blurted, which was a stupid thing to say to a monumentally stupid proposition.

Grantaire grinned. “All just part of my cover,” he said, standing up and offering Enjolras his hand.

Despite himself, despite every self-preservation instinct Enjolras had honed over the years, he took Grantaire’s hand, allowing him to pull him to his feet. “Was being a slob part of your cover, too?” he asked blithely.

Without warning, Grantaire twisted his hand, the move just this side of painful, twirling Enjolras so that they were facing each other. Then Grantaire pulled him flush, his hand resting on the small of Enjolras’s back. “So what do you think?” he asked as they began dancing, and Enjolras had to give him credit, he did in fact know how to dance. “Is this story going to have a happy ending?”

“Happy endings are just stories that haven’t finished yet,” Enjolras told him, sliding his own hand from Grantaire’s shoulder down his side, checking for a shoulder holster. Feeling none, he continued southward, though Grantaire stopped him once he got to his belt. 

“Only thing you’ll find down there isn’t a weapon,” he murmured in Enjolras’s ear, pulling him flush again to prove his point.

Enjolras swallowed and looked away. “Could’ve fooled me,” he said, his voice rough. “Bet you use that thing on all your marks.”

Grantaire barked a dry, humorless laugh. “Is that why you tried to kill me?” he asked, his lips just brushing against Enjolras’s ear. “Because you think I fucked General Lamarque before putting a bullet through his head?”

Enjolras stiffened, pulling away from Grantaire. “That—” he started, but he couldn’t find the words to continue. “I have to go.”

“Enjolras—” Grantaire called after him, but Enjolras didn’t pause. “Enjolras!”

It only occurred to Enjolras some ten minutes later that he had nowhere to go, that he was driving with no actual destination in mind, trying to escape a life that had all been a lie.

He was broken from his reverie by his cellphone ringing, and he answered it on his car’s screen. “Grantaire?”

Grantaire sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and to his credit, he did sound it.

Enjolras drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “For what?”

“For what I said,” Grantaire told him. “It was a low blow.”

Enjolras jerked a shrug, even though Grantaire couldn’t see him. “Well, I did try to kill you, so fair is fair, I guess.”

Grantaire was silent for a long moment, long enough that Enjolras almost asked if he was still there. “Can I ask you something?”

It was probably a bad idea – anything that prolonged the inevitable was almost certainly a bad idea – but Enjolras just sighed. “Fine.”

“First time we met, what was your first thought?”

Enjolras’s chest felt tight. “You tell me.”

Something in Grantaire’s tone turned wistful. “You know that painting, Liberty Leading the People? I thought you looked like that. Like righteous fury striding into my life.” He sighed. “It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

The tightness in Enjolras’s chest had sharpened. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“I guess in the end, you start thinking about the beginning,” Grantaire said, before clearing his throat. “So there it is. I thought you should know.” He paused before prompting, “So how about it?”

Enjolras swallowed, hard. “I thought…” He trailed off, that damned tear making a reappearance on his cheek, and he hurriedly wiped it off before saying, his voice harsh, “I thought you looked like an easy mark.”

Grantaire didn’t seem surprised. “So it was all business.”

Enjolras nodded. “All business.”

“From the go.”

“I’ve never been one to ignore reality,” Enjolras said with forced nonchalance.

Grantaire barked a laugh. “Thank you,” he said softly. “That’s all I needed to know. Can you do me just one favor?”

“What?”

“Meet me at home,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras’s chest clenched again. “And let’s finish this for real.”

— — — — —

Enjolras could see Grantaire’s headlights as he approached the driveway, and he slammed on the gas, narrowly avoiding clipping the front of Grantaire’s car. He zoomed into the garage, shutting the garage door behind him.

He might’ve gotten rid of Grantaire’s stash of guns, but that didn’t mean he’d been stupid enough not to leave anything in the house, and he grabbed his semi-automatic pistol from where he’d hidden it and screwed on the suppressor as he waited for the front door to open.

Instead, he heard a faint creak from the upstairs, and despite himself, he smiled, just slightly. So Grantaire wasn’t going to make this easy on him. Good. One last fight, for old times’ sake.

He crouched at the base of the stairs, waiting until he could sense someone hesitating at the top. Then he stood and fired a series of shots at the top of the stairs before ducking back into place.

“You still alive?” he called.

In response, Grantaire fired a shotgun directly where Enjolras’s head had been ten seconds earlier.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He raced toward the kitchen, firing a few cover shots over his shoulder as he went. God, he’d missed this. Missed the adrenaline humming in his veins, missed the acrid smell of gunpowder, missed the thrill of being alive for at least one second more. 

He hadn’t had this much fun since—

The vase next to him exploded into shards of ceramic, and Enjolras hit the floor, squeezing off a rapid succession of shots in the direction the shot had come from. “Your aim’s as bad as your cooking,” Grantaire called. “And that’s saying something.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed and he fired twice more before moving further back into the kitchen, ducking behind the island for cover as he checked how much ammo he had left. “Your aim’s not so great yourself,” he said distractedly. “Especially considering—”

“Considering what?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras felt the cold press of metal against his temple. “Drop the gun.” Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment, obediently letting the gun in his hand clatter to the floor. “Good. Now—”

Enjolras’s hand shot out, grabbing Grantaire’s wrist and twisting, hard, forcing him to drop his own gun. Then, he laid into him. 

He had never been one for fist-fighting, preferring myriad other ways to get done what he needed to, but he knew how to throw a punch. Grantaire, for his part, matched him blow for blow, dodging and blocking with a practiced ease, something strangely graceful in his motions, clearly just as adept at hand to hand combat as he was at sniping world leaders.

Except—

Enjolras froze so suddenly that Grantaire’s fist went wide by a whole foot, sending him spinning from the momentum, and in an instance, both men had dropped to grab their respective guns, aiming at each other. “What was that?” Grantaire asked, panting.

“You tell me,” Enjolras said. “Or am I really supposed to believe you missed every shot you took tonight on accident?”

Grantaire wiped a dribble of blood from the corner of his mouth on his shoulder. “I’m out of practice.”

“So what do you call being practiced enough to block 95% of my punches and not land a single one of your own?”

“Coincidence.”

“Fine.” Enjolras took a step back, his hand falling to his side. “So then go for it. Right here, right now. Take your shot.”

Grantaire scowled. “You think I won’t?”

“No,” Enjolras said. “I don’t.”

Something shifted in Grantaire’s face, and after a moment, he lowered his weapon as well. “I can’t,” he said. “Can’t do it.”

Enjolras gritted his teeth. “Come on,” he half-shouted. “You can kill how many people, but you can’t kill me?”

“No,” Grantaire said. “I can’t.”

Then, without warning, he crossed to Enjolras, pulling him close, as close as they had been while dancing. But this time, he kissed him, an open-mouthed, fiery kiss full of all the heat and fury Enjolras had felt during their fight. 

Only this was better. So much better.

He balled his free hand in what remained of Grantaire’s shirt, pulling him close, determined to savor this moment for as long as he could, knowing far too well that they quite likely had very few of them left.

But then, as Grantaire pulled away, just slightly, his stubble brushing against Enjolras’s cheek, he said something that for a moment almost made Enjolras doubt everything. “This was always real for me,” he whispered in Enjolras’s ear.

But it wasn’t – it couldn’t have been. Not when the entirety of it was built on a lie of omission. “Well, not all of it,” he murmured.

“Fine,” Grantaire said, undeterred. “But you and me – that was real.”

Enjolras closed his eyes. “Grantaire—”

“No, I have to get this out,” Grantaire told him, breathless. “I have to tell you, because—”

Enjolras just shook his head. “Grantaire, don’t. If anyone gets it, if anyone understands how this works—”

“I didn’t kill him, Enjolras.”

Enjolras stared at him, at the tiny flecks of silver he had never noticed in Grantaire’s eyes. “What?” he croaked.

Grantaire squeezed his hand. “I didn’t kill General Lamarque.”

>>Read Part 4 here.>>

[atherflame-theconcubus]

Some more things on the bloodless passion AU: how the twins are treated by ruin.

⚠️Please read the tags before proceeding⚠️

Due to the twins lack of violence, ruin has kind of encouraged them to do things they weren’t really comfortable with. (mainly violence upon humans, which they do remember liking at one point. However, the second they killed their first human, they felt guilty.)

Multiple times the twins would end up suffering hunger pains, and even pass out from it at times.

After taking over the daycare (and blood moon, refusing to hurt others along with them barely doing anything during the destruction) ruin decided to punish them by control Shocking them. The brown tabby the twins adopted did try to protect them but, it just ended with the twins clutching the poor kitty while crying.

From that moment on the twins were living in fear of ruin, who had tried multiple times to activate their bloodlust via different means, whether it be shocking them, forcing them to drink blood, or even putting more code into them. None of it worked, which continually frustrated him.

By the end of the takeover, ruin got caught trying to get blood moon to give him one of the kittens They were trying to keep safe via shocking them. When attempting to intimidate confront Solar, moon & sun, he ended up restrained by KC, to which he responded simply by freezing blood moon in place, and having what few functional guns in the daycare there were shoot blood moon.

They ended up surviving the shot, but that moment is seared into the traumatized boys, heads forever.