#cw gun shot

[lulublack90]

Prompt 2 - Thriller

@wolfstarmicrofic July 2, word count 989

CW- Blood, guns, gunshot, open wound

Sirius darted down side streets and into alleyways. He gasped for breath, his chest heaving as it dragged oxygen into his exhausted body. Pounding footsteps approached. He ducked down behind the small rubbish bins, clamping his hand over his mouth, so his rapid breathing didn’t give him away. 

Multiple footsteps ran past his hiding place, but one set lingered, turning into the alleyway. Sirius took a few steadying breaths and tensed his muscles, ready for action. The person came closer, kicking the bins out of his way. There was only one bin left between them. With all his remaining strength, Sirius kicked the bin, knocking his pursuer to the ground. He launched himself over him, catching a glimpse of his face on his way past. The man’s mask had slipped. It was Regulus. Fuck! Sirius took off running the way he’d come, the others long gone. A shot rang out behind him as he sped around a corner. It just missed him, ricocheting off the wall right where his head had been a second before. Regulus never missed. What was he playing at? Sirius didn’t hang around to find out.

He laid low until he could get to the safe house. When he finally felt it was safe, he made his way there, making sure she wasn’t followed. A grizzled man was waiting for him. He held a gun to Sirius’s temple while he searched him and took the flash drive from his pocket. 

“Congratulations, Black. You managed to not fuck up an assignment or get killed doing so,” Moody grunted at him. 

“Regulus was there,” He told him. Moody took a deep breath and growled. 

“Did he make you?” He spat through his teeth. 

“I don’t know. I threw a bin at him and ran. He took a shot, but he missed and you know he never misses his target.” Moody grumbled something under his breath that Sirius didn’t catch. 

“We’re going to get you a partner for your next mission. Ah, no, I don’t want to hear it, Black,” He said when Sirius tried to protest. “If Regulus is caught up in this then it’s too dangerous to send you out alone. He knows how you think, how you move and how you fight. You’ll be a liability we can’t afford to have.” Sirius gritted his teeth, but he knew it was for the best. 

“Who do you have in mind?” He blew out. Resigned to his fate. 

“New lad. Ridiculously smart. Calm in a crisis. Perfect balance for you and your chaos.” Sirius rolled his eyes. 

“Has Mr Perfect got a name then?” 

“Remus Lupin,” Moody grinned a toothy smile. Sirius felt a chill wash over him. 

Remus Lupin turned out to be a tall, skinny, well-spoken man who shouldn't have been anywhere near all this.

 Moody had them train together. “I want you to know each other inside and out. Shut up Black, that is not what I meant and you know it.” Sirius bit his tongue to keep from smiling. “You need to work together or no assignments. Do I make myself clear?” They both nodded.

They trained together for weeks, learning how the other moved and thought until they flowed around each other, predicting what the other was going to do before they’d even thought about it. 

The other side had a plan for something terrible and it was their job to infiltrate and find out what was going to happen. 

Sirius watched in awe as Remus expertly picked the locks on a small side door and they slipped into the dark building. 

It was freezing inside. Sirius shook it off, getting his head in the zone. 

They made slow progress up the levels. Riddle would be on the top floor, with his second-in-command on the floor below. That’s where the information would be. 

He couldn’t shake off the feeling that this was too easy. Why hadn’t they met any of the grunts lower down? 

He gingerly pushed open the door to the floor they needed and crept into the large-decadently-styled open room. Remus sped across the room to the computer and began trying to find the information. It was taking too long, and Sirius felt the panic setting in. 

��Hurry up, Remus,” He hissed, his gun trained on the only door in or out of the room. A hidden door on the far wall opened silently. 

“Tut tut, brother of mine. I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here, are you?” Regulus drawled, his gun pointing at Remus. “Call off your man and I might let you out of this building,” Sirius froze and turned to Remus in horror. 

“Come on, Reggie, you know it’s me you want.”  

“I’ve been watching you, Sirius. I know exactly how you feel about him,” Sirius swallowed. Remus typed furiously on the computer. He gasped and met Sirius’s eyes. He’d found something. Remus suddenly jumped up, a flash drive in his hand.

Regulus cocked his gun.

“You don’t think you’re going anywhere with that, do you?” Regulus held out his hand. “Give it here, Lupin.” He swung his gun to Sirius, who’d started inching towards Remus. “Ah, ah, Sirius, no sneaking now. Hand it over, Lupin!” He repeated, pulling back the hammer on the gun. “Final warning, give it to me!” 

The gun went off and Sirius dove in front of Remus. 

He felt a strange pressure, he looked down and saw a small hole just below his heart, red liquid dribbling out. 

“Oh, shit,” He breathed out. Remus rushed to his side and grabbed his hand, pressing it into the wound. He screamed. 

“Keep your hand there and don’t move it,” Remus grunted as he threw Sirius over his shoulder and fled the building. 

He woke up in the hospital, somehow alive, Remus holding onto his hand and all he could think was Regulus never missed. So why had he for a second time?

[i-eat-deodorant]

gun update

[misspoetree]

[And then they went on the sexy killing spree anyway]

Kinnporsche + Text Messages [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | ? ]

[fortress-substitution-team]

*peeks head through the TV like from horror move*

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

Can I borrow some cheese?

TW BLOOD and GUN VIOLENCE

an advice, don't scare a mercenary.

also, you're still out of cheese.

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

At first Minato thinks the sound he hears is his eardrums popping, but a moment later he realizes that it came from a distance– a distance they’re closing as they sprint onward, in fact.

In front of him, Sanada stops short. “What–?” Minato can barely hear him. “Dammit… Both of you, hang on!” He takes off again, not even short of breath. 

Minato is almost jealous. Despite all of his time spent with the track team, he feels dizzy and ready to collapse by the time the alleyway behind Port Island Station comes into view. Every breath might as well be filling his lungs with tar instead of air.

The shadows in the alley sharpen and focus into human shapes– not two, but three of them: one sprawled on the ground; one standing as tall as it can; the third looming over them both, arm extended towards the smallest figure, taking aim–

“Takaya!” Minato’s voice sounds foreign in his own ears. He wouldn’t have guessed he’d be able to speak at all, much less shout.

Everything happens all at once after that.

Takaya’s whole body jerks towards Minato’s voice. 

The shape on the ground lunges up and forward, taking the smaller figure crashing back down with it.

The gun goes off with a sound like–

Like a gunshot.

It isn't a clap of thunder. It's not at all like the crack of a whip. 

There is no metaphor that can soften the truth. 

The noise that tears open the silence of the Dark Hour is a gun being fired: a spark igniting powder propelling a bullet at shattering speeds towards the soft, vulnerable bodies of his friends.

Speckles of something dark and reflective fan through the air, glittering obscenely where they catch the light of the moon. Takaya almost seems to glow under that sickly light; pale skin and hair and eyes and shining silver gun gleaming ghost-bright in the murk of the alley, in stark contrast to the dark shapes huddled on the ground.

He meets Minato's eyes briefly. His expression is openly astonished for less than a moment before it shifts to fury, then is immediately papered over with a mask of calm indifference. He says something, but Minato is still too far away to hear. The Dark Hour swallows him up faster than Minato would have assumed possible.

He isn't terribly preoccupied with Takaya's Houdini act at the moment though, because–

"Shinji–!"

Aragaki lies prone on the pavement with Amada pinned underneath, whose breath is coming in shallow, panicked gasps, his face pale under dark splotches of blood. The bullet intended for Amada has shredded Aragaki’s right shoulder into a confusion of gore and torn wool and glimpses of pinkish-white that Minato tries not to think too hard about.

“Hang in there, Shinji!” Sanada hauls him off of Amada and onto his back, revealing another wound in his gut, a black well of blood. More of it dribbles sluggishly from the corner of his mouth. Aragaki doesn’t cry out in pain as Sanada and Mitsuru rearrange him in their hold, lifting him off of the cold concrete and supporting his head. He hardly makes any noise at all.

Minato feels like his ears have been jammed full of cotton. He can tell people are talking, but he can no longer pick out any voices or words. His vision tunnels, phantom colors chewing at the edges. 

He stands there and watches as Yukari frantically tears out of her jacket and hands it off to Mitsuru, who packs it hard against Aragaki’s ruined shoulder. 

He stands there and watches as Junpei unties his own jacket from around his waist and uses it to dab gingerly at the side of Amada’s face– it’s only now that Minato realizes that not all of the blood that Amada is wearing is Aragaki’s. The shape of Amada’s left ear is all wrong, like some of it is just missing, but Minato only catches a brief glimpse before Junpei presses the jacket over the injury and holds it there, hiding it from sight.

Yukari tries to summon her persona. Io flickers above her like a mirage for less than a second before vanishing. She pulls the trigger again, but the result is the same. She pulls the trigger again and again and again, face contorted and body heaving with sobs that Minato can’t hear. Io stops appearing at all. He stands there and watches.

It’s no use. They’re too far from Tartarus or any powerful shadow that could be harboring a piece of its influence. They’re too close to the end of the Dark Hour. Minato has two personas that can cast Recarm, but they wouldn’t be of any use even if he could draw his evoker, if he could move at all.

He stands there. And he watches.

Aragaki is saying something to Amada, and Amada answers through his sobs. Their mouths are moving, but Minato still can't hear. Why can’t he hear anything? Why does it feel like his mind is clouded over in static? 

Something jabs hard into his side and suddenly Minato’s ears work again, like a loose wire has been jarred back into place.

“--ato! Minato! Hey, are you listening?!” He blinks, dumbfounded, and turns to the source of the voice. Junpei is staring at him. Minato has no idea what he’d call the expression Junpei is making at him, but it’s not one he’s ever seen him wear before. “Give Sanada-san your coat, man! We need to stop the bleeding!” 

Even though he can hear again, it still takes him far too long to actually comprehend what’s being said. Junpei starts to repeat himself before it finally clicks and Minato shucks his jacket and hands it over. Junpei passes it off to Sanada, and Sanada presses it against the hole in Aragaki’s stomach. Aragaki doesn’t even flinch, just looks over at Koromaru gently nudging his hand. He pets him weakly. It’s probably the most movement he can manage.

“Just a few minutes–” Fuuka says, nearly hysterical. “The Dark Hour ends in a few minutes. As soon as it does, I-I’ll call an ambulance!” 

“Did you hear that, Shinji?” With the hand that isn’t leaning on the makeshift bandage, Sanada grabs Aragaki’s, gripping tight. Aragaki grips back, much weaker. “Just hold on for a bit longer!” 

“Aki…”  Aragaki’s voice is quiet and thready, but everyone falls silent at the sound of it. “Take care of him…” He slowly inclines his head towards Amada. 

“Don’t talk like you won’t be around!” Sanada says through gritted teeth.

“Pr…promise me, Aki.” 

Sanada’s breath hitches and he bites his lip against it. “…Alright. Alright, I– I will. I promise I will.” 

Aragaki smiles and Minato’s heart lurches. It’s sad. It’s final. 

It’s relieved. 

Aragaki is smiling like a weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. He looks so content that Minato almost envies him. “This is…how it should be…” he sighs.

He slumps in Mitsuru and Sanada’s arms. Minato’s ears ring. There is a chorus of strangled cries from his teammates. 

Amada chokes like he’s been stabbed. “No–! H-he can’t–!”

“Is he–?” Junpei’s voice shakes.

“He’s alive,” Sanada gasps, still clutching Aragaki’s hand. “He’s still breathing–”

“I can feel his pulse,” Mitsuru affirms, pressing two fingers gently to Aragaki’s neck. “It’s weak, but it’s there. He’s only passed out, but unless he gets medical attention soon…” She can’t even finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to. The implication is heavy enough. 

“Still breathing,” Sanada murmurs to himself. “He’s still breathing–” He says it again and again, as though he can force the words to remain true through sheer repetition.

Without fanfare, the green glow of the Dark Hour vanishes. The murky clouds that had blotted out the stars disappear and the moon returns to its normal size. 

“Yamagishi!”  Mitsuru exclaims.

“R-right!” Fuuka is already dialing. Her voice is strained and thin but steady as she relays the necessary details, and the person on the other end of the line thankfully seems to understand. It isn’t until she closes her phone that Fuuka allows a choked sob to escape. “Th…they’re on the way,” she says, her voice breaking. 

All they can do now is wait. Nobody speaks. Most of the team crowds around Aragaki, if nothing else to assure themselves that he’s still alive. Only Amada stays off to the side, until Junpei breaks away to crouch next to him and speak quietly. 

And Minato. He’s frozen in place, staring at the battered body of a man he’s come to greatly respect as the life slowly leaves him. His eyes burn, but it doesn’t feel like the sting of tears. They don’t feel wet at all. Has he been blinking? 

A hand rests on his shoulder. “Minato-san,” Aigis says, her vocals strangely gentle. How does she feel about all of this, Minato briefly wonders. “Are you alright?” 

“...No,” he answers, voice barely audible even to himself. Minato hasn’t felt like this since… not since Back Then. Not since the bridge, and the car.

Aigis’ face remains as impassive as always, but somehow she still looks sadder than she ever has. Sadder than Minato thought she was capable of. “I am here if you need me.” The compassion in her voice feels like a brick thrown against his chest.

It’s only a few minutes until they hear sirens, but it’s the most agonizing few minutes of their lives. Even in Tartarus, where a minute can stretch like taffy, time has never seemed to creep by so slowly.

A group of punks has started to gather, trying to gawk at the sprawled figure hidden within the protective ring formed by his teammates. They scatter as soon as the ambulance pulls up, stopping right next to the huddle. Four paramedics pour out and swarm around the injured parties as fast as they can. Two police cars arrive moments later. Officer Kurosawa steps out of one of them.

The alley is filled with disorienting pulses of red and blue light. Minato almost misses the sickly haze of the Dark Hour.

There’s a whirlwind of voices– explanations and questions and medical jargon– but Minato absorbs none of it. He just watches (again– again, he just watches, and does nothing) as three of the first responders transfer Aragaki onto a stretcher and load him into the ambulance. The fourth gently guides Amada inside as well. 

Everyone wants to go with them, but there’s only enough spare room for one more person. Minato isn’t surprised when Sanada insists it be him. Nobody argues, and the ambulance takes off the moment Sanada is inside. 

The last train has already left the station, so the rest of them will have to find another way to the hospital. And they will. They have to.

None of them can bear the idea of doing anything less.

[pastinawitheggs]

fuck his kidneys friday👍

[californiatowhee]

illustration by rebel for chapter three of the "phoenix's soulmark is prosecutor miles edgeworth chooses death" soulmate AU 🧡 (in which edgeworth is now gone, and phoenix has the worst nightmares ever)

Epoch by citsiurtlanu | Phoenix/Edgeworth | 45k

(other art for this fic: chapter one | chapter three (you are here) | chapter five)

[silly-ehggy]

I rlly like shading like this heehee :333

(Reblogs>likes!!)

[izakk-tiberius-kyle]

What if I just...

*shoots you in the stomach*

...well fuck that ain't-

*collapses*

[joannes-journal]

And On That Day, Jo Learned a Valuable Lesson:

[doveshovel]

⚠️Volume Warning(?)⚠️: Just in case?

realized partway through that this isn't so much an animatic as it is a slideshow mv 🫠

[mcondance]

i wanna fuck patrick so bad it makes me wanna kill myself

[lesbianwyllravengard]

Jesus fucking christ I hate the US south

[orchidbreezefc]

one of the most exhausting aspects of the gun control conversation in the US (which is impressive) is how conservatives frame access to guns as a matter of freedom and safety and self defense. but honestly, what's worse is how liberals humor this premise.

more people need to ground this conversation in the fact that guns have exactly one (1) function.

conservatives go on about guns providing necessary safety, and the public conversation doesnt point out that their object of protection is designed for the sole purpose of hurting, killing, and destroying. it cannot be used for anything else. this 'protection' consists entirely of a way to hurt or kill someone.

when we allow this conversation to center guns as a symbol for whatever american virtues these dipshits think are at stake, we play this game on their terms, and their terms involve obscuring the actual facts. don't let them distract you. guns are not a symbol, theyre a real object, and they exist to hurt people.

when someone argues for their access to guns, never let anyone forget that materially theyre just defending their access to hurt people sticks.

[hobbinch]

Anybody who would conspire to stage what happened today would have SUCH a larger incentive to sell evidence of that conspiracy to a tabloid than to actually help pull it off. There are hundreds of ways to rally Trumps base without requiring someone to keep a juicy secret and then successfully William Tell trick shot a guy who'd never in a million years agree to be shot at. I'll consider people's fantastic assumptions about what happened when there's more credible evidence it's true than "it hasn't been disproved". It hasn't been disproven his cheek and ear Just Did That, either.

[voltttmeter]

light work