#firearm fixation

[captain-chevreuse]

Hello again i am thinking of muskets, big surprise i know guys,, someone please ask about them i am wanting to answer questions about them right now...

[antisocialxconstruct]

annnnd the conclusion (for now 👀), following off of Ilya's scene. A chunk of this was posted previously but it's been edited to flow better and now it has some context :)<

6.2k, Maksim has a busy day and an important appointment to keep. No serious warnings but he does get knocked on his ass at one point and it's really embarrassing.

----

Abele’s clinic is not luxurious, and it is not especially peaceful. The actual treatment area is three beds squeezed into a gutted back room with blacked out windows, with tools and medical machinery filling all the empty spaces with no method or pattern that Maksim has been able to decipher. He’s been listening to muffled voices and multiple sets of footsteps passing back and forth overhead since he woke up, and he’s only awake because of the sirens that went screaming by outside nearly half an hour ago.

What Abele’s clinic is, importantly, is discreet and familiar, such that he was able to show up in the dead of night, starved and dehydrated, covered in blood, with two broken fingers and a black eye, months after he had moved away from Bayview and cut ties with everyone he knew here, and he was hurried in off the street without a single question. After that things are a little hazy. As soon as he was inside he began to lose the meager shred of clarity that had gotten him to the door, and the second his head hit a pillow he lost consciousness entirely. Given the state he was in at the time, he's willing to wager that he was out for a while.

When he finally has to admit that sleep won’t be returning for the moment, he makes a valiant effort to push himself into a sitting position. An exceedingly brief few seconds of effort later he gives up, discouraged both by the way his head immediately begins to spin and by the light pinch of the IV drip in his right arm that he had managed not to fully notice. He lets his head drop back onto the pillow but he does muster the energy to raise his right hand up to where he can see it, just to grimace at the bulky beige cast stretching from his pinky and ring fingers down to just below his wrist. His hand feels heavy and distant beneath the wraps, in a way that seems incongruous with the dulled sensation he’s accustomed to from the inhibitor. Pain killers? He glances at the IV bag with a frown, making a mental note to insist Abele taper them off the next time the doctor comes by.

What else?

His thoughts are achingly sluggish and disjointed but if he focuses on planning his next steps he doesn’t have to think about the way being unable to move freely invites other memories up to the surface of his mind. Should he see Chiba as well, on the off chance there was any lasting damage to his cyberware? At the very least he’s going to need his hand re-tuned once the cast is off but that won’t be for a while. Can he risk going back to his apartment, or will Callahan have cased it already? He’s lucky his manhunter was on him when he was caught, but the rest of his gear would sting to have to write off. He does have a deposit box in Excelsior under another fake name, if Callahan hasn’t managed to connect him to it, and if he can reach it safely, he’ll at least have money. And then… And then what? Does he keep running? Ilya should be long gone, at least, so-

It’s a testament to whatever drugs he’s on that the reaction to that thought comes a full couple seconds after it actually forms in his mind. His chest constricts and he winces, laboriously raising his left hand to rub his eyes as he fights to get a full breath into his lungs.

Ilya should be long gone. If he warned them in time.

That’s what he wanted. He wanted them safe, even if it meant urging them out of his life. It doesn’t make the reality hurt any less. It doesn't feel any less like he had to carve something out of himself.

This is pointless, he thinks. He's not going to make any progress lying here dwelling on what's done and feeling sorry for himself. With one more concerted effort he pushes himself up until he can rest his back against the wall behind him and coughs to clear his throat. His voice still sounds dry and ragged when he calls out, "Abele!"

A quiet beat, then the soft padding of approaching footsteps. The middle-aged dwarf who pokes her head in is not Abele, but he dimly remembers that she was there when he first arrived and might have been the one who actually guided him into a bed. When she catches his searching expression she smiles, picking her way around the clutter to his bedside as she explains, "they had to step out for the afternoon. I'm Harper, I can take care of anything you need in their absence."

"I need to leave," Maksim replies bluntly.

Harper tsks lightly. "What you need is some proper food and liquid in your system," she insists. "That drip's not enough to get you on your feet after you were out for a day and a half."

"A day and…" Maksim repeats incredulously, then grits his teeth in frustration. That's at least twenty-four hours more than he had hoped, Callahan could have gotten a lot done in that time even if he was still licking his own wounds. “Did you drug me?”

“We didn’t have to,” Harper admits. When Maksim casts another doubtful look at the IV she adds, “that’s just a saline solution, you were dangerously dehydrated.”

He doesn’t particularly like that answer although he can’t imagine why she would lie. But it means he’s got nothing to blame for the bleariness of his thoughts or the unsettling heaviness of his limbs. "Okay. Get it out," he scowls at the needle in his arm, "give me my things, tell me what I owe Abele for the help."

The doctor still regards him uneasily, beginning to say, "why don't you at least rest easy until they-"

"Harper," he interrupts, "it would be in everyone's best interest if I'm not here when my problems catch up with me."

After one more moment’s hesitation, a sort of grim understanding settles over her features and she nods. She doesn’t like it, but she knows when a runner shouldn’t be argued with. “Alright well… just let me get you the address.”

Maksim blinks, and just as Harper is turning to step away he stops her with a quick “what address?”

“That your friend left for you,” she clarifies with a light smile, as if he should know precisely what she’s talking about.

Naspok says come when you’re able

Abele’s round, looping script stares back at him from the scrap of paper, six simple words followed by an address he placed somewhere in Haight-Ashbury. When the crossing signal chirps to beckon him to the other side of the street he stuffs the note back in the pocket of his ill-fitted hoodie and keeps walking.

His head’s buzzing, a hit of jazz the quickest way he could think of to cancel out the fatigue, and easy trash to get ahold of in Bayview. And still no matter how furiously he turns the situation over and over in his mind, he can think of only two possibilities.

If someone other than him knows he told Ilya to go somewhere safe, it means he was right to suspect some kind of trace on his commlink (which means it was the right move to pawn it as soon as he left the clinic so he could buy some clothes that were inconspicuous and not crusted in blood). But that also means they should know he very explicitly instructed Ilya not to tell him where they were hiding. If it is a trap, it’s a particularly bold one, especially considering the last time Callahan tried to weaponize Ilya against him he nearly tore the man’s throat out. Even if he knew that’s what this was, he would have half a mind to go anyway just to show whoever’s waiting for him what he thinks of them using Ilya’s name like that.

The other possibility is that Ilya received his instructions, went to a safehouse, and then immediately contacted him to tell him where they were.

He comes to an abrupt stop on the sidewalk, massaging his temples as he curses under his breath.

That does sound like something Ilya would do.

And in spite of the frustration bubbling under the surface of his thoughts, he can’t deny the truth: he hopes that’s what Ilya did. Even if it means putting them both in greater danger, even if it means tempting Callahan to call NeoNET down on top of them… it also means their last conversation doesn’t have to be Maksim on death’s door urging them to disappear. It means they chose not to abandon him.

Whichever way he looks at it… he has to take the invitation. He has to know. But he doesn’t have to go unprepared.

Guardian Vault & Safe seems like the most reliable first stop. He bristles under the receptionist’s dubious once-over, keenly aware that he doesn’t have the advantage of his usual wardrobe to offset the unavoidable fact that a heavily modded troll is a bit of a novelty in a middle class district like Excelsior. The fidgety posture he can’t quite calm and the ugly purple bruise spread across the left side of his face probably aren’t doing his respectability any favors either. Still, a gentle telepathic nudge to humor him–and a mandatory thumbprint scan–gets him through the door under the name Grigoriy Kozlov (at least you were good for something in the end, Grisha, he thinks wryly), and a half hour later he’s back out with five thousand nuyen across four different credsticks, and a thin backpack with a spare magazine for the manhunter and another change of clothes in it. He had actually forgotten how much he’d stashed there; it had been one of the first things he did upon arriving in the city, for when he thought he would inevitably need to get out quick.

The apartment is a coin flip… if the safehouse is a trap, it seems likely Callahan won’t have split his resources between that and staking out a second location. If Ilya really is waiting for him, then he has no idea what to expect in Oceanview. Still… There's a customized Remington 990 sitting in a locker under his bed, and the thought of abandoning it–or worse yet, the thought of Callahan getting his hands on it–is enough to cement Maksim’s resolve. He has to go home.

It doesn’t feel right, creeping around his own apartment building like he’s there to rob it. But he’s not in any state to be confronting his neighbors right now, and he’d really rather as few people as possible have any sense of where he’s been and when. After a tense few seconds of finessing the lock (not much of a feat when it only has to be jostled in just such a way), the back door to the service corridor spares him having to pass by the front desk. No one else ever takes the stairs when the elevators are as cushy as they are, so it’s an easy enough task to dart up one flight at a time, stopping on each landing to listen for anyone else coming and going, until he’s finally on the fifth floor. He has the least cover here as he steps out into the main hallway, leaving him no choice but to simply stride to his own door as purposefully as he can and pray no one else is around.

He’s just beginning to marvel at his own luck when he gets close enough to realize the door is already just the slightest bit ajar. Like someone let it swing closed behind them and didn’t check to make sure it latched. He stops a few paces out, hand drifting to the pistol holstered at his back, and although he expects to regret it he takes a deep breath and stretches his senses outward, pawing blindly around the astral space for signs of other minds. There’s the familiar thread of one neighbor, the absence of another telling him the unit on the right is empty right now, and then… someone else, dead ahead. Someone bored.

The second he brushes against their mind his awareness snaps back into place and he flinches, pressing a palm to his forehead as his vision blurs. He’s not excited at the prospect of fighting someone in his current state, but he’s not excited at the prospect of turning around and retreating either. There is at least one other alternative… He drops his hand away from the gun and squares his shoulders, doing the best he can not to look like he’s operating on nothing but sleep deprivation and the tail end of a stimulant high, and pushes the door open.

The open floorplan affords him an immediate view of everything but the bedroom and bathroom, but he doesn’t need the luxury of a full sweep to isolate the only threat in the apartment. She’s rifling through the cabinets in his kitchen with her back to him, and judging by the clutter of nonperishables on his counter it looks like she’s been on a determined hunt for something.

Human, sturdy build, dressed for combat but not so heavily that it would obscure the elaborate wolf-centric sleeve tattoos. This isn’t another of Callahan’s goons imported from the east coast. In fact Maksim recognizes her, if only peripherally, as another runner moving in the same circles Ilya does. That might actually make this easier. He freezes to search his memory for a name, and then rolls his eyes when he remembers what it is.

“Lupe,” he says to announce his presence, at the same time pushing the door more firmly shut behind him. She straightens and wheels around, staring him down for a beat before he sees recognition spark in her eyes as well.

“Shit,” she sighs, “no one told me I was getting a babysitter, Mr. Johnson must really want this guy.” Something in Maksim’s expression must give him away before he can decide how to use that information, because a second later her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline and she lets out a long, low whistle. “‘This guy’ is you?”

Maksim steels himself with another deep breath before responding. “Listen… I would really rather not kill you inside my own apartment.” Lupe’s mouth quirks into a dry smile, and he worries that he’s not managing to sound confident instead of exhausted. He makes a quick course-correction, shrugging the backpack off his shoulder and lowering it to the floor, then making a point of drawing his pistol, reversing his grip on it, and leaning over to lay it on the seat of a nearby chair. “What would it cost for you to let me get my things and then swear I was never here?”

She tilts her head, eyeing him down the bridge of her nose before she answers. “How much you got?”

That, at least, is a question he’s prepared to answer confidently. “Two thousand,” he says, pulling one of the cred sticks from the deposit box from his pocket and holding it out. “That’s all I have but you can take it all.”

She hovers in the kitchen a couple seconds longer, watching him as if he might spring into action at any moment, but he must look suitably beaten and desperate because she finally comes around the counter and approaches, stretching out a hand to accept the bribe.

When she grabs his wrist instead he tenses, but he registers the incoming fist a split second too late to react and then he’s on the floor, seeing stars. The fresh wave of pain crests against the inhibitor before it can really hinder him but he still feels thoroughly rattled as he rolls onto his side. He groans, bites out “чертова сука” only to taste a fresh trickle of blood down his lips.

That was embarrassing, and not the kind of cheap move that ever should have surprised him. He would have preferred a more controlled round of troubleshooting but at least now he can be reasonably certain. Something’s wrong with his mods.

“Sorry Avos,” Lupe sighs. “But work’s work, y’know?” She grabs his ankle and drags him further away from the door–away from his gun–continuing, “I don’t know what you did but someone’s got a lot of nuyen riding on settling the score.” Her weight comes down on his stomach as she straddles him, grabbing the wrist of his injured hand as she reaches for something on her belt.

That was a bad judgment call.

His left hand shoots out to the front of her tactical vest, claws digging in for purchase, and he hauls her down the same moment he lunges forward to slam his forehead into her face.

That was also a bad judgment call.

Lupe grunts and goes limp enough for Maksim to throw her off, only to drop back onto the floor as the room spins. It takes every ounce of his focus just to get some semblance of control over his limbs, enough to roll over and lurch-stumble-crawl back to the chair to grab the manhunter and fire off a shot near-blindly in Lupe’s direction. It misses her entirely and smacks into the laminated window behind her as she sits up. She follows the trajectory before turning back to him with a sneer, the expression rendered grisly by the mess of gashes Maksim’s horns delivered to her face.

She staggers to her feet as Maksim slouches back against the chair, but in a moment of inspiration he sets his jaw and fires two more shots past her into the window, until it finally shatters and he hears someone down on the street shriek in surprise. Lupe stops in her tracks and gives the window another look, and this time when she faces Maksim again she seems genuinely puzzled. “What was that for?”

“This is a nice neighborhood,” he says, slightly winded. “And people in the building are nosey. I’d give the SFPD… fifteen minutes? Maybe less if they’re bored.”

She gives him the same calculating stare she did when he first showed up, but she does look markedly less confident in her advantage now. “And which one of us do you think they’ll believe is supposed to be here?”

Maksim snorts. “Honestly? Neither of us. But I bet only one of us knows what name is on the lease.” He glances over his shoulder and then reaches back, hauls himself up off the floor and into the chair. He rests his elbows on his thighs and dares to take a second to screw his eyes shut, rub his forehead, try to blink everything back into sharper focus. When he looks up again Lupe hasn’t moved. He waves the gun listlessly toward the door with a frown. “I’ve already had to pay off a street doc, I don’t want to have to call in a cleaner too. You can keep the cred stick.”

Lupe takes a step toward him. “I don’t think you understand what kind of price tag is on you right now.”

“If you don’t leave I’ll shoot out your knees and then you can talk to the cops yourself when they get here.” It takes a concerted effort to keep his hand steady but he levels the manhunter with her legs just to make sure she understands he’s not being hyperbolic. “Get out of my house.”

This time she doesn’t argue. Maksim sinks back into the chair as the door swings shut behind her and he listens to her heavy footsteps recede down the hall until he can’t hear them anymore. Then he lays the pistol in his lap and rubs his hand vigorously over his face, letting out a long groan of wordless frustration.

But he’s on a tight deadline now, thanks to his own flawless strategizing.

He drags himself back to his feet, holsters the pistol, retrieves the backpack from by the door, and heads for the bedroom, cursing under his breath when his balance wavers and his shoulder catches on the doorframe. Then out of the closet comes a black duffel bag, and out from under the bed comes a sturdy locker. He flips up the latches and throws it open to retrieve the prize he came all this way for, the 990 settled peacefully in its tactical holster. Maksim pauses as he wraps his hand around it, allowing himself a moment to imagine firing a slug through Callahan’s skull just to make the trip worth it, then stuffs it into the duffel along with his remaining ammo for both guns, the manhunter’s drop holster, the reinforced field jacket he normally wears on runs, and all the contents of the backpack. He zips the duffel shut and stands, then after a brief consideration pulls off the hoodie and tosses it on the bed, ducks into the bathroom to hastily wash the blood off his face, and then shrugs into his leather coat. It’s not any less conspicuous, in fact it might be moreso, but it’s familiar. It’s his. Even that tiny bit of normalcy does something to settle his nerves.

He slings the duffel over his head onto his shoulder and leaves the apartment, making a beeline for the exit. A door opens behind him and someone calls his name, but he just picks up his pace and doesn’t so much as glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the stairwell. By the time he's stepping back out into the alley from the service corridor, he can hear sirens around the front of the building.

Only one destination left now.

Haight-Ashbury isn't the kind of place where people pry, but after the chaos of his apartment the hike to the safehouse still feels disconcertingly simple. Traffic rumbles by overhead as he exits an underpass onto a quiet street, counting down building numbers until he arrives at the address he was provided. The structure is entirely unremarkable, easy to dismiss as an old shuttered storefront or a dingy unlisted residential building. He knocks twice on the front door, steps back, waits for a beat. A rusty intercom set into the wall crackles to life, only for a slightly distorted voice to tell him, “deliveries to the side door.”

Maksim hesitates, giving the facade a quick examination to see if he can spot a camera. Does he look like he’s here to make a delivery? Then he reaches over and holds down the one little silver button on the intercom. “I’m… looking for Naspok,” he says experimentally.

There’s no immediate answer, and Maksim is just beginning to wonder if he needs to try another approach when he hears the door unlock from inside before it creaks open. The orc that greets him at the threshold is a head shorter and looks to be at least a few decades older than he is, features well weathered but eyes sharp as he takes in Maksim’s appearance with pursed lips. He’s leaning lightly on a cane, but he takes up the doorframe confidently enough that Maksim doesn’t even entertain the idea of trying to force his way inside.

At last the orc simply grunts, “name?”

“Avos.”

The orc nods, then shifts his weight to rest one hand on the door. “You wait here,” he says. “No weapons on your person inside the building.”

Maksim blinks. “I’m not-”

“Not even well hidden ones,” the orc interrupts, raising the tip of his cane to flip Maksim’s coat aside and point directly to the concealed holster’s belt.

Maksim scowls down at him, but he still takes a step back to unclasp the belt and disarm, lowering the duffel onto the ground to store the manhunter away alongside the 990. Then he straightens, holding up his good hand to flex his claws illustratively.

The orc sniffs. “Well… Just keep that to yourself. Now wait.” He turns away, shutting the door behind him.

If this is a trap, Maksim is making it unbelievably easy for them. But that theory is rapidly beginning to crumble under the weight of evidence. Or hope, at least.

He’s left waiting on the doorstep long enough to start fearing again that he may have mishandled the situation. He turns to look up and down the sidewalk, a perfunctory effort to spot an ambush if it’s coming his way, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. He stoops to retrieve his bag from the ground, and doesn’t immediately process the next sound he hears coming from inside the building, only registering it as a rush of footsteps an instant before the door flies open.

When he turns back around Ilya is staring at him, wide eyed and slightly out of breath. For a long moment all he can think to do is stare back. He lets the duffel slide off his shoulder back onto the ground again. Every other thought in his head terminates at once, every frustration and paranoid fear and survival plan blotted out by the all-encompassing relief that overtakes him. This. This is what it was all for. For this moment, for the chance to look them in the eye one more time and��� and tell them…

“Are you okay?” he asks numbly, just for something to say. Some way to fill the silence. He only registers the irony of him asking them that when Ilya’s expression contorts into something caught inexplicably between humor and pity.

“Am I okay?” they echo, “Maksim…”

“I just didn’t know if I contacted you fast enough, Callahan was going to… and I haven’t been able to think straight… I-” he rubs his eyes, shakes his head. Then he manages to catch hold of a single thought long enough to say with a little more exasperation than intended, “I told you to hide.”

“I did!” Ilya insists, holding their hands out to indicate the building around them.

“And I told you not to contact me.”

“Ah.” Ilya smiles weakly, then chews their lip for a second. “Technically I contacted a clinic in Bayview… if you happened to be there… coincidentally…”

Their excuse peters out as Maksim takes a step forward, spurred on by some impulse that barely even surfaces in his conscious mind, and takes hold of their shoulders. Or at least, he takes hold of one shoulder and rests his injured hand on the other. “You had time to run. You could have disappeared, you could be halfway to Seattle by now.”

The half-hearted attempt at humor falls away and Ilya’s eyes dart over his features, searching his expression with an unusual intensity. “The thought never crossed my mind,” they say softly. He believes them. He doesn’t know why that scares him, why it makes him feel dizzy and tightens his chest until he feels like he can’t take a full breath, but he believes they never considered leaving him behind. Not for a second. The question he wants to ask is why, the same question he asked before. Why didn't you sell me out. Why won't you leave. But he’s still grasping for the words when he feels their hand on his arm, and they’re saying, “but hey, we don’t have to do this right here, I think you’re clear to come inside. Do I need to get your bag?”

“No…” he mumbles, and then comes back to himself enough to actually process the question. “No,” he says more firmly, inhaling sharply and letting go of them to pick up the duffel again. Ilya moves away from the door and Maksim tails them inside, pausing when they poke their head through another door nearby and mutter something to someone in the next room. Then they close it and move on, beckoning him to follow them.

“I don’t think anyone else is here right now,” they say idly while they’re climbing the stairs, just as Maksim was also noting how quiet the building was despite its size. Without a full examination he’d still estimate it could house a couple dozen people.

In the second floor hallway Maksim’s muddled thoughts alight on another piece of information that feels important, and without warning he blurts out, “Alabast.” Ilya stops to face him. “The reliquary… the artifact we were supposed to steal from the warehouse. They think I have it, they’ve had someone following me since I left New York thinking they could get it back.”

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately, but Maksim imagines he can see a question surface in their expression only to fade just as quickly as they give him another quick once-over and do the math themself. The cast, the bruises, the length of his disappearance. They don’t need to ask what happened. What they do ask is, “how did you get out?”

“I…” Maksim grimaces. He hasn’t really spared any time to reflect on that… It wasn’t like he had a lot of options, but he’s been determinedly averting his eyes from the reality of what he was driven to. Full telepathic possession… it’s not something he’s ever done before. Not something he was ever taught to do. Not something he ever wanted to do. But he’s not about to start reflecting on it now. “It’s not important.”

The progression of Ilya’s expression is harder to read this time. They look like they want to press, but they catch Maksim’s eye and they see something there that keeps them quiet. “I’m glad you did,” they say, softly enough that Maksim might have thought it was just to themself if they weren’t standing so close. Just as their attention drifts back down the hall and they turn away, something hitches in Maksim’s chest, a quiet little cry of wait! He shrugs the bag off his shoulder again and reaches out, hand trailing down their forearm to linger around their wrist, and when they turn back to face him he throws his other arm around their shoulders and draws them in close. He can feel the ripple of tension that passes through them, for no more than the length of a heartbeat, before their body settles into the embrace.

“You didn’t have to do any of this,” he says, breathing the words into the warmth of their throat as he rests his head against their shoulder.

“You keep saying that,” they point out, lacing their fingers together at the small of his back. “Like it wasn’t the only choice that made any sense.”

None of this makes any sense, Maksim thinks, but he doesn’t argue as the moment stretches quietly into another second. Another. When he lifts his head away he can still feel the air stretched tight between them. A tether–or something more active. A magnetic pull as Ilya’s eyes lock with his, two opposing forces drawn back together into something natural and inevitable.

Then that moment bursts like a soap bubble as Ilya lets out the unmistakable snort of a poorly stifled laugh.

Maksim doesn’t lean any further back but he does narrow his eyes. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing, sorry,” Ilya replies quickly. “I just remembered the last time I asked if you were about to kiss me and you nearly decked me for it.”

Maksim holds their gaze for another beat. They’re teasing. It’s normal, it’s so perfectly, comfortably normal, but it still lights up something inescapable in Maksim’s head. If you were about to kiss me… He leans in, places a light peck along their jaw. When they don’t pull away, another against the soft skin just below their ear, and in his gentlest, most confidential tone, just to settle the score, he tells them, “I still might if you’re going to make this weird.”

Ilya’s hands unclasp just to slip under his coat and wander up the curve of his back to rest against his shoulders. Their grip is light but he can’t ignore the way they’re holding him in place, the fact that if he tried to step away it would be easy for them to stop him. He can’t ignore the fact that he would never let anyone touch him like that. Even without seeing it he can hear the grin plainly in their voice as they respond, “if you think threats are going to make me behave better then there’s been a serious miscommunication between us.” Maksim pulls back again, just enough to properly take in the pleased little smirk that they flash him to punctuate the comment as they splay their fingers out over his shoulder blades.

There’s a shift then, something in the stream of his thoughts abruptly changing direction, catching on a hook in the midst of the natural current. It registers as an invitation- no. A challenge, like Ilya is daring him to…

Even with two fingers out of commission he’s got the collar of their jacket in both hands before he can think about it and he shoves, just hard enough for them to hit the wall with a startled huff that turns into a muffled exclamation against his lips as he kisses them–deep, insistent bordering on aggressive. But there’s an underlying note of desperation to it that Maksim can feel in his own gut, a need for something he can’t name but is suddenly convinced, on some fundamental level, that he could finally have. Something Ilya could give him, that he could find in them–in the way they relax into the kiss just as quickly as they relaxed into the hug, the way they invited this and then surrendered to it so easily. He can feel their hands balled up in the fabric of his shirt and now they are holding him fast, telling him stay here, stay. There’s a stability, a realness to being held that he had allowed himself to forget. A feeling of certainty in being this close to another person, feeling the rise and fall of their breath and the warmth of their skin. Of course he would stay, he would dissolve into this moment, fall into Ilya’s orbit like a captured moon, let himself be pinned through the chest and held in place forever-

Then the rational part of his brain finally catches up only to bring the rest of it to a stuttering halt as it cries out you can’t, you can’t have this, you can’t want this. He breaks away with a gasp, a breathless silence hanging between them as he leans back into Ilya’s arms still wrapped around him. They let their head tip back to thump softly against the wall, seemingly unaware of his sudden discomfort as they study him with an expression he doesn’t recognize. Eyes a little wide, skin darkened by a subtle flush across their cheeks and the wry twist of a smile just barely tugging at the corner of their lips again. A growing unease bubbles up in Maksim’s chest and he lets his gaze fall, grasping for something to settle on other than their eyes.

As they so often are, Ilya is the one to find the nerve to break that silence, though they still sound a little stunned. “Sure, that’s one way to shut me up I guess.”

“Sorry,” Maksim utters, and the contrition feels wrong on his tongue, feels like someone else speaking for him. He doesn’t want to apologize. There are so many things that he does want but he’s pushing them all back down below the surface where they’re quiet. Where it’s safe.

“I’m… not complaining.” There's a note of surprise in their tone… at hearing themself say it? Or just at the fact that Maksim needed to hear it? It doesn't matter, he doesn’t want to know what they’re thinking. He wills his hands to loosen, to let Ilya go, and is at once both relieved and disappointed when they take it as a signal to do the same and allow him to step away. It's for the best, he tells himself. He’ll disappoint them, he won’t give them enough–he never has, he’s never known how–and he can't bear the thought of facing that frustration and discontent again. Not from Ilya, not after all this.

But he can’t pretend that didn’t just happen either–not with the way Ilya’s looking at him now. Not expectant, and certainly not angry… they just seem a little bewildered, like they’re not sure what happens next either. Then they clear their throat, apparently arriving at a decision. “Come on,” they say, leaning around him to grab his duffel, laying a hand on his shoulder as they do so. It feels… right. It feels normal, and as they’re straightening he places his hand on top of theirs and they falter for just a second. There’s that mystified little ghost of a smile again as their gaze darts across his face, then they squeeze his shoulder and tilt their head toward a door a little further down the hall. “You look half dead, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind sitting down.”

[moondirti]

ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH [ john price x f! reader ]

: he sees you when his vices take hold. little love, invented. chimeric, he assumed - until you're not.

mdni. noncon; addiction (nicotine and alcohol); SSRIs; intoxication; breeding kink; daddy kink; hallucinations; kidnapping; drugging; objectification; slut-shaming; sexual harassment; violence; bondage; vomiting; guns; suicide, murder, pregnancy, spanking and branding mentions. 7k.

a/n: have yall seen ruby sparks? yeah imagine that but worse

John's always had his fixes.

He remembers the hysterics. Five and wet behind the ears, lungs scoured raw of anguish when his mum hadn't let him sup the vanilla extract. It's not what you'd expect, hun. But the child-sized idée fixe, destructive in its naivety, turned its head at the implication. He stuck his nose to the bottle's cap, got a whiff of it unfiltered, and revolted; how could it taste like anything but the ambrosia it promised?

Or, who was she to deny he try?

(His resistance to authority can be spoored there. A miasmic trail back to youth, stinking something foul. It had been a Sisyphean effort, pyrrhic, when he enlisted. Burnishing odour only to find, without it, there was nothing left for them to make use of.)

So – red-faced, tousled pyjamas at 2200, balanced atop a chair as his parents snored soundly on the couch – he snuck a teaspoon for himself.

It was foul, of course. A calcine irritation that clawed on its way down his throat, baring raw tissue in its wake. He hid his coughs behind his sleeves, vision cloudy with tears as he put everything back where it belonged – not disappointed so much as he was committed, he thinks. Because the very next night, he came back to try it again.

And again, and again.

Like clockwork, he tipped the small vial up onto his tongue and hoped it would pass into something different. Obsessive. Ruinous monomania. His dreams sprung into caliginous visions that detailed nothing but the phantom touch of it to his tongue; this taste, syrupy sweet like nothing he would find in comfits and puddings and pies.

(In hindsight, all it did was teach him how to embrace the burn.)

It only stopped when his mum woke to him voiding his guts in an old popcorn bowl. Poison control, buoyant levity clipped over the rotary phone, told her that it happens all the time. Kids go looking for a midnight snack and think vanilla will hit the spot. Our suggestion is to settle for alternatives until he's old enough to know better. Hydrate in the meanwhile.

– know better.

It's hard to say he does.

His wants still have wants, have asinine wants, that which keep him so late into the night that it's dawn before he falls comatose. Sunk into a leather wingback, the space of his parlour more smoke than it is air, contemplating keeping a warm body in these hinterlands. Helplessly soft, pretty. Fixated on that faceless something, burrowed beneath his sweet tooth again.

But on the wrong side of forty, he's honed prudence like a well-oiled firearm. Custom so things run smoothly, though not one he finds necessary if it weren't for convention. He knows his job would cut in on the upkeep, month long absences like a disease to whoever he manages to snare. It'll kill them, slowly, holed up in this home alone.

(When his parents did away with the extract, he tore the curtains and scribbled on their walls. A boy's green version of withdrawal, deprived of his favourite vice. He's never considered sobriety for that very reason – he's bad even with a maduro in hand.

And the thing about people, they're never so easy to replenish.)

Age besets everything. Counters them, grown as he is. Pragmatic.

Still. To say he knows better is... faulty, flawed. Not when he fists his cock to those fantasies and stirs on all the ways he can bring them to light. Early retirement (a prompt no; he's just as dependant on the field), or multiple little loves to keep each other company, his house turned an Arcadia of nymphs (though he tires to think of wrangling more than one, and the idea diffuses like sugar steeped in tea.)

It's on his fourth- fifth iteration that John starts to see it for what it really is. That this – a darling wife to curl between his legs – is like the imagined taste of vanilla extract. Too good to ever be made true. At least for a man of his ilk, whose bloody hands slip around nirvana. Unearned. Chained to purgatory so long as he weighs sins against the greater good. He wasn't meant for the finer things in life.

So he sticks to what he has. Old familiars. Noxious inhibitors, palmed for upwards of ten pounds, crafted for old dodgers like himself. Tobacco, dry whiskey. Nicotine to spout fire to his hindbrain. Cheap, easy accesses that sate the itch behind his eyes, so long as he lights another.

Ouroboros. It feeds itself and lasts.

(Until you come off the tail end that is, and sever the loop with your own, clever little hands.)

You pose a different kind of problem.

It starts after Serbia. Hounding across the Carpathian mountains for the better part of a winter has detrimental effects, see. And though he eventually locates the bunker Laswell's informants alerted them to, he comes out of it changed – head fixed the wrong way around, skin flaking over off a mulish swell of anger. Going back home is an ordeal when his body acclimatised to find warmth in the frost, talking to Stygian shadows like comrades. Necessitated madness revoked.

Because all of a sudden, everything is too comfortable. Vibrant. Nothing hurts enough to match the stress still ricocheting within him, and the imbalance threatens to capsize. The doctors prescribe SSRIs, tell him to keep it separate, Captain, when their eyes skim that part of his file that notes him as a habitual drinker – so he switches from bourbon to Canadian whiskey, like the ABV will make a difference.

(That inveterate defiance, rearing its ugly head once more.)

And really, he doesn't get what all the fuss is about.

The static in his head flatlines, white noise taking its slot. It's the greatest peace he's found since his bunkmate at boarding school stuck a joint between his teeth and told him to suck. Like fog wearing over a hill, his thoughts grow muddied, loose and abandoned once he can't tell which way is up or where the sky ends.

And the wants, the very same he's long since buried, come back with a vengeance. Unchanged, for the most part (he doubts they were ever dead in the first place) yet manifested differently, like they're privy to the scepticism that killed them last.

(Reveries no longer disembodied, shuddering old film onto the backs of his eyes, but projected into the dark corners of his house, instead.)

He hears your laugh, first. It is early March and easter endorsements already shade the telly in garish joie de vivre, corporations fighting for a foot in your spring celebrations! Buy an egg-dying kit and get one free, hurry before it's too late! John doesn't remember turning it on, can hardly feel the remote in his hands, but that acedia ebbs once the sound of it meets his ears. The sound of you–

Jingle-bell mischievous, he knows it has no place amidst the foolish ditties of spring. He turns the T.V. off, sitting upright in his chair, ears piqued in every direction as he waits for it again.

From the kitchen: another breathless titter, tapped from a chest too delicate to be mistaken for the howling winds outside. When he rises to inspect the source, he swipes the spare gun he uses to foot a broken table, trigger finger dangling bonelessly by the grip. Good to have it there, just in case, though he's confident he won't need to resort to such measures to neutralise you – not if you equal the Zephyr-like quality of your voice.

(Paranoia, it seems, is another effect of downing his meds with Crown Royal. Had he been less inebriated, he would have remembered that his doors are double bolted, and that there's no one out for miles.)

But what he expects to find, luminous between the birch cupboard rows, is not there. His kitchen is as empty as it's always been.

So, they might have warned him about it. He might have avoided this whole thing had he listened. But things snowball when he grasps what's happening. Calamitous uptake; it invades his dreams again, and his dreams invade reality.

(If he cannot have what he wants within the provident constrictions of life, then what's the harm in indulging himself, if only a little.)

Soon enough, he sees glimpses of you wherever he looks.

Sylphic figure come to haunt him. Light bounces through you, your flesh gossamer-like. Diaphanous. He thinks you cannot be crafted that way if not to accent the dark, wet rims of your eyes. The lightning-branched veins etched to all four extremities. Nipples like petals, touched alluringly to your breasts. He thinks you cannot be fictitious – he's never been an inventive man, and the impish flick of your lips reads as familiar, somehow. Dancing on the tip of his tongue, or a song he's heard once and never again. Like he's taken to it before–

His memory swishes like watered nectar in this state. It's impossible to place.

Still–

So long as you continue to appear as fine mist does, chasing the throttles of his high, John's a happy man. He need not tell you anything; you already know his name, what it is he likes. You sway to imagined tunes (later, he couples it to the erratic drumming of his heart) and jump nimbly around his legs, winding and tangling and falling right through them when he wishes to see you stumble.

You don't talk much, either. He has yet to whet the finer points of your being, work out what makes you tick or how you'd enunciate your words. It's an eggshell process. Fragile. Some nights, he'll imagine you with a cadence that doesn't quite fit, and you'll stutter like a faulty motor before shattering from view. To avoid disillusionment, he has to be careful. Extend a platter of properties for you to choose from, picky thing, and watch as you notch them on your tongue, testing.

You'll get this look on your face as you do. Contemplative, lips pursed for a moment before you shrug and slide down to decorate his feet, arms stretched across his ottoman like willow branches over a creek. It would put him off if it were anyone else, but he's eternally endeared to you.

The first time you speak, it's to call him out on that.

'Naturally.' You giggle, twirling your phantom fingers in the tufts of his leg hair. 'You have to like something in order for me to present it. Or is that not how it works?'

He doesn't think so.

"You tell me, little one. If that were the case, why disappear when I try something you aren't keen on, hm?" His words are slurred, strung together hastily, like his tongue hasn't the strength to articulate each in full. You understand him anyway, of course, scrunching your nose.

'I don't know.'

"Think, then."

You shuffle straighter on your knees.

'Maybe I want to be just right for you, daddy. Not all your ideas are great.'

John jerks his leg admonishingly, the joint of it passing right through you. It causes you to blink out of existence for a second, and his throat twists uncomfortably around the new darkness. Loneliness hurts more, harrows deeper, now that he's unused to it.

But you come back, straddling his hips this time. You always do

(So long as he keeps sipping, the glass in his hand sweating cool condensation into his skin. His cigar slowly smoulders away in a nearby ashtray, waiting for the uptake.)

"Mm, thought I lost ya." And if you were there – really there, he thinks – he'd wrap your hair in a fat fist and angle your head roughly down onto his. His arms lay flat to his sides, however. Restless.

'No.' You don't exhibit the same discretion. You smooth down his bare chest, ironing his scars until he feels brand new again. Whole as a kid. 'Haven't you heard? I have a tongue now, and all I wanna do is talk.'

"Is that right?" He hums, half-lidded eyes watch the space between your knees widen. Like Artemis in her waters, cursing Actaeon to the jowls of his dogs – you love teasing him when you know he cannot do anything about it, destined to be torn apart by his inborn desire.

'Well, what else is there?'

And if not for that one thing, John would be content to live like this forever.

(Two, if you count his prescription quickly running out.)

Routine lasts about a fortnight, if his taking of time is to be trusted.

Staged courting, you call it. A production of how typical romances go. When the sky bruises, opening up like the ripe flesh of a plum, he'll knock back two tablets using the last dregs of his afternoon whiskey and wait for you to come home to him. You look stunning when you arrive; naked, your body soft and creased and effulgent. And while it depends on how his day's been, more often than not, you'll imitate rubbing his feet as he tells you about everything – paperwork and the taskforce and state secrets (does confidentiality count towards figments of his high?) – before he's settled enough to cut to the chase.

Yet he runs out of patience for it as time hauls on. Avidity amasses, tumorigenic need cramping his chest. One day, he stops you from kneeling at all. 

"No need for that, sweet thing." He orders with a stiff grunt. There's no justification as to why, though it's clear you sense it already. The fraying strings of his sanity, that which you bat at like a playful kitten, have started to unravel dangerously close to what is holding it all together. "Just do what you do best, hm?"

(The best you can do–)

'Yes, daddy.'

Ever-dutiful, despite the monotony. There are no arguments with you, no taming and fights unless he's in a particularly aggressive mood. The only indication of your disappointment (not yours so much as it is his in himself) is the wet flutter of your lashes, the poking harlequin pout.

Both disappear from view when you turn your back to him and bend at the hip, small hands stretching to dig into your behind. His cock is out in no time – was practically tearing at his pant's seams, really – thrumming painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach when you pull apart either cheek like dough.

Your pussy spreads, glimmering under a matting of wiry hair. Arousal (feigned, imagined, projected–) webs your thighs together, swollen clit budding at the end of your mons. Apple of Eden; his jerks are awkward, uncoordinated, in comparison. Human. There's a twinge in his wrist from working himself almost daily.

His teeth taste like tobacco and spice, sleep clinging to the roof of his mouth. Would you eclipse it with your sweet-sour tang? He pictures taking you; stuffing his nose right below the tight rim of your ass so his tongue can lave over your slit. Working you open with his tongue. You'd soak the hair around his lips, and he'd press harder in response.

John spoils you rotten in his dreams. You know it, too, toes wiggling where you stand a few feet away. How cruel that he shouldn't get the chance to, then – that he has to consume his fixes to stop them from taunting him, and you're God's way of saying that he can't always get what he wants.

Carrot on a fucking stick. He's made an arse of. And worse yet–

He can't cum, no matter how enticingly you stand there. His palms are too calloused, nerves grown bored of their rough drag. Every jerk is a barely-there sensation. Surface level. Shallow. Like a rock skipping across a lake that never manages to sink.

(It never did amount to what you do to him in his head. But it seems as though his body has finally caught on to what the rest of him already knew.

That this – this tragic, autogenous slaking of carnal desire – can not continue on forever.)

He groans, paralysis needling painfully up his neck. It echoes like anger and holds none of the punch.

Breaking position, you twist to assess the newborn tension.

'Shhhh,' You coo. There's no judgement in your glassy eyes, none that can perceive (or wants to see). Rather, it's all pure love, a whisper of distress, and devotion. His little love, so perfect besides this one thing. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

"Not your fault." Hoarse. Broken.

(Who has he become?)

'I'd help you if I could. Let you take whatever you wanted from me, you wouldn't even have to ask.'

He'd been the one to initiate it, but the prospect of his orgasm is long abandoned when you perch on the armrest, laying your head near his. He has nowhere else to put his hands, so he keeps them cupped between his thighs – and if he suspends utilitarianism for long enough, can almost believe that they're yours, instead.

"That's nice, little one."

He imagines your warmth, the soft comfort of your bosom, as sleep encroaches on his periphery. You'd cup the tired weight of his head and lay it on your lap, there to stay until he awakes to birdsong. There in the morning light.

Thus the minutes tick by in quiet melancholy. He's halfway layered in the pelts of hypnagogia before you speak again.

'You should visit town tomorrow. Mail something home for Mother's Day maybe, and stop by the grocer's for eggs. You're all out.'

He hasn't seen greater society for almost a month.

A wicked hangover splits his skull, worming its claws into the soft matter of his brain. John had initially set out to do as you bid him – find a nice present for his mum and stock up for the next few weeks' hibernation – but the throngs of people crowding home goods and the jewellers make his condition worse, so he resolves to call her on the day and heads straight to the market instead.

Eggs, you said. He needs a lot more than that. Water and red meat and perhaps something that leaks grease when fried. Cucumbers, yoghourt, granola, too. Milk or juice, never both because he can't commit to finishing them before their best-by date. Fruit. Cookies.

The list grows exponentially as he surveys the colourful aisles, under eyes tender to the touch. If it weren't for the cart carrying most of his weight, he would have toppled over already, his chest dipped over the handle, wheels barreling forward. The store's empty enough that he doesn't worry about clipping someone's ankles. For now, it's just him.

Always that. Just him, and–

"Ah!"

Fuck.

"Are you alright?" He defaults, lurching to pluck the rolling oranges off the floor. It necessitates far more exertion than he can handle at the moment. The woman he ran into catches what bowls from his reach.

"Oh, yes! So sorry, that one's on me." She laughs, nervous. The nature of it – gentle, shaky like the beat of a butterfly's wing – rouses a near Pavlovian response in him, pleasantries crystallising between his teeth, hard as pearls. He coasts a suspicious look up, but her head stays bowed as she piles everything into her basket, arched baseball cap obscuring her features. "I insist on carrying everything, see, then it gets too much for me and the baskets are the nearest thing, and you know how heavy those can get if you do some serious shopping, don't you?. Honestly, I never learn. How silly."

The wonder shatters. He cringes, eyelids pruning shut to gather his sore thoughts in the sudden clammer. Talks too much, too loud. He finds it hard to tolerate anything but singsong whispers these days.

(On him, he knows.)

Unceremonious, they both stand. John extends the final orange, appraising the products she tucks it between rather than look back up at her. Sugar, butter, eggs, flour. And a hefty heap of citrus, of course. Odd.

She seems to think the same, breaking the awkward lull first.

"Big family?" The question is clearly well-intentioned – posed to the stacked contents of his cart. No well-adjusted man would hoard as many perishables for himself, not with the grocer's as accessible as it is. But John is not well-adjusted in any sense of the word, especially in the past few months. All her prying does, then, is inflame the irritation dusting his throat, kneading salt into the wound.

How incredibly unfortunate timing.

"Gingivitis?" He clips back. His hangover makes regret a hard thing to reach, though given she doesn't take offence to his snipe.

"Ouch, okay." She laughs, more lighthearted than before. It reminds him of you (you, is anything its own thing anymore?) and John feels a fire light his heels. Agitation to get back home. "No, I'm making orange shortbread for the old folks at the nursing home. Needed to replenish a few things. I haven't baked in a while."

"How nice."

"'Tis the season! Erm– I mean. Y'know, with Mother's Day."

(Later, when he's staring at his fingers, sozzled like a cat on cream, he replays this conversation over in his head like he'll be able to change its outcome. Had he been alert, he'd have picked up on it by now. Christmas platitudes in spring – who else did he know with such transgressive peculiarities?

Captain Price wouldn't have missed it. Unfortunately for him, he left that intensity between powdered ice and silver firs.)

"Anyway." She coughs. He didn't realise he was expected to respond, stare lingering on the exit some distance away, keen to see this end. In his periphery, her cap tips down, supply list clutched in fidgety hands as she reads down the line of ingredients. He forces his attention back to the moment, training his eyes on the curve of her skull. "Just one thing left. Um, should be down hereeeee–"

Her head tilts up again, searching for the aisle markers overhead.

And it's–

Painful. Like the rip release of every organ seizes simultaneously, domino discharge down his spine. Ribs flush suddenly into the flaring muscle of his heart, which thrashes wildly against the corral, desperate to see itself out. To reach across this empty space and leech on to the delicate features that come into view. His brain – startled out of its judiciousness – blares I told you so's to the hot rush of blood behind his ears. Marrow melts to oil his joints, unmooring their structural integrity, and his breakfast threatens to disgorge and make for a foul first impression.

(John always thought revelations came kindly, that they blossomed in the neglected forks of life. Like a summer boscage, or the gentle, prying hands of a monarch escaping its cocoon. How can divulgence be anything but soft, and refined? How would the world grapple with them if otherwise?

He sees it now for what it is.

The world would have no choice.)

"Vanilla extract." You shake your list, smiling at him – a vivid, honest smile – before you brush right out of view.

He tells himself this doesn't change things. No matter how you like to argue the opposite.

'I don't see why not, daddy. Don't you want me, too?'

More than he'd like anything else in the world. But it's back again, that reaper of dreams poison control once foretold. Know better. He does, at least to the extent that bringing you here – tying you to his bed posts like he so desperately wants to do – is not the best idea. His age, his job, his incessant fucking wants, all pave their own desire paths; some more practical than others but less tempting as a result.

He knows how loneliness kills. At least he's built for it, but you?

"Work complicates things, little one."

John finds it all unfurling before him, the coffin housing his fears unhinged.

(You, dead by your own hands or worse, made vulnerable to the brutes he works against. Not a possibility when you're linked to him like this, hallucinatory, unreal, but you – the you he saw earlier today – aren't any of those things.)

'You don't really believe that, do you?'

You're never so argumentative. He sucks his teeth, waving a hand through your hips. And it must snub you so, for you disappear like smoke beneath a cloudburst of rain.

No matter. He doesn't need the temptation finding him.

(That is, until an answer finds him first.)

He phones home for Mother's Day, and she asks for updates for any lucky miss he would call his.

In the borders of his vision, you're hunched over the persian rug that was a gift from an associate for a job well done. Your feet cross over each other, fingers working idly at pretending to braid the fringed edge. The sight gets the better of him, adorable, and he briefly considers switching his answer from the usual – wish you'd stop fretting, it's not doing your health any favours – until sense catches on. He wouldn't know how to deal with the questions.

"No."

"What a shame. I know you're busy with that job and all, John," Because his mother never addresses the big risk to her son's life by name. "but you really should work on making me some grandbabies, before I pass on to the earth."

"Please, mum. Don't start with that nonsense–"

"No! It's any day now, you know it as well as I do." She tuts. He remembers her hands – tracing cool patterns onto his scalp that night, back when he was five and only concerned with the best taste his mouth could fathom. He remembers, and thinks of the wrinkled stretch of them now. "Take this as my last word of wisdom! Family will be the one thing you have when those milking tosser's decide to do away with you. Family, John!"

He chokes back a sigh.

"Yeah. So you've said."

Family. So bloody simple, isn't it?

Iron-wrought key, right under his nose this whole time.

His last two pills frown at him from behind their orange confines, two-toned and unassuming. He could get more if he so pleased, but the hope is that they won't be necessary after tonight.

Carried by the bourbon that blazes down his gullet, they go down smoothly. Soon enough, you appear, summoned, as he laces his boots.

"Does it hurt you, sweet thing?" He finally asks, punching an arm through his windbreaker's sleeve. April showers carry bracingly after dusk, weatherproof attire a functional choice. 

That is to say, the towel in his pocket isn’t for him. 

You gain that elvish look to your face, of the same variety he fell in love with when you first appeared to him. He often forgets how otherworldly you can be; radiant, inhuman vision. Your mirror isn't so... remarkable. Frizzy hair, fleshly, bleeding behind round cheeks. Perhaps that's the appeal.

'F'course not. It is me, after all.'

"Is it?" The front door clicks behind him, new-washed breeze pushing it into place. It feels final, like casting his decision in stone.

'Hmm,' You pretend to think for a long, long while, prancing a solid two paces behind no matter what speed he sets. A new moon blights the fields around his home, sparse raindrops reflecting only your glowing figure. It lights the way until he reaches the skirts of town, when street lamps bleed gold down onto him. Only then do you speak again. 'I should think so, yes. Take a left here.'

John does as you say.

'Though she won't be as receptive to it all. Right.'

He turns right.

'You’ll have to decide how to deal with that.'

"I'd appreciate a few pointers."

'What do you think I'm doing, daddy?' You murmur, materialising before him as he comes up on an avenue known for its nightlife. 'Take a right here and keep going.'

"And you?" He asks, though he already knows the answer.

'I'll be there.' 

You are. Though you’re not alone. 

Two cretins crowd you into a brick wall, lanky arms anchored by your head to form a flimsy aviary. John hears their badgering a block away; crowing voices, placatory promises they wouldn’t be able to uphold even if they knocked back a viagra each. The wind carries it, works their whispers into fine dust. Powder. Negligible. He’s seen this dance before – this dreadful caper, a little bit of force behind what is otherwise an insipid show – but he’s usually above such drama. The men he keeps know not to ask for what they want. Not when it hazards a bird flapping out of reach. 

You’ve got to clip their wings, first.

Though you look like you’d be indebted to any sort of hero. The hem of your dress rides up your thigh, snapping away from restive hands. Shortening what is already… He resolves to admonish you about it later, traipsing closer to the scene. Given your ornament, he can’t blame these men beyond covetous reason, but he won’t topple it onto you either. 

Everything flays out before him. Of the bunch, you demand the slyest hand.

“C’mon, love. It isn’t that far of a walk.”

“Yeah. You’re pissed out of yer mind a’ready. Can’t go home now, huh?” 

“Would be so cute between us both.” 

“The best. Look at those wide eyes.” 

“Busy checkin’ out the arse on her, but I’ll get to her eyes in a minute.” 

Your face crumbles in on itself. He’s closer now. Can make out the mascara painting black tracks down your cheeks, lips smeared by the rain – or, the alternative, pecking vultures having claimed them already. Either way, a green-eyed serpent seethes in the curls of his gut, blood imbued venom coursing. He feels it wind, poising for attack, strength compressed into a tight ball of anger. 

Then, when one of them – ginger, juvenile – snakes a hand between your legs, it strikes. 

He rips his gun from the inner lining of his coat. The other kid is shorter, more on edge, so John doesn’t worry about the force it’d take to daunt him. When the cold press of his muzzle fixes to his companion’s temple, he dashes away with a pathetic screech, tripping over the loose ends of his shoelaces. Par for the course. Weasel.

The ginger isn’t so lucky. 

“You get off on scaring defenceless girls, lad?” He barks into his ear, one hand gripping both floundering wrists. The boy cringes, fear rattling his throat. Any response he tries to shape turns out a nasally wheeze. 

“P-Please-”

“Shut your fucking trap. You’d have a better shot at mercy carving your little cock off.” 

“I w-wo– we were just-t having fun. No harm… harm done, right?” The pleas recourse to you. In his periphery, John registers your frown. Half-hearted. Scared still – of both the unfamiliar, violent men. He peels the commotion two steps back to show he means no harm. 

(To his narrow definitions, of course. His plans for you constitute harm in anyone else’s book. He’s sure that, if you were wise to them, you’d slip in the other direction.)

“She doesn’t seem to think so.”

“No! No, p-please, p–” He silences the boy with a pistol-whip, blunt end of the gun breaking skin off his jaw. The message couldn’t have been clearer – twice now, he’s demanded silence – but no one seems to listen. His cries peak, out-of-tune in the pitter-patter shower. Tortured, like a mangled cat.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, yeah?” The air flutters around you. He’s trained to tread carefully, like you’ll disappear at any moment. Better make this quick, then. “You’re going to go home, lock your windows, and try to sleep with an eye open tonight. The young lady’s welfare matters more than your fate, but I don’t forget. There will be a time where I come to break every finger off your hand. Enjoy them in the meanwhile.”

Perfunctory, he shoves him to the muddy floor. Blood joins the streams sluicing to the sewers, inky swirls of gore a welcome sight. He hasn’t felt this alive since–

Well, since Serbia.

And the boy must see the predatory gleam in his eyes. The dead, inbred callousness. Shark out of the water. Knows what’s good for him as the fin breaks the surface, rows of teeth just underneath, because he runs off before they can snap around his clumsy legs. 

(You, on the other hand, don’t have that instinct. Instead, you blubber, seal on a floating icecap. 

And dive headfirst into his jowls.)

“T-Thank you, I can’t thank you enough. I- My friends left me and I didn’t have a ride home and no one was picking up my calls so I thought it would be safe to ask them, but I couldn’t have predicted how nasty they’d be. Really, they seemed like nice guys–” 

John censures you with a stare. 

“You should know better than to be out at this time.” 

He’s gotten good at imagining your responses. He needn’t hear what you have to say next. Before you can even open your mouth, the chloroform-doused towel in his pocket is out and pasted to your pretty face. 

There’s a brief pause where he expects you to fall through to the floor. But your body slumps, ragdoll boneless, right into his arms.

That’s what brings him here. 

Here: cotton rope hitching your elbows together behind your back, a column of square-knots parallel to both arms. It was what he managed while you were unconscious. Could have managed more – so much more, tick off the beginnings on a cosmic index of all the things he wants to fucking do with you – if it weren’t for patchy effort. He went a little rabid, see. Clipped off the leash, chain to the doghouse broken. Saw the time better spent fondling your supple curves, your body lax beneath his. 

Weakened or willing, it doesn’t matter so much as you’re corporeal. That he can.

(A book he bought as a much younger man details seven different ways to harness a chest. If he had a grip, he would have seen to it – your breasts purpling, ensnared in a lattice of his own construction. It’s this new, foul fascination. How many ways can a body bend before it breaks? He’s never been mindful of the line before, on the field, but he’s got one to do with as he pleases, now.) 

Little one. New toy, fix. His wife.

You process it all in your own time, sleepy eyes peeling open to find that you’re no longer in some dingy alleyway. Though your hair has yet to dry, he’s made good work of paring the damp dress off your form, the steady warmth of a fireplace making for a gentle come-to. John takes it as encouragement when a tired yawn splits your mouth, lips quirking up. Smiling. 

“Look at you.” He hums, thumb working quicker over your clit. With legs notched apart, your cunt’s been made vulnerable, bared to every ministration he couldn’t wait to inflict until after you woke. Thus you’re already weeping a steady stream of slick, folds lacquered in arousal. Leaking down the line of your ass, too. Desperate thing. He scrutinises the sloppy mess of it, doughy and swollen and wet, shoulders flexing over the possessive swell in his throat.

It’s comical, the turnaround. Reality overruns your face, peaky infestation from his carcass to yours. Your eyes well with teary distress as you take him in. What a monster he must make; frothy longing turned savagery, held too long under the blighted mass of his tongue. Festered. Ugly. He sees it himself in the contrast of his skin and yours. Where you’re satin, all incandescent sweat-slicked stretch, he’s 60 grit sandpaper. Sun-hardened leather and crooked scars.

“Hnmphh!” 

But he can ignore that. Doesn’t have to concern himself with rejection, not when the bit gag between your teeth renders you mute. Simple knot sandwiched by your molars. Subtle. He doesn’t want it to hurt today – not any more than necessary, at least – but conversation has gotten old. There’s a reason he brought you home. Why thick fingers work your hole, breaking it to house something bigger. He isn’t interested in soft-soaping anymore.

(The two of you have had your honeymoon already.)

No. Purpose, he thinks. His mum laid it all out for him. A family to bear you company during those long weeks he isn’t home. Family, linchpin to making this all work. To crowd this house with not just one, or two, but multiple sweet things that’ll extinguish the lonely flame at its hearth. He celebrates it already – boisterous corners, crowded kitchens, the cable he pays for finally being put to use. 

And you–

“Promise I’ll suck that pretty pussy like I promised, little one. Just– fuck- daddy just has to do something first, yeah? You gonna be good for me?” John huffs, shucking his trousers to fish himself out of his pants. 

Your muffled protests launch into something else entirely, feral defiance compelling your limbs like electric shock. It’s fusillade, violent devastation. Your legs flail, unhinged, compensating for the lost mobility in your arms. He manages to slip his fingers out of your clutch and tuck a hand under either knee, but not before your heel connects to his jaw. As is true on the field, adrenaline primes a strong kick. Metallic warmth swathes the inside of his cheek, strength waning for a second.

And through it all, you have the audacity to cry. 

When he regains his bearings, anger has supplanted care. He hoists your thighs up onto your chest, calves upright in the air, and pushes a knee forcefully into the space exposed. It flattens your cunt with the pressure, clit crushing in on itself. Agony bulges fine lines at your temples, veins bloating as a miserable scream tears from your throat.  

“I’ll cane your ass raw if you keep up with this. Strike your hole until all you’ll feel for weeks is your punishment. That what you want, mm? Want the memory of our child’s conception to be filled with pain?” 

His nose fits to yours, beard tickling the canyon of your upper lip. It's intense, the proximity. Heat flush between you, sustained fire you can’t pull away from. John watches the hesitancy flit over your eyes, the reluctance of a burn, breaths erratic and shallow. You didn’t breathe, before. Didn’t need to. But he finds that he likes the new rhythm of it. Like watching the life drain from a quarry, game bleeding out into Serbian snow. He never thought he’d miss hunting for survival – not until he had you pressed to his side, lured from those other predators into something much worse. 

(And perhaps that’s what’s been absent, all along. You used to come too easy, allowed him to grow permissive and lazy. But this– 

His skin fits the moniker again. Captain, revitalised in his bones.)

You shake your head no, just as he rubs his cock along your entrance. 

The feeding is effortless. You practically draw him in, needy for it, walls conforming to the fat intrusion until his head nestles against a hard spot. Steel-wool pubes tangles in your own, scratching the sensitive hood of your clit as he adjusts to the balmy suffocation. Tight. So fucking tight, more so than he could have imagined, your struggle working against you as it contracts the muscles around the area. 

His teeth knock into yours, borderline bruising kiss closing the gap. Should he give it a moment’s breath, his lips would swell blue. But he keeps you to him, your reluctant mouth slow against his own – impeded by the gag and your own stubbornness, snivels sucked into his gluttonous abyss. It tastes like seawater and vanilla, the wires crossing in his brain. 

This, he thinks, is the taste he’s been searching for all his life.

This petty space separating you, a carpet of chest hair laid over our thighs. Breathing one another in, memorising the scars behind your cheeks. Pistoning into your cunt, making room for himself in the years and years to come. He’ll never get enough of you. You’ll never get enough of it – once you learn to embrace the pleasure wrought out of you. 

In due time.

He batters parallel to your cervix, plunging deep as he can go. You’re slippery with the effort, wet where you thrum fierce, depravity stringing the oscillating gap of your mons and his pelvis. Binds you to him like gauze on a day-old wound, sticky and raw, and you must be a masochist if the stiffening of your joints is anything to go by. Your pupils roll, stupid, to regard the back of your head. Fucked dumb. Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring. 

“Can’t wait to see my seed take, have you grow round and glowing.” He growls, speaking into your cheek. The faint hints of your cologne, long faded under rain and sweat, cram temptingly into his synapses. It’s all he can do not to take a whole bite of you, now that he can. Wants to see the evidence of his ownership mark your skin; violent, a little bloody. Physical. Carnal. Imperfect presence honing in the fact that it is better than none at all. 

“Mmmmff,”  

“Yeah? Want me to keep you pumped full of my cum? Think that would be nice. Plugging you shut. Maybe suspending you upside down so it’s a sure process. How does that sound, sweet thing? Y’like it?” 

Your feet thump weakly on his back.

“Then cum. Go on, be a good girl f’me.” 

And with the orchestration of it all; your already tense pelvic floor, the rippling liquid of your eyes, the stifled voicing of your plight– 

John can’t tell whether or not you do. 

You tire yourself out, eventually. 

It’s much later; the rise of a new morning flooding his home in sheer blues, illuminating last night’s mess. Without the orange glow of firelight, it looks a lot less romantic. Torn clothes, cotton fibres. Body fluids matting the pelts he uses to break up the floors. He would have it in him to blanch at the forfeiture of his self-control, cringe a little for appearance sake. He’s grown, now. Should know better.

But there’s no one around. No one. Just him, christening a loveseat instead of his wingback, and– 

You, knocked out on his lap, rope burns raw up your arms.

(When you wake again, he’ll make it official. A passing of the torch, so to speak, from one fix to the next. He hasn’t a band, or really any certification to make it legal. But–

The lit end of his cigar should do. Touched, fittingly, to the proximal length of your ring finger.) 

John’s always had his fixes. 

He finds he’s finally had his fill when you cradle his child close to your breast, and reach out a hand for him, too.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i post / update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[rabbittwist]

Harsh Directive

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

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Summary: Holy shit this Drabble took way too long to make.

Word Count: I don’t even know.

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MASTERLIST | Simon “Ghost” Riley

WARNING [blindfold, fingering, orgasm denial, rough sex, doggy style, creampie, creaming, slight knife play, slight choking kink, long drabble]

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Operation: Via was a success.

The harsh week of cold and rain had settled in your gear nicely, your firearms in desperate need of a cleaning, and your knives looking pitifully dull. Your skin felt dry, covered in a layer of grime from not having a shower in so long, and your hair was definitely greasy, and flatter than when you had left. You needed a wash, some food, and resting time to get yourself back in order. Sure, the carrier gave you two of those three things, but the comfort of base was calling your name and singeing itself well into your brain; your own bed, your own food, your own— well, semi your own, shower— were the only things that would satisfy you, and you were willing to wait the next 3 hours of flight to reach your gratification.

You silently sat with your arms crossed and legs spread, leaning back into the aisle chair while purposefully pressing your back into the buckle to keep yourself in discomfort. You were refraining yourself from dozing off, maintaining a kink-free neck and back from the horrid sleeping posture you would surely put yourself in; you refuse to go through that torture ever again — training with a sore spine was a bigger pain than what you had anticipated, and the aftercare was difficult to manage when it’s just you massaging the bolts out of your neck and back. You grimaced at the memory of barely being able to climb out of bed and slide your uniform on, slowly gazing up to the roof while holding in a chuckle from the next flashback of almost falling while shoving your pants on.

Your eyes fixated on the lights above that lit the fuselage in a dim glow, aircraft nets swinging gently with the plane and knocking on the walls with soft clatters. It was quiet, unusually quiet, until you heard a loud snore croak in front of you and being followed up with another. Quirking a brow, you turned your attention to your front and on Gaz and Soap, who were completely knocked out in the seating across from yours. Gaz’s arms slumped crossed, and had his head tilted down to his twined legs, while Soap was widely spread and fully tilted back towards the ceiling.

Had it been any other situation, you would’ve laughed at the sight of their drooling faces and horrible postures, but the overwhelming drowsiness took over your complete being and left you oddly calm and collected. Just the sight of them made you envious of their sleep, but you would rather be safe than sorry in the long run during one of Price’s excruciating trainings. You blinked slowly away from the sight and to the cockpit doors, fighting the urge to nod off and instead pinching yourself with your vest’s clasps.

“Arrival will be in two hours. Weather is gloomy with possible heavy rain, so prepare for a stroll, lads. Again, arrival will be in two hours. Out.”

Price’s voice disturbed you aware, leaving you a bit more alive and conscious from the startling overcom. The static undertone helped waken your eyes as you heard it go in and out, tired tears pearling into your lashes from the sudden energy surge to stay aware, and soon being wiped away by your scarf. You felt lightly gleeful that home was so close, only needing to remain awake for— counting the time it would take to walk, as well— 2 and a half hours. You could do that.

A small smile formed on your lips, a hand bringing your scarf up to cover it and allow the subtly present scent of your detergent to sink in through your nose. Home. You were going to be home. You wouldn’t have to smell like dried blood and muddy earth anymore, or have to wear it on display. Until your next mission, of course. Either way, you were just glad you’d be going to base soon, and get the well deserved rest you needed.

A rough shot of cognizance rattled through your spine, your hands stiffening and the smile you had deflating as your hairs stood at attention. Your left side felt completely vulnerable all of a sudden, and you felt deeply discomforted by the abrupt exposure, now shifting in your seat to gain some comfort back. Your whole side burned. You felt every layer of protection cease to exist under the blazing stir that set on what felt like your very skin. You were being watched, and definitely not with sweet eyes.

You didn’t need to guess where it was coming from, or who the unforgiving glower belonged to — Soap and Gaz were out, and Price was in the bridge, so that left one out of the four personnel that could be watching you like an angry hawk. And to think you would have a happy time home.

You knew you wouldn’t get away with the stunt you pulled, despite hoping he would brush it off eventually. How could he? He never neglects your wrongs. He never lets your blunders slip by. He never forgets.

You knew it all too well.

Let’s just hope you make it out alright this time.

-

You were in deep shit the moment you set foot into base. The way your name instantly shot through the room when Ghost snapped for you to come see him tensed the whole squad, already knowing what the issue pertained to. You didn’t need to look back to acknowledge they were all sending weary eyes your way.

“I’ll get your whiskey ready, Hops.”

“Thanks, ‘Tavish. I’m gonna need it.”

Taking your time to get to the door, you threw your gear into a room on the way and let your hair down from its bun. The tingling sensation of your relaxed scalp gave you a short peace of mind as you massaged the sore muscles and succumbed to a false happy place. You thought of all the nice things you’d partake in now that you were home — a nice shower, some cooked food, and your own bed to nap in now that there were no missions to fling yourself into. How you would all sit around the living room and converse about stories of the past, like how they got their scars, type of thing, as you drank the better-than-nothing whiskey for where you were. Ghost barked gratingly for the second time, his voice sharper, louder — filled with impatience, and knocked you straight out of your comforting haven. You felt your nerves pile onto the tip of your tongue, biting your lower lip to sooth the hard beating of your organs, and making your way to your superior.

You passed through the living quarters and down the long hall towards the debriefing room, quietly wishing you could turn around and pretend like you didn’t hear as you watched the comforting bedroom lights glow teasingly into the corridor. You had blinked, just once, and magically appeared in front of the open door that led straight to your doom. You were an anxious mess, fumbling with your gloves as you pulled them off and set them on the counter just beside the door. Taking a deep breath, you began to reason with yourself, mumbling incoherent encouragements to get you to go into the room and power your way through whatever he would yell at you for. Come on, White, you got this. At least you aren’t at Death’s door.. I hope.

The door slammed shut behind you when you had eventually entered, your heart stammering from the harsh snap of wood-on-wood. It felt like you had left reality and entered the dark dungeons of Hell from how drastic the atmosphere shifted. Not even the light felt the same as it blinked inside from the covered windows, nor the speckles of dust that would cascade down to the floor. You focused on your breathing despite your lungs want to collapse from the underlying fear that now set the scene. They practically did when you felt the looming presence of a ghost standing just a few feet away from your back, and deathly silent rage surrounding you like a cloud of toxin.

You need to relax.

You grazed your eyes over to the center table, signature black gear already laid across it with dissected guns and removed armor plates. They looked to have just been cleaned and reapplied with oil, but the finish looked rather rushed and almost careless from how he set every part across the counter. The sight made a cold shudder slither up your spine; Ghost always took care of his artillery, never using rushed hands and little thought when cleaning and placing pieces. You had gotten to him. Bad.

You tore your eyes away from the table and burned them straight ahead, the sound of heavy boots slowly prowling close catching your attention and flooding your veins with mixed apprehension. You recognize that gait, know those boots. Oh fuck..

There was a clipping sound paired with rustling fabric before you saw his vest get tossed by the table with a loud clatter. You flinched at the raucous noise, standing even firmer at attention despite the soft look you tried to portray and mitigate your angered superior.

“Would you like me to put your stuff away with mine?” You asked with a built sweetness. What good would this do? Dig your grave a little deeper? Might as well and try to knock two birds with one stone; ease the tension, ease the Lieutenant.

“You defied a direct order.” He uttered, the underlying reverb in his throat startling your overly aware nerves as his boots heaved on the floor with every step behind you.

You grimaced at the failed attempt to improve the situation, your shoulders tightening and your hands becoming clammy. When you saw the back of his cotton warmer, his steps ceasing after appearing meters in front of you, you audibly sighed, “If we didn’t get those vials then, we would’ve never been able to ransack like that again.”

“You think I give a bloody fuck?” His tone reached deep into his chest, his head snapping just barely to the side. It was a silent command to stand and shut the fuck up.

You snapped your mouth closed, watching as the Lieutenant peered down to a hand and flexed it out to rid the tension in his burly toned arm; he looked as if he would be flexing out claws, his large hands twitching from the urge to grab you and slam you against the wall to teach you a lesson. He was shaking, even just slightly, and was positively fuming for your disregard of his command and jumping straight into a no-coms zone. He had no clue if you’d come back to him either just as you were, or in a fucking casket. “If I see you dead, (Y/n), I swear to whatever bloody fuckin’ god is up there that I’ll be proper fuckin’ shit-pissed. Stay alive. Don’t you dare come back to me strung up in medals.”

He turned fully towards you, his broad frame blocking the incoming light from the window behind him. You looked two sizes smaller than Ghost — his body could fully cover you from view — the size difference enforcing intimidation without even mentioning his burning anger.

"I gave you an order, White." He stalked towards you, every agonizing step forcing you back on instinct, "You don't just ignore your superior's orders— especially not in this line of business."

You bumped into something solid and stopped, your eye contact with the black-suited soldier imposing on your soul and bleeding out with your incoming submission, "I'm sorry, Ghost, I really am. But if we didn't get those vials—"

His fist slammed right next to your head and into whatever you backed up against, your words hitching in your throat as a cracking noise came from the object behind you.

"I don’t care about the fuckin' vials, Rabbit."

You felt your heart practically rip out of your chest with every beat, your eyes wide and your hands pressed flush against the now cracked wall with your back. Your mind screamed at you to run away, acting on your prey instincts from the threatening presence in the room. Yet, you remained silent, unmoving as the Lieutenant’s eyes bore into yours, daring you to take a step away like he knew what you were thinking.

“Do you remember what I asked of you,” Ghost pierced through your ears with an alarmingly rich sonorous hum, “when I had you flush against my door, right on your pretty little knees?”

You felt a boiling heat rush throughout your body, your eyes snapping open even wider in full awareness. The scent of cigarettes and husky cologne was more potent now that he was so close to your figure, a mixture of dirt and old blood evident in his musk.

It practically clouded your senses, a dazed look setting in your eye as the oh-so familiar scent plunged deep into your lungs, yet you still conjured up whatever shitty pride you had left against your dire situation, “Sir, please.. This isn’t the time.”

He grimaced down at your audacity, his accent flaring with obvious fire, “Fuckin’— Do you remember what I asked of you?”

You couldn’t hold eye contact any longer, your embarrassment overpowering your confidence and causing your head to turn away. Yes, you remembered. You remembered the whole ordeal.

The way he shakily purred your name as you bobbed your head up and down his length with soft teary eyes and a constantly bulging throat. How he forced a hand through your hair as he leaned all his built weight into the other, curling his body above you and into his skillfully tattooed arm as he stroked your locks carefully. This was different. This was sensual. He wasn’t rough, and his touches were all filled with the utmost delicate attention like he was handling one of his most precious weapons.

You let out a short, uneasy scoff, trying to divert the perverted memory, “What does that have to do with any of this?”

He flashed you a hard glare, your hope of him going along with your words disappearing instantaneously. When he knew you were firmly silenced, his voice cut through the quiet like a knife through butter, “I’m going to ask you one last time. Do you or do you not remember what I asked of you?”

“.. Of course I do,” You meekly gave in, your eyes scathing back up his body and to his gaze, “That was the last time we were alone together before Op: V.”

He gently combed his fingers through your hair as you continued to suck and lick, focusing on his veined v-line that kept going back and forth with every thrust of your head. He let out a rough groan as your tongue swept along the underside of his sex, his body visibly shuddering as he mumbled, “God damn it, love..” and gripping his supporting hand into a tight fist. He began to snarl incoherent praises, saying how good you were for him, and how he was so lucky to have you assigned under him as his rookie.

"Bun," He inquired, jaw clenching as his eyes gazed down at you with glints of abnormal longing, "Come back to me in one piece— bloody hell, please."

“Then why did you risk it?”

You curled your hands up behind you, looking at anything but him in an effort to ignore the question. You had no option, however, when Ghost called your name with a chilling rasp, your arms becoming littered with goosebumps as your hair stood on edge.

"It's.. It's just.."

You could feel his eyes spark with curiosity at your stutter, finding your nervous form a rare sight, and savoring it with every look over. Despite this, he remained firm with heavy superiority behind every word, "’s just what, White?"

".. I didn't want to get in trouble." You whispered, afraid the whole world would hear your confession.

The room went dead quiet, so much so you swore you could feel the air thicken and begin to choke you through each breath you took. Ghost had froze. He froze with a blank stare straight into your eyes, like he was processing word for word what you said. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, your mind repeated, never once breaking from his swirling gaze. You had no clue what he was thinking, what the subtle glints in his eyes meant as they showered around your body in tantalizingly slow look overs. You wanted him to say something, anything to keep you from basking in the silence and spiraling yourself into an overthinking mess.

You abruptly flinched as he pulled his head away from yours, his voice vibrating in a low pitch and deepening his accent, "What did you say?"

"I didn't want to get in trouble.." You repeated, gulping down a chunky lump in your throat.

He took another moment of pure silence before slowly peeling himself off you. You gawked after him as he went to trudge across the room towards his strewn about gear, looking through it with haste as you remained stuck to the wall. You stood in utter confusion, wondering what in the world was going to happen, until he snapped his fingers and pointed down by his side without giving you a single glance; "Here." You, of course, followed his instruction, and walked up quietly behind him to his side all the while picking at your fingers in nervous habit. You didn’t like not knowing what would happen next, and it seemed like everything he did was to play on your discomfort, taking his sweet yet rushed time to gather whatever he was seeking.

"Trying to get yourself out of trouble is what gets you in trouble. Fuckin' shit, White— you should know this by now."

You felt like a private all over again, being scolded by the second lieutenant during training for doing something slimly out of line, "I'm sorry, Ghost.."

He snapped his head towards you, giving you a scowl through his eyes like that was the last thing you should've said, "Sayin’ sorry won't fix anything when you're fuckin' dead."

You clamp your mouth shut as Ghost turned back to the table, pulling out one of his black cloths from a vest pocket. You were beyond anxious from each of his rushed actions, watching him flick the cloth out of its folds and holding it between his hands.

He turned to face you, watching you examine the black fabric in his hands with wide doe eyes, “Turn around.”

Without wanting to make matters worse, you comply and face your back towards him with a shaky turn. You hear his boots thud against the floor as he comes straight up to your behind, his close presence causing your back to feel oddly sensitive despite the zero contact. It worsened as you felt his firm chest graze your shoulder blades when he leaned forward, his breath seeping into your ear through his balaclava.

“Close your eyes.”

You felt a shiver creep nerve-by-nerve through your system, and how your whole spine became pleasurably tender from marinating in his close-up musk. Your eyes closed with the single flutter of your lids, your adrenaline accelerating from your lack of sight and creating a blissfully heavy sensation in your core.

You gently twitched when you felt what you assumed to be his arms graze past your shoulders, and place the black cloth over your eyes before tying it off securely behind your head. You didn’t dare remove it, and instead embraced the enhanced senses you were given, feeling every vein that split through and around his exposed forearms, and hear every low breath from behind his skull coverings.

“‘Only you were this well behaved on the mission. It’s really a shame, White.. qui-te the shame.”

You let your body tremble as his hands trailed painfully slow down your neck and to the dip in your back, his gloved fingertips grazing your quivering figure with rare delicacy. You relished in the rare attention, involuntarily leaning into his warmth with a soft, shaky sigh passing through your lips from the contact. You missed him. You missed all of him. His body was not something you could see yourself without, and that whole mission was absolute torture; running around to get the job done with little to no time with your ghost. The first night without him went fine, but after the second?

You were both aching for touch. It was becoming impossible to stay curled in your tents, and the overwhelming need for one another’s bodies burned your very cores with hot desire. One thing led to another and you both had your earbuds in, dialed on a private line, and letting yourselves confess your needy desires to the dark heavens above.

“Raise your arms above your head.”

You did as you were told, shakily lifting your arms straight up to the ceiling. His hands removed themselves from your sides and went for your wrists, bringing your arms behind your head and wrapping them around his neck. It stretched your body out nicely, his height forcing you on the balls of your feet and to the tips of your toes just to adjust with the position. Your fingers felt on something soft, something warm gliding under your tips as you stroked down the fabric material. The soft surface subtly rose with bumps as your nails lightly scratched what you remembered as his nape, feeling his locks peak out from under the balaclava, and gently feeling for it. A thick vein trailed up the side of his throat and caressed your exposed wrist, your pulse radiating with his at the sensation of his firm flesh. You were anxious, yet you could allow the Lieutenant to do as he pleased when he brought his palms down to your stomach.

You began dreading the blindfold, wanting to see everything he was doing to you, “Ghost.. Why do I have to wear this cloth?”

His tone reverberated along his throat in a growlish pitch, “So you can understand exactly what I saw when you went into that bloody building.”

“But I don’t see—”

His fingers dug into your v-line and forced a whimper from your chest, his voice burning low, violent, “That’s the fuckin’ point. I didn’t see anything, not a proper fuckin’ thing when you went into that warehouse.”

He leaned in close to your ear, his breath nipping against your shell with every hot exhale, “You’re going to feel exactly what I felt. You’re going to see exactly what I saw. Only you put yourself in this position, and you’re going to sit your ass through it just as I did.”

“Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?”

“Yes, Ghost—”

His grip tightened painfully through your warmers, a hiss falling with your sudden intake of air and shutting you up.

“It’s either yes Lieutenant, or yes sir.. You’ve forgotten your place, White, so you’re goin' to live in it until I see fit. So again, do I make myself fuckin’ clear, Sergeant?”

Had it not been for his leather gloves and your cotton warmer, you knew his nails would've punctured through your skin with how tight his grip on your body was. Did you wish that was the case? Abso-fucking-lutely.

You let his rough handling of you coax an answer from your lips as you finally gave in, your soft voice wavering in defeat, "Yes, Lieutenant.."

"Atta' girl.. Such a good obedient thing when you want ta’ be, ain't that right?"

Oh, if your insides weren't clenching before, they were definitely clenching now. It sounded so dirty, like he stripped you clean of any human title and dubbed you almost like a pet. The blindfold was tied snug against your eyes, unrelenting with how tight your heat was clinging to your insides, or how it made being called a good obedient thing by the predator behind you turn your mind into liquid. You could feel how his body encased your own, and how his skin was burning hot, muscles completely flexed and solid in restraint to keep himself together.

You sucked in a deep breath when you felt his big hands trail down to the buckle of your belt and slowly unclip it, "L—Lieutenant..?"

With a harsh tug, the belt came straight out of your pants and right to the floor, "'Won't be needin' this."

Picking up the bottom of your cotton shirt, he raised it up and over your chest, letting the hem rest messily along your collarbone as he pulled his hands fully off your body. You were stood right against his hard frame, your pants now unbuttoned and zipped down, and your pretty abdomen and covered tits on full display.

His gloved hands grazed down your neck and over your perking breasts, giving them little attention as he continued to trail his cold gloves along your warming skin. You wish he’d rip open your bra and pinch your nipples with unrelenting roughness, but when his leather palms glazed over your v-line, right over your panty line, you wiped that thought clean out of your head with a gentle sigh.

As if sensing your shifting emotions, he clicked his tongue and set his hands just on the hem of your cargo pants with a strict sneer, "Sergeant, keep yourself together."

You let out a shaky response, his firm command urging out a submission of acknowledgment, "Yes, sir."

“That’s my girl. My good, pretty little girl.. I think we should get started with your punishment."

His fingers made their way through your pants and straight to your clothed cunt, his gloves snagging gently against the silky fabric of your panties. His sudden assault caused a flinch to ripple through your body, your mind asking to any god above if this was truly what he said it would be right before he began his torture. You let out a soft squeak when you felt pressure begin to push against your covered slit, drawing small circles on the tip of your clit with his middle finger as it nestled right between your puffy cameltoe.

"Feels fuckin' good, doesn't it?" He murmured, keeping his other hand pinning your ass against his hips.

"Feelin' so right and perfect on my fingers.. Just how I felt when you followed and obeyed under my command like nothing could go wrong."

Noticing your pussy begin to grind against his fingers, he scoffed, settling his hardening arousal right against your ass, "Fuckin' hell..”

He let you continue to move your hips, his mask shifting right against the side of your cheek all the while he savored how your plump rear would shift and press against his thickening sex. He missed this. He missed you. How every morning you'd greet him with such warm eyes, and how every night you'd welcome him into your gushy insides with the most submissive pleas and cries. When you would whine and beg to be stuffed full of nothing but his thick cock, or when you’d put on something that begged for his instincts to grab you and taint your flesh and blood with nothing but him. It practically made him feral at just the remembrance.. But, as much as he wanted to indulge himself, Ghost knew he couldn't let you off the hook, not after firing him up and really showing how scary a tosser could be when it came to his woman.

"'s just like this, yeah? Seeing nothin', absolutely fuck all, and left with the pleasure of knowin' you're alright— knowin' you're in ear's length of coms."

With the increase of pressure on your hardened pearl, and the rougher grind of his large finger circling the pulsing nub, he began to push the little restraint you had on your voice, and forcing quiet groans and mewls past your trembling lips.

"'Felt so good— so fuckin' perfect, like nothin' could wrong me as long as you listened and stayed in contact."

All your mind could focus on was the overwhelming growth of slick and lust forming straight into your guts, and the death pulsing grip the Lieutenant had on your bruising skin. Your bucking hips became desperate, your need to feel your knot grow and snap intruding and releasing your lustful pheromones in the air like an animal searching for a mate— or better yet, to mate— and clinging to every little thing.

"And every single time you answered my call.. It was like music to my ears, Bun. 'Couldn't see you, yet could feel your hot breath right in my ear like you were fuckin' there, right stood next to me, just as it should've been."

You let out a strained gasp when you felt his finger push your panties away from your drooling cunt and forcing itself inside, the palm of his hand rubbing circles over your clit in his finger's stead. The grip you had on his balaclava disappeared, only for your fingers to run straight under the fabric and shakily grab at his hair to somewhat ground your slushing brain. His finger felt like it was stretching you out already, the leather glove aiding in the attack as his digit went in and out, curled and uncurled. You were getting drunk on just his hand, your back arching off Ghost's body as shocks of wrecking pleasure pulsed through your very bones.

A purr-like growl began to rumble inside his throat, his eyes never once leaving the sight of his hand stuffed down your trousers and finger fucking your weeping pussy, “It felt just like how you’re feeling now— so full and right. So euphoric to know you were right under the palm of my hand, and that nothing would come to stop us from getting home.”

You felt your tongue push past your lips when he injected another finger into your clenching hole, shoving right against your flexing cunt, “F—Fuck!”

His hand suddenly stopped moving, earning a needy whine from your pathetically crumbling body, “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Sergeant. If I hear another swear out of you, I’ll leave you as the dumb mess you are right on that couch.”

You felt your eyes widen behind the black cloth, needy pleas and cries straining for his continuous touch, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’ll behave, I promise!”

With a cocky smirk, he gradually began to set his pace back into your sex, sloppy ‘thank you’s and ‘more’s croaking from your drying throat, “Good girl.”

Your hips began to spasm, the tight knot you’ve been craving for forming at a rapid pace as his fingers hit knuckles-deep into your cunt. Your eyes began to roll up and become half-lidded, drool seeping down the corner of your lip when you let out a short cry from your pussy suddenly quivering and gripping around Ghost’s fingers.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, Bun— are you gonna cum already?” He mused, rubbing his palm harder against your hot clit.

You couldn’t even focus on what he was taunting over, being too caught up in the boiling heat that hit over and over against your insides. You were about to snap, your muscles contracting and retracting rapidly as your body convulsed. The hold you had on his hair was hard, your nails digging into his scalp with a vice grip, and the foggy look you gave to the blindfold screaming for release.

Ghost rubbed the hard edge of his mask right against your cheek, the pad of his thumb caressing your bruised hips in a forged comfort, “'Felt the same way when I heard you call in after my every order. How it felt so fuckin' warmin' to have you submit whenever I needed to hear your confirmation— without your daft tongue."

A harsh spike of snapping thread spread throughout your womb, flooding your lower half in fuzz and intense heat as your cervix quivered with every involuntary clench. You felt panic rise into your lungs, finding it harder and harder to keep your panting under control as you realized your ending point was being fucked out of you quicker than normal.

You slurred over every word, spreading your thighs out wider as your jaw began to tighten, "Cumming— Lieutenant, I'm gonna— no, I'm gonna—!”

His voice burled deep and rough, the accent you oh-so adored sounding like Satan’s damned temptation, “But then, oh then, did that comfort crumble right through my fingers.”

Just when you felt your eyes roll back into your head, your body fully prepared for your stuttering womb to snap, his touch disappeared in an instant, and the overflowing high that was soon to tip over washing away gruesomely fast. You were left empty, hollowed even, with how quick the change was as your body adjusted to being denied its pleasure. You were left in shock. What the hell just happened?

You could hear the devilish taunt of his voice as you glared into darkness with helpless teardrops forming in your eyes, “You really thought I’d let you burst, White? Bloody fuck, you’ve really been spoiled rotten.”

You sniffed as drops of your pearling tears fell from your eyes, “Th—That’s not fair..”

He couldn’t help the amused scoff that found its way through the mask, his hands grasping your luscious waist in a rough clutch, “'Didn’t tell you to talk.”

“I did what I had to do!”

He snapped, “Watch it, Sergeant.”

The commanding bark quieted your pleads, your sniffs and silent whimpers remaining as your only hope to get what you needed. You pressed your thighs back against his legs, trying to press more of your body into him as an offering, even going as far as to grind your ass against his dense arousal— you were acting like a bitch in heat, and it was getting to the point where even Ghost couldn’t see straight anymore from how slutty you were acting for his dick.

In one rapid moment, you could feel the leather covered fingertips hook around the front of your bra just milliseconds before it came ripping right off your torso. You gasped from his brute strength forcing your bra to come apart in his hands, the weight of your tits forcing out a small whimper of need before you felt the cool fabric of gloves cup the underside of your mounds in a firm hold.

"'Missed these slutty tits and how they fit into my hands just right. 'nd the way your nipples—" He finally brought his attention to your teats, giving them a painful pinch and pull, "— were always so excited to see me.."

You felt the hard skull covering press into the space between your neck and shoulder, listening to him take a deep inhale of your warm scent, "Damn proper perfection, and it's all for me to fuck and break."

You press further into his broad frame, your back flush against his snug fitted warmer. You couldn't get enough of him; you needed more with every passing second, and now with him practically milking your breasts with how he kept pulling and twisting your nipples, you were hopelessly in need of Ghost.

Your heart jarring to keep up with a healthy pace in spite of your embarrassment, you sputtered, "Please punish me more.."

A low chuckle vibrated through his chest, pulling his head back from your shoulder as one of his hands left your tit and grazed it up between your breasts to gently touch your neck, "Punishment isn't meant to be pleasurable, Sergeant."

You tilted your head to the side, allowing his fingers to brush against your pulse and lay comfortably around your throat, “I can’t help it when it’s you punishing me..”

He impulsively allowed his hand to wrap around your supple neck, that small ounce of control he had left finally splitting as his voice dropped down heavy octaves, "You're asking for it now, Bun.."

Swiftly, he released your throat and tore the blindfold right off your head, not giving your eyes a moment to adjust before grabbing onto the back of your bruising nape and pushing you towards the center of the room. You were tripping over your own feet to keep up with his large strides, your legs getting caught up with his in an intertwined mess. Your heart was beating in your ears and your mind was running wild with the varying scenarios that could play out right in this room like the many times before. You were practically dripping at the thought of being manhandled and fucked so stupid that you wouldn't be able to walk for the next few days— hopefully the next few weeks. You might even get your wish with how hasty he was being to get you into place just for him to abuse and litter with his crazed ardor. You brought your hands down to keep yourself steady when he finally got you into a comfortable spot; you were faced right in front of the coffee table, your eyes once again staring at his carelessly thrown about equipment.

Taking no more time to waste, he brutally shoved all his equipment off the table, and slammed your front onto the now clear countertop, breasts down, ass up. You gasped from suddenly being thrown around like a doll, hitting straight onto the wood with a slight bounce, and your pliable flesh rippling from the impact. You could feel the harsh coolness of the wood rub into your nipples, your breasts painfully aroused as your innocent nubs continued to tighten and perk.

In one jarring movement, Ghost had your pants down past your ankles, and your panties left disheveled on your blemished hips with heavy impatience. For the second time, he froze — even if it was only for a split second, you felt it. His hand flinched with a sudden stop against your naked thigh when he began to retract, and the hard breathing that echoed around the soldier had grown quiet for just that moment.

It was proper fucking magic. The way the straps of your underwear perfectly dipped into your glistening flesh, and how your puffy cameltoe was deliciously accentuated by the soft fabric of your cotton panties. It only made his mind spiral helplessly into a feral slop of what it once was, the remembrance of needing to punish you completely forgotten and thrown to the back of his mind. The hunger to ruin your full being was fucking with his brain to where even he was losing his cool.

Like countless times before, he retracted his knife from his chest holster and slammed the 11 inch MTECH right into the oak table, blistering up the surrounding wood layers. He engraved it right in front of your eyes, the brutal sound of the blade ripping straight into the countertop ringing in your ears as you watched his hand linger for just a moment to make sure you acknowledged it, before he let go of the tang with an agonizingly slow retraction — it was a warning.

An unclasping sound startled you out of your stare-off with his weapon, the noise of metal clinking together as his belt buckle laid lax against his thighs coaxing a noise out of you. You swore you were about to lose it when you heard him unbutton his pants, and the unzipping of zipper teeth graze painfully low behind your ass. He was drawing this out for as long as he could, and you knew it, too. From the amount of times he’s edged you, forced you to beg for what you wanted; to put it into perspective, you didn’t know how far gone you could go until you were once on the brink of passing out from the painful edging and needful crying, that’s how well you knew his tendencies.

The knife laid clattered with your torn lingerie, droplets of thick glossy honey dripping onto the long forgotten pile. Slapping of skin and squelching mush underlined heavy growls and sob-filled moans, the room filled with the damp smell of sex and pornish sounds of pleasure.

Through your broken cries, Ghost couldn’t help the snarl that rose from his throat when he felt your weeping cunt brutally hug onto his dick with need. He had lost himself the moment he sunk balls deep into your hole, letting his desire take full responsibility of fucking you till you were completely stuffed with all he could give. He became an animal, his only need being to shove you full with his cock in the most feral way possible. He needed to.

With a final harsh snap of his hips, the grip he had on your waist indented into your skin, and the hold that marked carnally around your neck dug even deeper into your pulse. He sloppily stilled with a small -plap- between your thighs, keeping flush against your raw sex as he took a moment to gather himself. Sweat lined your skins with a shear layer, heavily falling chests fueling the desperate pants for air that puffed against your exertions. You were on the brink of cumming, your pussy convulsing around his cock as you mewled quietly for him to let you release — this was the third time this round he stopped just before you could snap, and the many tears that drooled down your cheeks were evidence of such sin. You couldn’t even beg for it, you poor thing, that’s how far gone you were.

He shut you up with a violent slap on your plump thigh, earning a muffled cry as he made sure his pelvis pressed right into your clit insync.

“Ah ah ah, love— no whining for your fuckings, remember? You’ll take what I give you, and appreciate it like the proper sex whore you are.”

He drew out your orgasm for the next thirty minutes no matter how desperate you cried, or how fucked out you looked. He couldn’t bring himself to let you out of his room without making sure the only thing your body would remember was him and how he was the only one that could fuck you this good. No one could violently edge, or screw you dumb the way his dick could, and your body better fucking remember that.

You felt something hot glide right through your mounds, the moistened cotton of your panties dragging against your clit in slow, shuddering thrusts.

"Fuuckk.. Fuckin' Christ.." Ghost hissed through bared teeth, grinding himself firmly between your wettened thighs, "'Don't know how much longer I can take this.."

You could cry with how badly you needed him inside of you. It was becoming stressfully hard to keep back your curses and whines, and he was picking up on every little frustrated jolt your body made as he made it worse and worse. And it did worsen when you let out a choppy sob as you felt the warmth of his bulge pull away from your soiled underwear, your clit twitching in red searing need for his attention. It all washed away before you could start begging, when you felt a boiling hot heat prod against the very same bud, squealing out when you felt a warm substance smear across your panties up and down over the entrance to your insides.

His fingers hooked under your thin covering and pulled it to the side of your swollen lips, the cold air hitting your exposed inner flesh and causing it to spasm closed. You hiccuped with every passing breath, imagining what was waiting just mere inches away from your weeping hole; is it his fat cock, pulsing blue veins strapping up the underside of his painfully hard arousal? Or was it another teasing set of fingers to ready your cunt for his dick to bottom out inside you? He answered your question to the fullest when he pushed the bulb of his thick cock right between your folds, earning a shocked moan from your quivering lips.

Utterly pleased, he tilted his head back as he savored the way the tip of his aching dick began to slide back and forth against your sex, feeling every wettened, pulsing piece of your cunt. He ran a hand to the dip of your back as he carelessly hung the other at his side, pumping his happy trail with every slow, teasing roll of his hips against your ass.

A guttural sigh purred deep in his chest, one final 'Fuuck..' rumbling through his stitched balaclava before he stilled his hips, regaining some of his lost composure with every raspy breath.

"Time for the— hah..— main event, don't you think, Bun?"

You could only nod as an answer, your heart trying to steady itself while causing a lump to get caught in your throat. Your body was scorching, all too eager to get what you "deserved" and completely milk it for all you could. You were desperate for any friction, and it started showing as you settled your ass back on his twitching desire, small presses and shifting hips never once escaping his sharp eye.

He tutted his tongue in disapproval as he gave your ass a firm smack, letting his dense fingers sink into your plump rear and melt into your flesh, “Patience, little rabbit. All you have to do is say please, and I might consider giving you what you want."

You practically leapt at his offer, twisting your head back to face him with blown out eyes, "Please fuck me, Lieutenant! I can't take this anymore— it's been way too long since we've touched, and I need it! Please, please, please!"

Ghost couldn't help the chuckle that ran up his throat, pushing his glistening cockhead on your burning clit as he started to taunt your pathetic begging, "Who knew the stubborn White Rabbit could be taken down a few notches from just a bloody cock.. What would the team think?"

He slowly glides his fingertips up your spine, going straight from your Venus Dips to your delicate nape with taunting emotive trails of gentle leather kisses, “Not like that matters.. ‘Sides, if they even thought about my dangerous little bun all fucked out and sobbing.. Well, I can guarantee they’d rethink what Hell looked like.”

He leans down over your trembling figure, sliding a hand around to the front of your neck and keeping it in a snug grip, “I don’t give a fuck what the regulations say. You’re mine— all mine to adore..”

Your eyes began to blur with every word, ‘mine’ ringing through your ears like an angel’s love song. It sounded so comforting, so intoxicatingly beautiful that it would’ve brought you down on your knees to listen and hang over every lyric. It would’ve— should’ve been the case, except for the fact that in reality, it wasn’t a heavenly call, but was the Devil in disguise dangling your precious desires right in front of your face with every deep, luscious promise. Fucking Christ.. Who knew the Devil looked so good in black?

“Say it.. Say you’re mine, and I’ll give you my fuckin' cock to cry over just how you want.”

“I..”

You gathered your mush of a brain to at least spark some type of sense in you. You sputtered silent nonsense as you tried to please him, tried to give him an answer like the good girl you were. It felt impossible, but you managed with what little control you had over your dumbed-out mind, and responded with such a weak waver of song.

“I’m yours, Lieutenant..”

“That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

In one violent push, his cock plunged to the root in your mush, a sickening smack of wet skin signifying your glistening pussy lips now trembling around his dense girth. Had it not been for his tight grip around your pulsing neck, you would’ve screamed— screamed in absolute pleasure of finally feeling him to the fullest context. Your attention remained glued to the knife, the shiny serrated edge glinting at you in mockery of your pathetic cry. But did you care? Absolutely not. Simon Ghost Riley was stuffing your cunt full of his dick for the millionth time this month, and you would never feel even the slightest bit of shame in taking him. You were infatuated. You were drunk on him. You were in love with him.

Just like how he was in love with you, his pretty little Sergeant.

Flexing his muscled back with a satisfied sigh, he ran his strong hands down your waist and held it in a deathly clutch, “You’re not allowed to cum unless I tell you to. Is that understood?”

You felt your lungs tighten as a breathy sigh passed through your lips, “Yes, sir..”

“Good fuck bunny. Such a lovely piece of fuck meat, just for me.”

Wrapping your hair around a knuckles-white grip, he slammed away at your gushing insides in pure animalistic rage, delicious feral fapping and squelching noises dragging him on to fuck you as he set off with no soft pace. You gasped out only to whine and moan against every hard slap of your hips, the weight of his dick pinning right up into your cervix tipping you over already— his cock was long enough to reach far inside your cunt and push delectably into that one weak spot that sent you reeling; thick enough to leave you molded, gapping the shape of his cock as a momento of who fucks— who owns your very being, inside and out. God, you were in pure bliss. Feeling this man every night in his bed has left this hole in your chest, something you couldn’t quite describe without thinking about him doing you in and touching every inch of your body. He’s left his mark on you, forever attached to a ghost that guarded from the shadows, yet a man that bedded you in nothing but his deep primal musk. The sensations of his carnal sin would never excrete; your body, mind, and soul would remember the way he tastes, feels, and fucks for the rest of your life. But was that really a problem?

He leaned his broad frame over your glittering body, making sure each thrust was passionate, invigorating as he intimately kissed your guts with wild heat. You felt his abdomen graze your back with every pull of your hips towards his exposed pelvis, the feeling of hot cotton and tightened muscles looming above your figure as he pressed you further into the table. You were small compared to his burly size, a single hand able to make home around your neck in a clasp that could still touch at the back of your throat. His thighs that kept yours spread were thick, thrusting against them in a firm stance to ensure they stayed apart and around his dense muscles. His torso.. don’t even get started on his torso. The tight fit of his black shirt perfectly accentuated every crisp line of his abdominal muscles, his strong ribs and sharply cut v-line pressing neatly into the fabric around every tensed ab. You were a lucky girl to experience such a deadly built predator like himself rubbing and fucking into your poor subordinate body. He was the size of an ox compared to you, a small bunny.

He growled lowly in your ear as he tugged your head back into his shoulder, “Don’t you ever disobey me again.. Don’t you ever— fuck— go under my authority again.”

Pulling you back on his dick, he slammed into you after every rough word, “Is.. -plap- that.. -plap- under.. -plap- stood?”

Your nails dug straight into the wood, pressing your reddening cheek into his stitched mask in an attempt to ground yourself, “Gnngh! Yes, sir!”

Without another word, he let go of your hair and allowed your head to rest on the cold wood, swiftly taking hold of your arms and pulling them back towards him in a single clasp. He released your bruised waist from his vice clutch, only to grab onto your shoulder and pull you back on his cock as he rashly snarled, “Take it.. Take this fucking cock.”

The tip of his dick deliciously fucked into your tight pussy, the feeling of his happy trail pounding possessively into your ass gushing out more of your stringy honey. He never let up on his assault, making sure you savored this just as much as he was; the way his cock relentlessly claimed every inch of your guts, and marked your pink in glossy white precum. And how with each passing second, your moans grew louder, unfiltered by anything to hold your pleasure back and overpowering his raspy curses and growls.

He starts coming back to himself, slowly but surely, as he drove his hips into yours in a constant state. He began to have the ability to appreciate how he sunk into your sex inch-by thick-inch with mild resistance of your clenching walls, and how your body would jitter perfectly against his when he thrusted just at the right angle. You were so delicious on his dick, trying to milk him for his worth with the vice-like clench you had on his pumping arousal. How he managed to survive the mission was beyond him, but the reward afterwards was all worth the wait as he could finally refill your hole with his veiny, heavy cock.

Tears prickled into your soft lashes, a small hiccup jolting through your ragged breaths, “Oh, God..!”

His hips slowed just enough to where your voice would calm down, taking your chin in a harsh grasp as he removed his hold on your shoulder and forced you to look over at him. His eyes burned holes into yours, clear utter possession and want flaring around his deep leather browns as he watched pearl after pearl streak down your cheeks from your cute butterfly wings.

“You know, it’s very fuckin’ rude to moan another man’s name as I’m bottomin’ out in you, even if you’re praying to God himself.”

With a low scoff, he whispered against your burning ear as he turned your head back to his knife, “Like he could do any better..”

Your stuttering apology slurred into nothing but noise, too fucked out to even try as your mind focused on how his dick twitched inside of you and dragged against your insides. The overwhelming heat of your sex piled and piled, getting far too scorching that you were on the brink of calling it quits. And yet, at the thought of having this end, you couldn’t bring yourself to tap out and return to your original home plan. You were drunk on his cock, the feeling of every pulsing vein and curve of his twitching sex throwing you further and further into the lustful fog at the back of your mind.

Your soppy cunt sucked and squeezed on his dick, your end drawing near with every slap of your coated thighs, and every desperate tug at your aching arms. Your womb burned with the need to snap, your legs shaking violently as your body begged for release, to reach that plain of ecstasy that would make you see fuzzy white. It was driving you mad, the denial to cum earlier ravaging your nerves like a powerful source as he continued to fuck you straight into the table. You were overwhelmed by all the cloudy sensations of sin— his smell, his dick, his chest, his mask— him. It was like biting into the forbidden fruit when you met him behind closed doors, your bodies colliding and dancing in the fires of your own desires as you gave in to your intrusive thoughts of the ghost.

It was likewise for the shadow himself, feeling the wrongs of behaving in such an inappropriate manner with his subordinate, yet being unable to look away from your innocent eyes as he passed by. To him, you were the temptation, the taboo. You were the forbidden fruit that God himself placed before him— a perfect little angel all for him to ruin and claim with every searing touch. He knew he was trapped the moment he gave in and took your body as his with a simple little graze of his fingers across your naked back. He didn’t mean to get attached. He didn’t mean to always come crawling back to your door that sat just across the hall. But he wasn’t dumb. He knew once that innocent little spark ignited in his cold chest, he had to have you. Call it fiction, but it was like fate for you to be his, just as it was his to be yours.

Sliding his hand away from your neck, Ghost pulled up his balaclava just above the tip of his nose before returning his grip to your blemished throat, “You’re going to— fuckin’ shit— cum all over my cock, and scream out my name like the good little fuck rabbit you are. Copy that.”

“Copied..” You moaned as your eyes scathed away from the knife, accentuating the 'e' with a short, fucked-out purr.

He groaned at your weak answer, shoving his clenching jaw into your neck as he looked up at your glistening face, “That’s— That’s my fuckin’ bun.”

As his need grew, he couldn’t hold back the feral upbringing of possession before he sunk his teeth into your flesh, only enough to leave a gruesome mark for your later discovery when you would clean yourself up in the showers. The possessiveness in his affirmation only made your heart flutter as your stomach did flips from how his voice thundered low in a lustful pitch before he laid needful claim on your neck. It didn’t stop there, either, as his teeth made your neck his personal canvas with deep love bites and purpling hickeys— you were his muse, and his muse alone to show off.

Pulling back from yet another hickey with a sickening pop, he placed his skull covered forehead right into your trapezius with a carnal snarl, “In or out, pet.”

You gasped out for a shaky breath of air against his rough thrusts, looking up into the ceiling as you arched your back in acceptance, “In!”

That was all he needed to hear, his pounding into your raw cunt becoming a feral mess of loud squelching and quickened slaps as his abdomen clenched and heavy balls tightened with the need to cum. You weren’t far behind, not in the slightest, as your mushy pussy began to spasm with your pulsing clit, your womb a burning fire that was ready to spread in an instant.

“Oh— cumming! Cumming, cumming, cumming!”

“Say it— say my fuckin’ name. Scream my bloody fucking name to whatever god is listening as you cum.”

That was it. You tipped right over the edge and screamed out his name, screamed out Simon. Your womb stuttered with each thread snapping and flushing throughout your core in convulsing heats, your hips bucking back into his as your eyes crossed up before fluttering shut. His arms quickly encased your body, wrapping around your waist and hugging you close as he fucked into you and coursed you right into overstimulation. With your arms caged under him, and your twitching figure forcing gurgled noises past your lips, he bottomed out inside of your cunt, sharp thrusts pushing every last drop straight into your womb and filling you to the brim.

Strained pants and groans puffed through the air as you came down from your highs, your legs shaking and possibly put out of commission from the restless fucking you had been given. The Lieutenant laid over your worn out body, resting his arms on the table to keep from piling too much weight on your small figure. He gazed at the mess of your spoiled skin from his markings, surging with pride over what he had done to his girl as his panting began to return to normalcy.

His attention snapped down to you, however, when he felt one of your soft fingers delicately trace along his tattooed sleeve, your eyes foggy while you looked over your shaky work. To keep his returning arousal down was a fucking war, but he managed when he noticed a gushing sensation ripple around his softening cock.

Ghost slowly sat up, running his hands over your sweaty skin to see what mess he had left between your quivering legs, and oh boy, did another war tear right through him when he saw that you had creamed all over his pelvis. His seed had began to spill out of your stretched hole, mixing with your own exertion as it traveled down your thighs and leaked straight from the source.

“Fuckin’ hell.. What a mess.”

You could only listen as he pulled out of your cunt, still keeping his form over your body in a protective stance just before he gently picked you up off the table and placed you on his lap when he sat in a chair. He pulled you close to him, letting your head rest on his shoulder as you finally managed to catch your breath and fill back with your lost sanity.

Stroking your back with a careful thumb, he peered down at you and spoke with a soft rasp, “You okay, love?”

You swallowed a forming saliva, wetting your dried throat before responding with a weak voice, “I’m okay.. I just hope they didn’t hear..”

Ghost couldn’t help the smirk that wiped onto his lips, “Oh, I’m sure they did. From the way you screamed my name, there’s no way they didn’t hear you creaming on my dick.”

You shook your head and nuzzled into his bunched shirt, sighing contently despite the sinful activity that just took place, in the debriefing room, no less, “God damn it..”

-

“Let’s go, MacTavish! You’re taking two minutes longer than last time!”

“Yes, sir!”

Price watched as Gaz and Soap wrestled around in the dirt, trying to overthrow one another as the spar continued. Ghost stood silent, arms crossed as he watched the two Sergeants have at each other, noting all their flawed advances and misses.

The Captain flashed his eyes towards his Lieutenant, gazing over his attentive posture before going back to the training, “Where is White?”

“I told her to sleep in for today.” He responded, eyes never once leaving the two men.

“I wonder why..” Price muttered, running a hand down his face with an amused scoff before returning it to his side, “You’re lucky I sent those two off to help with the luggage.”

Ghost just barely gave him a side glance, his own amusement underlying his blank stare before looking back at Soap tackling Gaz.

With a sigh of defeat, he shook his head as he crossed his own arms, “Your way of punishment astounds me, Simon.”

At this, he couldn’t help but let out his own thoughts, a subtle joking tone playing in his voice, “A little harsh directive time and again saves you the trouble, Price.”

“Yeah— saves me the trouble, grants you the pleasure.”

-

[hanasnx]

nfwmb

MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: dead dove do not eat | f!reader | gunplay | sexual content | implied smut | degradation | dumbification | size difference

The first time you’d seen him do it. You’ll never forget the first time you witnessed JJ MAYBANK pull a gun. It was a rush, adrenaline shooting through your veins you thought you felt sparks at your fingertips as you darted to the scene, intent to make him hear you when you told him to put it down. JJ was never one for authority.

Part of you is angry with him for his short fuse, the part of you that’s constantly at war with the other half who’s head over heels. It’s easy to become disgusted with yourself remembering how he looked when he handled a firearm. The vein in his biceps prominent when they swell as he takes stance, the way his broad shoulders poise, the crease in his brow as he trains his blazing focus on the poor sucker unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of his wrath. It pounds your heartbeat, so fast you’re sure he can hear it rattling in your chest.

“S’up with you?” he asks through his panting, furrowing those brows at you as he scans you up and down with a subtle nod. The weapon is still in his hand, his long index finger lining the barrel of it. You moisten your lips at the sight of the sheen of sweat on his skin, wearing his stupid wifebeater and backwards cap. You take too long to answer, and he follows your gaze to discover its fixation. “Oh, this?” He raises the weapon to your view and you gulp. “Don’t worry, baby, safety’s on.” he tells you with a curl of his cracked lips; he lifts his top behind him to tuck the mouth of the gun into the waistband of his pants, and the flash of his exposed skin on the lower abdomen makes you feel even more faint. You’re practically itching to lick at his treasure trail.

“Oh, Jay, it’s not that.” you protest without thinking, and as he approaches you, you can practically see the gears in his head turning.

He flashes an expression of puzzlement as his big hands come to rest at the crook of your neck where it meets your shoulders. His index fingers stroke and toy at your skin in a minutely ticklish way, and you try poorly to stifle your grin. A sense of relief washes over his countenance as he tilts his head at you, intrigued curiosity replacing it. “What is it then?”

You get him alone to show him how much you actually like it. Watch with morbid interest as the mouth of the firearm traces your collarbones, and down the valley in between. “What… the fuck…?” he exhales in quiet awe, said more like a statement than a question. He can’t tear his fucking eyes away from your pretty skin’s indentations and blushes when a weapon harshly draws across it. How you sit nice and obedient for him, trusting him to do this to you. In sheer gratitude, he meets your heated gaze, exchanging a silent conversation with you by gradual grins and elated scoffs. You nod for him when you want him to go further, and baby, JJ is going all the way.

He’s got the mouth of the gun stuck between your legs, gliding up and down as if it was his own hand stimulating your sex through your little jean shorts. Lips parted, he makes himself a show, driving the very tip of the weapon into your clit, screwing it in with enough pressure to elicit a whimper from you. The sweetest fucking sound he’s ever heard. One that comes from his baby while she’s getting her parts played with by a crazed boyfriend with a fucking gun. He can’t help but string you along. “You want this, baby, you fuckin’ want this?” There’s an edge to his voice, a little gruffer, as he wedges the item even further, a pain shooting up through you from your squished clit. It gooeys your insides. “I’m mackin’ a little freak wanting a gun pointed at you like this. Got any idea what this thing can do to you? Or are you too stupid to think ahead? Huh?” He towers over you, intimidates you, you’re stuck staring up at him with big round eyes and pitiful upturned brows as you actually chase the touch that he’s giving you.

He laughs at you. “Jesus, missy, you’re crazier than me.” he muses, until another idea strikes his mind, slowing his movements. He brings the weapon up to inspect it, shaking it out to hear it’s metal insides clink together. There’s a darkness to his eyes when he meets yours again, raising the gun into your view, mouth of it to the sky. You follow that long finger again. “You want this thing inside you?”

[j-jinxee]

[ ⟡​ ] — NIRAGI NSFW HEADCANONS,,

NSFW under the cut! ⊹ Niragi x Reader

✦ [warnings – weapon play, oral, handcuffs, pet names, spit, licking, uhh just v nsfw]

─────

₊˚♱ Ok so let's start with the fact he's always armed, carrying that rifle like it's a basic necessity. He uses those firearms in many ways, from simple intimidation, to having you suck on the barrel while his finger hovers over the trigger. He pushes it deeper down your throat as you here the safety click off, he never actually has the safety on normally, it was just to make you all the more scared. It puts him on a power trip, knowing he could absolutely waste you at any moment, even if he never actually will.

"You could kill me right now if you really wanted to"

"I know, and maybe one day I will. But right now I need those pretty lips wrapped around my cock, come on baby."

₊˚♱ Speaking of oral, he's obsessed with making you gag on him. Leaning his head back against the headboard, your nose poking his stomach as he forces your head further down. He'll let you go your own pace for the first few minutes, riling him up with how painfully slow your going — kitten licking his tip, giving lots of attention to those pretty veins decorating his shaft. That's how it goes until he needs to feel dominant again, his hands going to grip your hair, beginning to thrust upwards as he kept your head still. Tears starting to cloud your vision as your throat started to bruise.

"Fuckkk, whore can't even take dick properly? It's ok, gagging you like this is so fucken hot."

₊˚♱ Is definitely one for humiliation, but not in the common ways. He's not gonna make you suck him off in public, he's the only one allowed to see you like that. Niragi is the type to handcuff you to him, letting everyone at the beach know you're his, and anyone who tries to get with you will soon be staring down the barrel of a loaded rifle. He'd somehow get access to handcuffs, clasp them to one of your wrists, then the other end to his belt. Walking around, flaunting you like a trophy.

"You're mine baby, and I'm gonna show you off whether you like it or not."

₊˚♱ Pain kink 1000%, and shockingly, actually prefers receiving it rather than inflicting it. He'd have a nice silver pocket knife and ask you to use it on him after you suck him off. It's a nice interval between the oral and then actual sex, just a little something more to get him really fucked up. You'd be sitting on his lap as he comes down from his high, opening the knife and gliding it across his collarbones, it gets him hard immediately. You leave a few little cuts near his biceps and chest, until he says there's enough.

₊˚♱ Spit kink, no questions asked. Remember the way he spat on Hatter's dead body? Yeah. This ties in with his oral fixation, the way he's constantly sticking his tongue out, the way he adores licking every inch of your body, the way he loves when your teeth clink against his tongue piercing. He'll hold your face up by your chin while you're on your knees, standing over you as he spits in your mouth.

"Don't swallow it so soon baby, taste it, taste me."

₊˚♱ You can't convince me he wouldn't love being called daddy. He actually wouldn't realise at first, unaware of how much he loves it, until one night you unintentionally moaned it out as he was drilling you from behind. His movements stopped, making your heart sink. He leaned down towards your ear.

"What was that baby?"

"Nothing- sorry"

"Say it again."

Since then, he can't get enough of it. Constantly demanding you to moan it out as loud as you can, letting everyone know how good he fucks you.

----------------------------------------------------

I could honestly go on for so long abt this man and I'm not proud of it cuz yk 💀💀 but it's not my fault he happened to be SO ATTRACTIVE LIKE WHY'D HE HAVE TO BE SUCH A PRICK WHEN HES THAT HOT 😔 anywayzzz hope u enjoyed hehe :33

Ok cya, luv ya x

[blackownersseekingsuccess]

Remembering Bayard Rustin: The Unsung Hero of the Civil Rights Movement

written by Levi Wise Kenneth Catoe Jr.

August 1, 2024 - Growing up as a Black boy in Paterson, NJ, and attending Roman and Irish Catholic Parochial schools, Black history was not very familiar to me. I grew up in a religious Southern Baptist family and participated in the church choir. In this context, Martin Luther King, Jr., was all that I knew about Black history until I became a teenage Madonna fanatic. Ironically, Madonna made me aware of Black activists and radicals such as Nina Simone, Jean-Michel Basquiat, James Baldwin, and Bayard Rustin. Bayard Rustin was an African American activist who believed in civil disobedience. Rustin felt that Black people should deliberately break unjust laws but do it non-violently to bring about change and this would play a key role in the Civil Rights movement. He also advocated for LGBTQ rights. Rustin moved to Harlem in 1937 and began studying at City College of New York. It’s interesting to note that at the time CCNY was an all-male college once regarded as ‘Jewish Harvard’ which did not accept Black men—Rustin was an unusual exception. While Rustin was at CCNY he became involved in efforts to defend and free the Scottsboro Boys, nine young black men in Alabama who were accused of raping two white women. Activism for Rustin was something that came naturally. He later became a mentor to Martin Luther King.

Rustin is one of my all-time idols. I have been enamored of him since I learned about him, so I was excited to attend an event dedicated to his life and legacy at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, “Between the Lines: Bayard Rustin, A Legacy of Protest and Politics.” The event was a conversation between Michael G. Long and Jafari Allen, who edited the book of the same name. Their exchange sparked many revelations and I left the event more aware than when I entered. I felt so much pity for the life that Rustin had to live, including the attack on his character that was rallied against him by other Black people and the distance that Martin Luther King placed between himself and Rustin out of fear of people assuming that he was also gay. I also learned that it was Coretta Scott King who introduced King to Rustin. Scott-King met Rustin during her college years as a fellow activist who practiced civil disobedience. She would ultimately introduce her husband King to civil disobedience tactics. Rustin recalled that his first time meeting King he was strapped with a handgun and that he never traveled without his gun. It was Rustin who told King that if he represented civil disobedience he would have to be willing to put away his firearm, which eventually he did. Nevertheless, this raises the question, who was King really? The “I Have A Dream” pacifist or the “Beyond Vietnam” radical? We will never truly know.

All in all what I did learn was that according to Rustin, King had no idea how to organize an event. Instead, it was Rustin who developed the blueprint for King’s early Civil Rights movement, at least until the day that King removed Rustin from his inner circle.

Nevertheless, Rustin returned to organize the March on Washington, despite everything leveled against him by Adam Clayton Powel and Roy Wilkins. Someone noted during the discussion that “it’s funny how karma works given the fact that nobody remembers Wilkins's legacy in comparison to the sudden interest in Rustin.'' If I remember correctly, the comment was made by the moderator, NYU professor Dr. Jarafi Allen, based on the fact that the venue was standing room only, or that the Hollywood lens is now fixated on Rustin’s story, with an Academy Award-nominated movie based upon his life currently in theaters. Wilkins has not received the same interest from Hollywood, perhaps indicating that he is less marketable in the mainstream. Meanwhile, Rustin’s role as an activist for the LGTBQ community is also important for newer generations. Until recently, this legacy and all that he accomplished was invisible, but he has since become a symbol of the “others” and most notably the “forgotten others”. While in his lifetime he was shunned, rallied against, and betrayed by those that he benefitted, history has allowed his legacy the final word.

[love-minor-poltergeist]

A/N: I've only known this man for roughly a week and I want to pour milk on him and violently throw him against the wall (lovingly). While I'm not known to write for horror media, let alone for a franchise as brutal as Outlast, but I've been quite captivated by the Outlast Trials since the July 16th update. Because of course I would fixate on the hyperviolent mafioso with extreme mommy issues. _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):_

General Franco Barbi Headcanons

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Loathe as he is to admit—  that is if he’s willing to acknowledge it— Franco and his father are far more alike than one would think. Both men share the same hair-trigger temper, a fondness for collecting artisan firearms, tastes in women… And who could forget that sailor’s mouth? 

Hell, prior to his exile, it became something of a running joke between the triggermen of the Barbi family. The minute they hear Franco and Don Barbi’s shared “FUCK”/“CAZZO”, they share a knowing look amongst themselves. Like father, like son.

Of course, they also take it as a warning to keep their heads down and quietly pray that lupara isn’t pointed their way.

His birth mother was killed long before he could even remember her. No one dared utter it aloud, but he knew why. He would’ve been downright stupid to think it was because of anything other than how he came out. Ugly. Malformed. Hell, his father certainly made it clear how he felt about his defective son whenever he got mad; and Franco’s got the scars to show it.

However, during one of Don Barbi’s infamous bouts of rage– fueled by alcohol and his ever-growing frustration over Franco’s reckless spree killings– he had let it slip that Franco resembled his late wife far more than he was comfortable with. 

Dark eyes– cold and vast like the deepest parts of the sea– regarded the crumpled form beneath him. Franco couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen then. He had just gotten back from a hit. Some rat bastard from another crime family; a lowly racketeer who thought he was hot shit. At least he did until he was filled with hot lead from lupara. Only thing was— his father just wanted the intended man dead. It was a simple request. And what did his ugly shithead fuck of a son do? Franco ends up massacring the whole bar he had tracked the man down to. Staff, patrons, and a band of musicians that were unluckily set to perform that night— a whopping thirteen other people on top of the measly single target the Don wanted. And the real fucking kicker? That very bar– dinky as it was– was under Barbi family protection. And they had paid handsomely for their services. 

All hell broke loose once Franco came home. The minute he stepped foot in his father’s office, the world became a blur of violent shouting and spat expletives. The walls and furniture shook with each slam as the Don punched and kicked at the younger man. Franco had tried to fight back, getting in a few nasty hits himself, but it was clear his father easily overpowered him. In a matter of minutes, his vision and lungs grew wet with blood. Everything hurt, and all young Franco could do was fight for air.

“You had one job, boy. One. Yet I find that we lost a paying customer— one that we’re supposed to protect. Making me look like the asshole for not keeping my word.” 

The older man crouched down, yanking Franco by the little patches of hair he had. The Don was baring his teeth now, eyes boring holes into his son. 

“You’re even lucky I let you live, you miserable waste of spunk,” he pulled harder on Franco’s hair, ignoring the latter’s grunt of pain. “I could have killed you in your crib. I should have.” 

He accentuated each word with a rough yank, and a particularly pathetic pained moan from Franco only made the Don slam his head into the floor. Hot, sticky crimson coated his broad fingers, and he regarded the now weeping visage of his son with disdain; as if he had found a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. A pregnant silence fell between the two. Nothing but the faint sounds of breathing filled the air. 

Then the Don spoke once more.

“Even now, you look just like your mother. Useless, bloodied, and soft.”

Don Barbi never did talk about his first wife again after that incident. Not that Franco ever cared. He never knew her. Though, he did faintly hear from a few of his father’s older associates that he shared his mother’s eyes, or that he had the same hair as her. One man even said that had Franco been born normal, he would’ve been the spitting image of her. 

Said man was later found in the alley between a bar and sundry store. Discarded within a dumpster and body absolutely mangled. 

Once, when he was around maybe ten years old or so, his father had tried to take him to the dentist in order to get braces. Something to fix up those “broken piano keys” he had, as his father put it. Franco didn’t even last a half hour before a capo had to come pick him up because the boy went and bit the finger clean off of the poor dental assistant that tried to get him ready. 

He has some breathing problems, going off what could be heard within the trials. If he’s not yapping off, he could be heard heavily panting and straining to catch his breath. It’s nowhere near bad enough to be considered asthmatic, but Franco’s definitely not winning any marathons, that’s for sure. Not that his little baby legs would let him-

Absolutely refuses to drink anything that isn’t sweet enough to send a bear into a diabetic coma. If he doesn’t have his thermos of wolf’s milk on him, he’s dumping a whole bowl’s worth of sugar into whatever’s given to him. He doesn’t care if it's already been sweetened. He needs it sweeter.

Murkoff’s budgeting department is at their wit’s end and it is absolutely Franco’s fault. Does he care? Of course not. He deserves nice things and it’s a travesty that someone of his status is forced to live in squalor. About a week after he’s been taken to Sinyala, a special budget ends up being put aside for him. He goes over said budget every time. No, he won’t stop, either. He is a luxury that few could afford.

The first thing he demanded for his living space was the fanciest phonogram Murkoff could get and some records. He didn’t particularly like juke boxes– he thought them too flashy and that they usually played the same boring tunes. Usually if you walk by his containment unit, you'd hear the rich, dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, and the occasional Engelbert Humperdinck.

Don’t ever take him to the beach for too long. He usually forgets to put on sunscreen and ends up sunburnt at the end of the day. It’s one of the few things he doesn’t miss about Miami/Cuba. 

Small dogs hate him. His stepmom Angelina owned a few pomeranians. He and the little bastards never got along. It wasn’t all too uncommon to walk in on him telling one of them to fuck off whenever they bit at the pant leg of his suit. He’s held a vendetta against all tiny dogs ever since. 

While he may not look like it, he’s quite fond of the ocean. He enjoyed the boat rides he took to and from Cuba, and would occasionally fish if time was passing by a bit slow. Though he didn’t do it very often thanks to bastardly seagulls and pelicans trying to bully him for whatever he caught. 

Would probably own an aquarium of tropical fish if Murkoff trusted any of their test subjects with a living thing under their care. When he was younger, Franco’s father had an associate who owned a giant tank full of brightly-colored tetras, cherry barbs, and guppies. And while his dad sat through boring talks, Franco would usually watch the little things dart around in the water.

Speaking of, he’s particularly fond of ranchu goldfish. Mostly because, in his words, “they’re ugly little fuckers”.  Franco means this lovingly, of course. 

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

[txttletale]

i understand the thing about guns 1000% and i'm sick of the modern american fixation of big gun, big truck, skinny wife, beer, two kids, dog, front lawn etc etc

but i'm also afflicted with a firearms fixations and have a few books for artist reference and kinda want to buy a gun for range plinking one of these days

what category of Guy™ do i fall into

i don't think there's anything wrong with having some garden variety Gun Autism

[lucifermonsii]

H!Keegan X Male!Reader

Chapter 2: "There you are.."

The subtle sounds of footsteps along with slight leave crunches awakens the critters in the darkness as the men walks through the thick forest, mud and dirt stains their boots with every step of the way. Wearing night goggles to see clearly through the dark as it was a hue of blue, M/N keeping his firearm tight and close to himself as he walks behind the other operatives, keeping his eyes open and his ears sharp to detect any threats within the area. His body tenses from the slight rustle of the bushes or the small soft steps of the creatures along the dense forest, the cold atmosphere surrounds them as they were accompanied by the moon. The moonlight dances around the surroundings as it shines the midnight creatures who roams in the dark.

Eventually reaching their destination they stopped, standing all together as they report back to the ones at base. With a crackle of one of the operatives radio:

"We're here sir."

Says the operatice before signaling the others to follow inside the building in front, all of the men sneek inside the building with no problem as they surrounded the area within. Hiding in the shadows as they took out any enemies on sight, of course splitting up to cover more ground. M/N hurries along his way in the shadows as he moves like a wraith, keeping silent with his footsteps. Upon seeing an enemy on sight he stops and crouches, the person walks along in a lab coat, walking pass M/N before getting pulled into the shadow and getting their neck cracked in a singular twist by the man. He releases the body before picking up the keycard that was in the pocket of the dead body, stuffing it into his own before proceeding to find the room for it. Walking down a long hallway there were many metal doors in sight along the dimly lit hallway.

M/N walks along before stopping at the last room of the row of doors, another one of his men arriving at the hallway as they met with a nod. He signals the other to try unlock the other doors as he attempts to unlock the that stood infront of him, taking out the keycard the door opens with a soft beep. Opening before him as he steps foot inside, cautiously he walks around. Still keeping his firearm close to him as he spots the large empty cells, ones that were stained with blood, dirt and many other unpleasent things to witness. At the corner of his eyes he spots a dark cell that has a humanoid figure at the corner of it. Out of curiosity he gets closer, taking small and cautios footsteps towards the cell.

"Who's there...?"

He asks with precaution, his tone smooth and monotoned but still terrified of what may be the entity. The creature responds with a low growl, slowly turning its body to look at M/N with its blue eyes. The rest still remains hidden as there was a faint silhouette of a long tail with a pointed arrow at the end of it, its eyes furrows as it shifts deeper within the shadows. Making itself smaller as if showing submission. A light chitter escapes its lips as its tail slightly swings. M/N's eyes spots the mechanic device where a keycard was needed, so being the curious person he was— he decided to step into the cell and approach said entity.

Eyes fixated upon the creature as he hums, furrowing his eyebrows while he slowly approaches it with cautuon. Taking slow steps as he got closer, and closer to the creature. Firearm slowly lowering down as he was now a foot away from it, narrowing his eyes as his gaze sharpens, focusing on the entity. Then— he got a glimps of it ocean blue eyes, him making himself smaller as his tail wraps around him. A hum escapes his lips as he stares up at M/N with those blue doe eyes.

He couldn't believe it...

Was this really him?

"Keegan, what happened...?"

He questions ever so softly as he crouches down infront of him, his firearm now placed at its holster as M/N's hand slowly approaches Keegan. Wanting to caress his cloth face in the shadows. Slight tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as his gloved hand contacts with the fabric of Keegan's balaclava, palm again his cheek as he gently caresses his cheek with his thumb.

"I- Im scared M/N... I don't want to be here anymore."

Keegan whimpers as his voice slightly cracks, light tears fall down his cheek as he jumps towards M/N and hugs him tightly. Not wanting to let go or lose him ever again. Legs wrapped around his waist as he kept a tight grip around his body, face buried into M/N's neck and his tail around the male's thigh, M/N falling back slightly and landing on his butt, making him seated on the cold ground. His hands finds his way at Keegan's back at the smaller male sobs softly.

M/N's eyes darts around Keegan's new form, realising what he has become. A demon of some sort. Having horns and a tail, along with some other things he suspects. His hand goes behind the back of his head, slightly lifting his face away to inspect it. Keegan's sclera were dark, black even and his ocean blue eyes were more vibrant.

"What happened...?"

He murmurs softly with furrowed eyebrows as a tinge of sympathy lingers within him of what Keegan had experienced from the past few days. His grip on Keegan tightens as he sighs, pulling Keegan back in his embrace as they sat there in the warmth of eachothers arms. The sergeant sobs softly against M/N's neck as tears streams down his face, clearly traumatised from the experience of being locked up.

"I miss you so much.."

@arthurmorgansballsack

[xamaxenta]

I mean is for me.

Ergo therefore i cum and I want to draw Ace with a big gun.

Im so fickle idk i keep changing what i wanna draw for bday orz

[destinationtrekk]

vamp hunter anon again!! hello i rlly enjoyed ur last ask i hope this ones okay too i wrote this really high no proofread also kinda nsfw at the end did i cook?

reader, for some time after, is slightly in shock and quite honestly sexually frustrated. however eventually they end up trekking back into the arklay mountains, this time more prepared than usual, wanting to best this bloodsucking asshole. their backpack and holsters are absolutely stuffed to the brim. ammunition, stakes, several firearms, you name it.

it’s a cat and mouse game between the two. wesker is a horrifying tease, threatening and taunting reader from the shadows leaving them paranoid, gun in hand as their eyes frantically scan the trees for the silhouette of his tall frame. he strikes them every so often to keep them on their toes and eventually pins them down in one way or another, leaving a bite mark on the ever growing collection on reader’s neck. toying with his prey.

“you never learn, do you dear?”

it’s a cruel cycle that continues for a long time, reader can’t help but go back, secretly enjoying the hunt meanwhile wesker is delighted his favourite doll is coming back to play some more. and he gets a free dinner out of it. he makes sure to leave you with enough blood to keep you alive for next time though. he’s not stupid.

but this time, oh, this time is different. reader’s mind is all fuzzy and dazed as vamp! wesker ruts into them, hand pressing roughly against their back and pinning them against the church organ within his castle, his domain. where reader had foolishly tried to kill him in his own coffin. ridiculous. reader’s wrists are binded with their own rosary beads as wesker fucks them silly, biting and fixating on their neck. surely that’ll gurantee reader’s return for the next hunt..

i don't even think i have a response to this that last paragraph left me braindead

reader won't even be able to leave after this, much less want to. wesker might have gone a little too far with his dinner this time, leaving reader dazed and nauseous from their biweekly blood drive visit.

he has no choice, really, except to lay them down gently on a bed (that he hasn't used in literal decades) until they're rested enough to return home with a clear mind. he can't be seen escorting his prey to the treeline, after all. and he really shouldn't even be here when they wake up, lest they think he's kind or something equally unfitting of a god like him.

but he really can't help but be smug when they crack their eyes open and look up at him with something akin to adoration in their eyes. it's quickly replaced with disdain and they're flighty as they make to leave. he knows they'll be back in a few days though - your moans couldn't have been mistaken for anything except raw desire

[fandom-chic]

Please Please Please: Chapter 7

Summary: Y/N is only a child when she and Tommy Shelby meet. The two quickly become best friends as they grow up in Small Heath. As the years go by, Y/N and Tommy realize there may be more to their friendship than they originally thought.

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Y/N

Previous chapter

A/N: Sorry for the delay! Life has been chaos. I wanted to get something out so I apologize if there are some typos.

1914

"Are you sure this is right?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't it be?" he replied.

"I don't know," she turned towards Tommy, letting the gun hang limply in her hand. "I just feel like there has to be another step to shooting that I'm just not getting. This seems too easy," Tommy smirked at Y/N.

"It's truly simple, I'll show you." He gladly took her hips and angled them towards the old can that had become a target. It didn't take long for a blush to rise to her cheeks as his arms reached around her, his hands adjusting her grip on the firearm. She couldn't help her eyes from looking back at her lover and admiring his focus on her hands. It was his idea to teach her how to shoot. After the Peaky Blinders had begun to become more involved in affairs around town, Tommy believed that it would be best for Y/N to have some sort of protection when he wasn't there. She laughed at him, wondering who would come after someone like her, but deep down she knew. Going after the leader's girl was a death sentence but also a statement. One that she didn't want to finish.

She felt Tommy give a final adjustment to her fingers before feeling his hands go back to her hips. His lips went up to her ear, whispering, "And now you shoot." The reality of the danger she could enact suddenly became tangible. She could snuff out someone's life with this device and that was something she felt she was incapable of. That was when she began to shake.

"Are you sure?" she whispered, feeling her grip become looser and looser.

"Of course, I am, my love," His lips didn't leave her ear as he coaxed her out of her mind. "You don't need to shoot to kill, just to warn. Learning to shoot straight at your target will allow you to shoot straight at a target behind your enemy. I promise, as long as you are by my side, you will never shoot to kill." She couldn't help but look back at Tommy. His face was so close to hers, she wanted to drop the gun to the ground and jump into his arms.

"You promise?" she questioned, although she knew she could always trust her Tommy.

"I promise." At that, she faced forward, readjusted, and shot. The sound was closer to her head than she expected. It jostled her, but Tommy was there to stabilize her. He always was. When she got a good look at the can, she saw it fully intact.

She let out a disappointed sigh, "Well, damn," she said, seeing she not only missed but she missed the target by many meters.

"Hey, don't worry," she turned back to Tommy and both his hands went to her cheeks, "this is what practice is for." Her eyes could not leave Tommy's as his words filled her chest, making it swell.

"I know, I just wanted to be as good as you." This got a chuckle out of Tommy.

"Once you have been shooting for 10 years, let's compare."

"We can shake on that, Mr. Shelby." But she didn't put her hand out and instead leaned in, letting Tommy's lips grace hers. Even after all these months, it still surprised her how soft his lips felt. They fit perfectly to hers, making her think of nothing until he had pulled away. But he hadn't yet and all her mind could do was fixate on the way he made her feel. She felt the gun slip out of her fingers and fall to the ground beside her. With her hands now free, she let them lace behind Tommy's neck, pulling her chest to his. His hands left her cheeks and began to trace down her sides and grab onto the small of her back. She didn't care where they were right now, all she knew was that she wanted him.

She felt his lips lightly pull from hers as a hoarse whisper escaped Tommy's mouth, "There's an abandoned barn around the corner if you-"

"No," she interrupted as her fingers began to slip his jacket off, "I want you now." Tommy didn't question her. How could he when he understood her completely? As articles of clothing fell off the pair, they soon found themselves wrapped in each other's arms on the grass. When he was inside her, the world stopped. She knew it was impossible but if someone told her this reality was a lie and it truly was just the two of them in each other's arms, she would laugh in understanding.

He let out a long sigh as they lay tangled in limbs. Her head rested on his chest as she traced the freckles on Tommy's chest.

"So much for shooting practice," she said. She looked up at Tommy to see him reaching for his discarded jacket. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

"I do think this was time well spent," he said, putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it. She watched as the smoke created shapes in the air. He gestured the cigarette toward Y/N and she gladly accepted by taking a deep inhale.

"I still have to learn to shoot," she responded, smoke escaping her lips. Y/N gave Tommy back the cigarette, and he took another drag before noticing his watch.

"Shit," he muttered, sitting up rapidly.

"What's wrong?" Y/N asked, sitting up too.

"Meeting," he muttered under his breath as he began to grab for his clothes. She followed his lead, beginning to throw back on her garments. Before she knew it, they were on horseback heading towards Small Heath.

"What's so important about this meeting?" Y/N questioned as they trotted down the road, her arms wrapped around Tommy's waist.

He let out a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand as the other handled the horse, "It's about the gambling business. It's beginning to get off the ground."

Y/N gave Tommy's waist a little squeeze, "Well, that's a good thing. Why the stress?"

"Because I'm late."

The couple arrived at the Shelby home 30 minutes after what would have been the beginning of the meeting. Y/N jogged behind Tommy as they rushed in. To her surprise, Polly, Arthur, and John were chain-smoking languidly at a rickety table. No discussion of business at all. Only Polly bothered to look Tommy in the eye as he grabbed a seat.

"You're late," she said as she blew a puff of smoke out of her lips.

"I had other affairs to take care of," Tommy responded, causing John to look back towards Y/N. She sunk into the corner of the kitchen, quickly averting her eyes from his.

"Affairs?" John questioned with a snort. Tommy's eyes shot to his brother's, narrowing.

"Yes, John, affairs. Is there anything else you would like to add before we commence?" John silently fumed as Tommy grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the table.

"Actually, yes," The flame finally seemed to ignite. Tommy leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

"And what is that?" There was malice laced into his words.

"You're never bloody here, Tom. You are always out for 'affairs' or 'meetings,' but we all know what you're doing," John took a quick puff of his cigarette before continuing, "You're fucking Y/N."

"John," Arthur warned. Y/N's eyes moved over to Tommy. He was still, staring straight ahead.

"It's fucking true," John said.

"Stop fucking fighting," he spat before taking a breath, "Tom, you haven't bothered to show up, and it's causing the family business to fall. Family comes before whores." The words left Arthur's mouth faster than she could think about them. "After all these years, I thought you saw me as more than..." She couldn't say the last part. It stung too much. Arthur opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by Polly.

"Alright, enough," she said, slamming her hand on the table to punctuate the words. Polly takes a sip of whiskey to alleviate the stress before she continues, "We all know Tom has been absent, but we are still making a profit. Not as much as we wanted, but things are moving forward."

Tommy let out a semblance of a sigh of relief, "That's something," he put his cigarette in his mouth, puffing on it, "Pol, do you have the financial statements." Polly turns to the cabinet behind her and fishes through. She pulls out a folder filled to the brim with papers. Tommy grabs it and begins to go through. His look of relief quickly turns to one of annoyance as each paper flips by.

"What the fuck are all these damn charges?" He asked, turning to his brothers. Arthur avoids his brother's gaze, but John stares him down.

"Who said all work and no play?" There is a smirk on John's face that Tommy wanted to smack off. His hand clenched his glass of whiskey instead.

"John, you spent almost one hundred pounds this month alone. What the fuck are you spending that kind of money on?" John leaned toward his brother, his face inches from Tommy's.

"You'd know if you were fucking here." That was when Y/N heard the sound of a fist on flesh. Her eyes widened as Tommy threw himself over the table, grabbing at John. John fought right back, lunging into his brother. Y/N felt her feet rush toward the boys, grabbing at Tommy, trying to pull him away from John. Polly follows suit, grabbing the bloodied John away from Tommy.

"When did you all turn into children?" Polly yelled, dropping John into his chair with a thud. The adrenaline seemed to have left his body as he fell partially limp. Y/N held Tommy to her chest as he seemed to calm slightly. "Meeting tonight." Polly said, turning toward Y/N, "Family only." Those words were the last straw for Y/N as she let go of Tommy and strode quickly out of the kitchen and out of the house.

She didn't let her feet stop until she was by The Cut, gazing out at the water. It was not the most beautiful body of water, far from it, but it calmed her. She held herself as the sun began to fade behind the trees and the air cooled. The meeting must be happening now. The one she couldn't attend because she wasn't family. She was just a whore. Y/N took a deep breath and continued to stare. It wasn't long before footsteps approached her. She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see a beggar or a prostitute, but instead saw her love, her Tommy. He stayed silent as he moved to her side. Together, they gazed out at the sun brushing the water. It was the most peace they had all day.

She couldn't help but sneak a peek at Tommy and was met with a black and blue face. She tried to suppress the look of horror on her face, but she knew Tommy noticed.

"Is it bad?" She shook her head, avoiding eye contact. He let out a snort, "It's that bad then?"

"It's not awful, not great either," she said, letting her hand reach for where the bruise rested on his cheek. He flinched slightly as her fingers brushed against it. She pulled away and shoved her hands into her pockets. It must've been a sign. Some twisted sign that her touch truly was a danger to him.

"I don't care what they say," Tommy's words cut through her overthinking, and she let herself look back at him, taking him all in. "You're my family." Tommy looked down at her as a twinkle gleamed in her eyes. It lasted for a second before it disappeared.

"That's kind of you to say, Tommy," she let her fingers wrap around his and squeeze, "but I'm always going to be an outsider. That's just the way it is."

"No," he responded. Afterwards, his words were quick. So fast she almost let them fly by her. But she caught them, "Marry me."

It wasn't a question. Far from it. It was a statement. A declaration. He was telling her that she was his and he could be hers if she would take him. She looked up at her Tommy, and he was already gazing upon her. Her hand left his and snaked behind his neck. She pulled him into a kiss, and they both knew what her answer was.

Next chapter

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[tenabrye]

Omg your trigun writing!! Would you write a Reboot Vash Stampede oneshot of Roberto’s sick of Vash and the readers pinning so he “accidentally” books them into the same room with a single bed? You’re choice is it’s just fluff or mild smut but either way thank you!!

I really enjoyed writing something as cute and adorable as this.

A small sigh fell from Roberto's lips as he watched the way Vash interacted with you. He could see it. Anyone could see it. The way that both of you danced around one another's feelings. It was tiring to watch. Couldn't you both see the way the other liked you, see how much they did? Ah, he supposed not, considering how long this went on for. Four months was too long for you both to not notice this. He had to do something, and he was.

The next town was a ways away, and the heat was already getting to everyone in the vehicle. Meryl and Roberto were seated up front, with Meryl driving and the older man staring intently into the rearview mirror at the three squished in the backseat. You were seated in between Vash and Nicholas, the former having practically smushed himself up against the car door so that you would have enough space. Despite having his head turned to look out the window, he couldn't help but glance at you from the side every so often.

The other man was passed out in his seat, head leaned back and lips parted slightly as he softly snored. Your eyes closed as you let out a small yawn, causing Vash to smile softly. "You should sleep," he told you, causing you to look at him with opened eyes. His head was now turned, eyes fixated on you as the smile stayed on his face. "We probably won't hit town until evening."

"Yeah," you smiled, yet soon let out another yawn. Vash was right. That, and there really wasn't much use of staying up since all there was to do was look out the window at the sand dunes. Your head leaned back and you tried to get comfortable, eyes closing as you softly exhaled. The soft movement of the vehicle slowly lulled you to sleep, your soft snores causing the blond beside you to smile.

Vash watched you as you slept, eyes soft as he admired your calm and content features. He then stilled when you stirred in your sleep, your body moving closer to his. He raised his arm and allowed you to cuddle into his side, his arm soon lowering as it gently wrapped around you in a protective manner. Roberto watched it all happen from the rearview mirror, his eyes soon being met with the azure pair belonging to the blond. The older man chuckled softly at the way Vash averted his gaze, as if embarrassed he was caught. If only he knew was to come later.

Night was slowly approaching by the time you reached town. You were gently woken by Vash, his soft, smiling face the first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes. "We're here," he told you. You glanced around, noticing that you were the only one still in the vehicle. "Everyone is inside. Meryl and Wolfwood are taking care of dinner, and Roberto is getting our rooms for tonight."

Your lips curled into a smile as you unbuckled yourself from the seat. The blond stepped back as you got out of the car. "I can't believe I slept that long."

"It wasn't as long as you might think." You raised a brow at Vash and he chuckled. "Meryl drives fast, so it only took two hours. We did have to stop a few times for breaks, though."

"At least we finally made it. I've missed the feeling of sleeping in a bed." You let out a small sigh as you stretched, your shirt rising slightly, to which the man quickly turned his head from. There was a small flush of color in his cheeks, but you couldn't notice.

"We should probably head inside before Meryl comes out," he said, and you chuckled in response. The woman was small, yet incredibly feisty when she wanted to be. Heading into the inn, you saw Roberto writing in the guestbook while Wolfwood was seen leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets with his firearm propped up against the wall, beside him. Meryl was sitting down at a table, a small menu in her hands as she scanned the contents.

The woman's eyes flicked up once she saw you and Vash. "They don't have very much to offer, but I think smoked Thomas would be fine for us." You nodded in agreement, your stomach making a small growling noise that had the blond chuckling. You were about to speak up when Roberto walked over.

"The rooms should be ready after dinner," he said, and you gave him a small nod. He eyed you before doing the same to Vash. The young man furrowed his brows and his lips parted, but Roberto held a hand up. "Although, they didn't have enough rooms for each of us, so some are roomed together."

"Who's sleeping together?" Heads turned as Wolfwood spoke up. He could have worded the question differently, you thought.

Roberto only shrugged. You felt nervous now. Did the inn randomly put people together, or was Roberto simply not wanting to say that he was the one? You weren't sure, but you would have to wait until after dinner to find out who you were roomed with. Part of you wanted it to be Vash, yet the other part didn't. The more nervous part.

You were still nervous about the situation during dinner, and it caused a certain someone concern when he noticed you were barely touching your smoked Thomas. "Are you alright?" Vash whispered, eyes soft when you turned to him and smiled as you gave a small nod. He frowned. "Is the meat not good?"

"Ah, no," you told him, "it's delicious, actually. I'm just nervous..."

"Is it the rooming situation?" He asked. You nodded and he shook his head. "Don't be," he told you, "it's just for one night, right?" He was right, again. This would only be for one night. Besides, what were the odds of you sharing a room with Vash, anyways? Slim. Very slim. Right? Right. He noticed how much calmer you had gotten and he smiled to himself before he continued eating his meal.

The rest of dinner was shared with laughs and both Roberto and Wolfwood having one too many drinks, but it was all in good fun. Being back in a town felt good. Getting to sleep in a bed rather than in the back seat of a car, let alone camping out on the sand, would feel good. Though now it came time to see who was roomed together. Roberto and Wolfwood were roomed together, and Meryl was able to have her own room. That meant that you and Vash were...roomed together.

You glanced at him and he smiled softly at you. That was what you could see on the outside. The inside? He was nervous. Really, really nervous. He wanted to tell you that you could have the room and he could sleep in the vehicle, but he knew you wouldn't agree to that. "You can have the bed," he said, slipping past you and heading to the room, "I'll take the floor."

You shook your head at that. "No, you can have the bed and I can take the floor." He stopped at the doorway and turned to face you, a small frown on his face. You knew he didn't like that idea. You only mimicked the frown and unlocked the room with the key, opening it to show a large bed up against one side of the wall. It had a nightstand on either side of it, and it looked big enough for two, maybe three, people. "Maybe we can share it?"

Share it? Together? With you? The poor blond felt like having a meltdown at the thought of being in bed with you, his cheeks already looking flush with color. Then again, you were right. The two of you were both consenting adults. "It's big enough, yeah."

He let you shower first, though he didn't count on you saving him some hot water. He took a bit longer in the bathroom than you did, but you didn't mind. It gave you enough time to pick a side of the bed and crawl in. The sheets were soft, cozy, and they smelled clean. If it weren't for the current situation, you would've fallen asleep already.

Vash soon finished and was hesitant to join you in bed. If he had a room to himself, he would've slept without his shirt. Since you were here, he couldn't do that--he wouldn't do that. He didn't want you to see the scars littered across his body. So, instead, he wore a comfortable shirt and his usual black pants. You turned and saw him standing on the other side, frowning at the way he stared at his half of the bed. "Are you not wanting to sleep in the bed?" You asked.

He shook his head. That wasn't it. That was far from it. "No," he said, slowly pulling the covers back and sliding in beside you. You both stayed quiet and very much awake for who know how many minutes, until he spoke again. "I was nervous." You stayed silent, letting him continue. "I was nervous to share a bed with you. I've never shared a bed with anyone like this, let alone someone I like."

"Like?" You questioned, body turning to face him. He did the same and nodded. "Like, or like-like?"

"Like-like," he chuckled, the corners of his lips pulling upwards into a smile. "Do you like me?"

You nodded. "Of course I do," you told him, "that's why I was so nervous about this."

Vash scooted closer to you, his nose barely touching yours now. "I guess there's no need for us to both be nervous now," he said, his voice now soft and low. You nodded in agreement and continued staring at him. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," you answered almost immediately after he asked. You didn't even have to think about it because you knew. The blond smiled even more before he closed his eyes and leaned in. You did the same and felt a shiver up your spine when his lips touched yours. They were soft and slightly dry from the outside heat, but you didn't care. It was finally happening and you couldn't have been happier. You'd often dream of such a moment, and it finally happened.

Once you both separated from the kiss, Vash snaked an arm down and around you, pulling your body even closer to his. "I think it was fate that did this," he said.

"It does work in mysterious ways."

Neither of you knew it was the exact opposite. Neither of you knew that it was Roberto who did it all. And you never would know. At least not at the moment.

[ecliip]

hi i drew the main trio as dragons because dragons are cool as hell and i like madness combat so im mashing my oldest fixation and current fixation together like mixing two different playdoh colors

also why is dragon hank so cutie patootie i tried to make him look badass but he just looks like O['']O

anyways design stuff under the cut

okay so i envision most if not all of the dragons in this AU having those hands on their wings, that they walk on to free up their front legs. sanford walks on his front legs more often, giving him an advantage in melee, and deimos walks on his wings more often to free up his hands to use his hands for holding firearms (because dragons with guns is a kickass idea). hank does both equally.

i tried to make sanford broader and more crocodilian (built like a mudwing from wings of fire, kinda) and deimos more lithe (yet still strong), aerodynamic and lizardlike. hank is the most like the typical dragon, but you cant see much of that under the clothes and bandages holding him together.

sanford and hank have thicker, leathery wings (though its more obvious for sanford than hank) while deimos has a batlike structure of skinny membranes that allow him to fly quicker. hank has the longest wing-spikes out of them all. his wings probably would be tattered to hell and back but i forgot to include that detail whoopsies

i considered giving each of them a unique tail end but i only came up with sanfords hook tail

deimos can breathe fire, in reference to his ability to make fire with his fingers in the main series. most dragons in this AU cant.

hanks metal jaw probably has metal tusks but i couldnt draw them right so i didn't include that,,,

[catchyhuh]

pleasedon'tbitemebeastie--

FIGHTING STYLES!! capability, training, how they compare to one another, any 1v1's that might be interesting?

this is the kinda shit i KNOW someone somewhere has done an intricate, lovingly crafted, knowledgeable breakdown on with personal experience in combat. but i knew people had made better perfume breakdowns for the cast too and that never stopped me SO

FIGHT!!!

lupin:

lupin’s fighting style is very evasive, as you’d expect from a thief, really. he doesn’t often bite off more than he can chew, and he’ll spend the first good bit of a fight saving his energy and gauging where his opponents weak spots are

he has a quick reaction time but it’s not perfect. compared to goemon or fujiko it’s not impossible to catch him off guard and topple him for a minute but he ALSO recovers super quick!

he was absofuckinlutely trained to fight dirty and inelegantly if it means getting what he wants. that said he doesn’t usually resort to that unless the “thing he wants” is. you know. living for the next hour

really all things considered he’s not a bad sport about fighting, even if he really does think the other person intends to kill him (and he’s not too worried about them besting him) but when he’s fighting the OTHERS in the group he pulls out the nasty tricks immediately. poking people’s eyes, kicking the back of shins, pinching with the nails of his fingers IT’S DIRTY WORK!!

jigen:

OKAY HE’S NOT A BAD FIGHTER. DON’T TAKE THIS TO MEAN HE’S A FUCKING WIMP OR ANYTHING but you can very much tell that hand-to-hand combat is really low on his priorities for “shit i need to keep up with”

if lupin is “evasive” jigen is “ducking like he’s losing at punch out”

he tends to use his legs more than his hands, probably because he’s kiiiind of hoping by some miracle he’ll gain access to a firearm before the fight is over and he doesn’t want to risk his hand getting broken/cramped/anything that would make it difficult for him to use. so he tends to kinda stay low throughout, not necessarily like sweeping kicks but… moves that make it easy to maintain his center of gravity

the funny thing is that the others probably think more highly of his combat skills than he does, but… yeaha you guys if a man has been watching how you fight people for years he’s. probably going to pick up on how to beat you very easily by the time you go “cmon fight me fight me i wanna see how it goes”

fujiko:

it’s very… sharp. does that make any fucking sense. fujiko’s fighting is sharp and quick and intense and god help you if you’re even a bit slower than she is

because of her size she tends to default to (and i imagine was taught about) using the bulk of her leg for attacks since it can carry more weight behind it, but that doesn’t mean she’s a slouch with her arms either. OR HER HEAD you ever see that part in fuma when she jerks her neck back and smashes the vase on the guy’s head and the beam. that was sick. 

like jigen she’s very conscious of where to get hurt, if she has to. but where he’s like “wugh my Gun hand” she would really just rather not get severely injured ANYWHERE where she knows she won’t heal within a week. it’s very rare she comes out of a fight busted up to hell and back because god knows she’s actually smart enough to fucking leave if things aren’t looking up for her, but she’s definitely broken ribs before

her big thing is sneak attacks. yes even in the middle of a fight. she’ll look around the immediate surroundings, find a way to retreat out of sight, and then run up behind them and BAM fujiko wins

goemon:

well. it’s strange because you’d think he’d have a significant leg up on the others but really that’s not the case. it’s more like… goemon has a specific type of efficiency the others don’t quite have, but he’s not like, WAY WAY WAY better than them

he does tend to treat fighting different as a whole though, probably because he’s the only one who fixates on it to this degree. even when goemon’s not fighting he’s THINKING “ok, if some crazy shit happens here, i grab the bouncer, fling him toward the stage, and then jump for the rafters.” you gotta read that sentence in lex lang’s voice btw

point being he’s definitely the most practical. there’s never wasted time, wasted energy, but because of this it might take him just a bit longer to fully down someone. of course if he doesn’t have to spend any time recouping before moving to the next, bigger problem, then really what time was wasted anyways!!

YKNOW SOMETHING FUNNY GOEMON’S ALSO THE ONLY ONE WHO (initially) TAKES THE AFTERMATH OF A FIGHT PERSONALLY. anybody else would go “thank fuck i got out of there with only a black eye lmao” but early-stage goemon’s like “no… impossible… how could she give me a black eye… i gotta Train this out”

zenigata:

have you ever walked into a wall before. have you ever had that same wall try to punch you. now that i think about it zenigata might be the only one out of them that doesn’t default to defense he’ll just fuckign SWING

i vaguely remember one of the og manga mentioning that he’s “as skilled as goemon at martial arts” which. like. maybe he WAS i’m not seeing that right NOW but like maybe super early on into the bullshit he wasLIKE THE THROWING PEOPLE OVER HIS SHOULDER THING ASIDE,

he loves throwing shit. that’s just his default move. guy too close? throw him. like. large chair? throw it. i watched him throw a motorcycle one time. 

honestly i think it’s important for everyone (esp AT tms) to understand that yeah ok it’s funny if he’s bad at shit. but it’s even funnier if he’s freakishly good at some shit. you ever see that bit in dead or alive where he throws those guys over the table without ever getting up from his seat at the restaurant. classic

this is the only real matchup i can think of because i don’t know why it would happen, and i doubt it ever would, but it would be so funny to watch fujiko and zenigata get into a fight fight. closest i can think of is when he lunged at her in hemingway papers and that was funny enough in and of itself but really seeing the exact opposite ends of the spectrum fighting each other would be golden