#foam bullet gun

[marlynnofmany]

Once again playing "What story ideas are in the room with me?" by applying magic/aliens to my surroundings.

Now all the tiny Nerf balls we use as cat toys look like an infestation of fairy eggs, and I'm wondering how that would work.

"Look what happened while we were on vacation! I told you we should have just had the neighbors dragon-sit instead of putting Rex in a kennel. He would have caught the little buggers."

"I told you, the neighbor is allergic to dragons, even little ones."

"Are they allergic to glitter? Maybe we can get them to help us clean these up before they hatch."

[doitforbangchan]

Not laughing now - Seungmin

@kpopgurl78 left a comment asking for dom Seungmin so here you go! hope you enjoy

Masterlist

Seungmin x reader (afab)

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, Harddom! seungmin, Mean! Seungmin, oral (m receiving), fingering, subspace, crying, choking, spanking, nerf guns, fluff, pet names , cursing

WC: 2.5k

Not proof read :)

MDNI 18+

Bugging Seungmin was your favorite pastime. Not like he didn't deserve it, it felt like you could barely get a moment's peace with him around. Your boyfriend was notorious for messing with people and you were no expectation. 

Currently he was sitting on the couch on his laptop, doing some work for Chan, preparing for the next comeback. His headphones were on, perfect. He couldn’t hear you creeping around - nerf gun in hand. His favorite way to mess with you. 

He was so focused on what he was doing he didn’t see what you were doing. If he had looked up for even a second he would have seen you shimmy against the wall and duck behind the chair. 

You peered around, took aim, and fired. Hit the shoulder! The little foam bullet bounced right off. 

Seungmin jumped at the sudden contact, he obviously was not expecting the hit. He lowered his headphones and his eyes searched for the source of the attack, scanning the room until he laid eyes on your foot that was unhidden peeking out from behind your hiding place. 

“Y/n” His voice was stern, seemingly not pleased with your shenanigans. You didn’t move, choosing to remain hidden. “I am being so for real right now, cut your shit out. I have to get this done or Hyung will be pissy. Only warning.” He put his headphones back over his ears and turned his attention back to his laptop with a furrow in his brow. 

A moment passed before you looked at him again, wanting to ensure he was back to being focused on his task. You debated your options. You could go back to your room and wait for him- or you could test your luck and fire another shot. ‘He did seem pretty mad about the first one ‘ you thought. ‘Fuck it.’

You aimed up another shot at your boyfriend, and fired. This time landing a forehead shot. 

Seungmin ripped his headphones off his head and tossed the laptop to the couch next to him, rising to his feet. He trained his eyes on your form and stalked over to you with heavy footsteps. 

He stopped right next to you with a look of pure fury and when you went to give him your best puppy dog eyes his hand suddenly shot out and grabbed your neck, hauling you up to be face to face with him. Dropping the nerf gun your hands grabbed his wrist in fear, eyes wide at his actions. Yeah he was rough with you usually, but this felt different. Felt dangerous. 

Seungmin brought your faces close together as he seethed, “You think your being fucking funny? Now I’m gonna show you just how funny I am, little girl.” 

Before you could squeak out a response he crashed his mouth into yours, capturing your lips. When you started to reciprocate his advances he shocked you again by sucking your lips into his mouth and biting down on them. 

You squealed at the pain and tried to pull your head back but his grip on your neck tightened keeping you against him. You were not moving unless he allowed it. 

“Minnie” You muffled against his lips, gasping at the lack of air. 

“Dont fucking ‘minnie’ me.” He growled out. “ I told you to knock it off and you chose to not listen. Now you will take your punishment and I don't want to hear any complaints coming out of your mouth. What's your safeword?” He eased up his grip so you could answer. 

“H-Honey bun.” You wheezed out. 

He smirked, pleased with your answer. “ That's right. Use it if you need to.” He gave you another harsh kiss, teeth clashing. “ Now be a good slut and get on our bed, clothes off, face down ass up.” He released you from his hold and almost fell to the floor when he shoved you off of him. 

You scrambled away from him, down the hall and into your bedroom. Quickly shedding your clothes you contemplated the choices that led you to this moment. You knew he was frustrated, you knew he told you to stop, you knew he wouldn’t just let it slide. That wasn’t Seungmins style. He always had to be in control, always had to have the last laugh. Well, it looks like you're not laughing now. 

Maybe you’re just as fucked up as him though, or you wouldn’t have this growing wetness between your legs. There was something so hot about your boyfriend when he was being a hard dom. He was always the dominant one in your relationship but this just seemed on another level. 

Nevertheless you did as instructed, now naked you presented yourself to him, with your face against the soft sheets. You must have been lost in your thoughts as you didn’t hear him come into the bedroom, only felt the sudden sharp sting against your ass from his palm. The force was so hard it caused a scream to rip from you, your hands death gripping the sheets to keep you steady. 

“Shut up. You can take it.” His voice was harsh as he spoke, you could almost see the contempt on his face. His palm came down again on your butt just as painfully as the last but thankfully you were expecting it. His warm hand lightly smoothed over the smacked area but not long enough for you to enjoy it, only long enough for him to feel the heat radiating off of the reddened skin. 

He smacked each cheek, alternating between the two for each slap. It hurt so bad. Never had he ever hurt you like he is now, the blows seeming to never end. You couldn’t stand it, unable to hold yourself up anymore and now laying front side down on the bed. It was so intense.

But

It also turned you on. You could feel yourself get wetter and wetter after each and every slap. Fuck all you wanted was to be touched, you knew he could be sweet when he wanted and you craved just an ounce from him. 

There was a steady stream of tears cascading down your cheeks. The salty liquid wetting the sheets under your face, as well as the drool leaking from your mouth. You were already a mess. 

Seungmin stood behind you admiring the dark red hand prints he was leaving on your body, he could see you tremble after each hit and he loved it. He never thought he would get to be this mean to you- didn’t think you could take it- but you had pushed him to the brink of destruction with your antics. Maybe he should give you a moment's rest, though. He didn’t want to break his toy too early. He let one hand gently rub the bruising skin, while the other slithers its way around to the front of your body. One finger deftly swiped through your folds and he felt just how much you enjoyed his actions. 

A gasp escaped you at his actions then a moan when you felt his finger. 

“P-p-please Minnie, I ne-” You were cut off when he slipped that same finger into you while at the same time cracking the other hand down for one more harsh slap. You didn’t know whether to cry or moan so you did both, burying your face further into the bed. 

Without removing his finger from within you he yanked your ass back and up, raising your hips. His pelvis - still clad in his jeans- gyrated roughly against your abused skin. At the contact you tried to escape him, attempting to climb further up the bed . Seungmin let out a cackle at your attempt as he gripped your hip to stop you, adding another finger into your hole and curling them up to hit that special spot.

“Oh no baby you are not going anywhere.” He tutted at you, rutting harder and then let out a small moan himself. “You know, if you had been good, I may have been sweet to you tonight.” Lies. You both knew it. “But instead you wanted to push my patience. So now you're getting treated like the slut we both know you are.” 

He leaned his face close to your ear, panting slightly, “ You knew I was frustrated with my work, I told you to knock it off but you didn’t fucking listen. What do you have to say for yourself?” 

You mumbled into the sheets “ ‘m so”- hiccup- “so sorry Minnie. Sorry. ‘M sorry.” 

“Yeah?” He bit your ear, “ Prove it.” He took his hands off of you and backed away just enough to give you space to turn around. 

You immediately flipped around so you were facing him, still on your stomach. With trembling hands you reached up and started to unbutton his pants. You risked a glance up at his face. He was biting his lip, glaring down at you with lust in his eyes. He noticed you looking at him and asked you condescendingly “What the fuck are you looking at?” 

“ You’re so pretty, minnie.” You answered honestly. He really was the most beautiful man you had ever seen. You were beyond attracted to him the second you met him. 

A red blush appeared on Seungmins face, he was not expecting something so nice to come out of you, especially with how mean he’s being to you. He scoffed as to diffuse his embarrassment. 

“Whatever, just suck my cock.” 

You nodded and continued to remove his pants and boxers from his thighs. The second his dick was free you wrapped your mouth around it and hollowed your cheeks, getting right to work pleasuring him. 

Seungmin threw his head back and let out a groan, his hand coming to wrap itself in your hair but not stopping your actions. You sucked him like it was your job, trying to please him and hopefully get something in return. 

There was a piece of you starting to show itself, begging to take over. You were falling into subspace and falling quickly. This wasn't new since you’ve been with Seungmin. He was always the dominant one and that's the way he liked it. Just like he liked his woman submissive to him. Though he will admit it added a little spice when you acted up. 

There was drool escaping the sides of your mouth as you blew him, he was getting soaked from you. He could not help the sounds that escaped him. Your hand came up to fondle his balls, rolling them in your palm. 

Fuck he needed you, now. 

He roughly pushed you off of him and you looked up at him with those sparkling eyes, tears still on your lash line. 

“Get on your back and spread your legs.” 

You did as he said; flipping over and letting your thighs part for him to see your core. Seungmin could clearly see just how ready you were for him, your pussy letting out clear streams of your arousal. 

He clicked his tongue at the sight. “ Wow I was right you are a slut, look how fucking wet you are from the slightest bit of attention.” 

“Only for you, minnie.” 

He moaned out loud at your words, crawling up to hover above you. He was still fully dressed, minus his cock out,  while you were completely naked. Another one of his power plays to assert dominance over you. 

“Off please.” You tugged on his shirt. 

He rolled his eyes but pulled the garment off and flung it on the floor.

He lined himself up to your hole, giving you a passionate kiss. He wasted no time before he shoved himself into your core, while also shoving his tongue in your mouth. Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging into the skin there. He knew from how hard you were digging he would have bloody indents but he didn’t care. In fact he hoped he would bleed for you. 

He gave you one second to adjust before beginning a punishing pace, thrusting in and out with no care for your body. 

“F-fuck baby. Pussy so good to me, sucking me right in.” 

You moaned in response, the sound coming out high pitched and whiney. 

“Fucking made for me. Born to take my cock, weren't you?” When you didn’t answer his open palm came up and slapped your face, not enough to really hurt you but enough to leave a light sting behind. “Answer me. Now.”

“Yes! Was made for you and only you!” You cried, the pleasure over taking you, thighs shaking. “P-please minnie need more!” You begged. 

“So greedy.” He quipped before lowering his hand to where you were joined - never slowing his pounding into you- and circled your little bundle of nerves with the calloused pads of his fingers. You clenched hard around him at the contact and he went cross eyed momentarily at the sensation. 

“Fuck, baby you’re gonna make me cum.” He breathed out and you only moaned. “You want that? Want me to cum inside your tight little pussy?” 

You nodded dumbly, mouth open with a constant stream of whimpers escaping. You yourself were about to combust. 

“Knew my little slut would want me to paint her insides. Come on baby let me have it. Gimme all you got.” 

His words set you off, an explosion erupting inside you as you came. A scream left your mouth and you clenched hard. 

“Oh my fucking GOD.” Seungmin followed right after you, unable to contain it any longer as you squeezed the life out of his dick. You could feel the warmth of his orgasm filling you to the brim, every centimeter covered in him. 

Your body was shaking, riding out one of the best orgasms of your life, when Seungmin laid gentle pecks across your face, kissing away the tears as they fell. 

“M-min…” You cried out but he only shushed you and caressed your hips. 

“ ‘m here, pup. ‘M not goin anywhere.” He cooed. “Did so good for me. I love you so much.”

“Love you too.”

You were still latched onto him, needing the comfort he provided. You held him against you demanding he lay on top of you. He did, knowing what you needed from him. Knowing you needed your sweet Minnie now. 

After a few minutes you were able to stop shaking and control your breathing, releasing your hold on the boy. He gave you one more kiss on your forehead before rolling off of you and to his feet, tucking himself back into his pants. 

“Stay here baby, I'll get something to clean you up.” He swiftly went to the bathroom and came back with a warm washcloth. Your loving boyfriend used it to clean you up before throwing it into the bathroom somewhere and returning to bed. He found his place behind you and spooned you, cradling you in his arms. You let out a hiss as he made contact with your severely tender ass. Seungmin would put some ointment on it later.

“My good girl. Did you learn your lesson?” He asked sweetly, almost sickeningly. 

“Mmhmm. Won’t bother you when you're working again.” You mumbled out. 

He smiled against your hair and left a kiss there. He knew you would mess up again one day and he could not wait to punish you again. 

But for now, he will treat you as he always does, your loving boyfriend. 

a/n; Totally could have gotten carried away here lol hope yall enjoy! as always comments and reblogs are appreciated <;3

©doitforbangchan

[theorist-fox]

In your eyes I saw a longing, while I longed to lift you up

John 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader

Again, crossposting this from AO3.

Summary: Johnny survives what should have been a deadly injury. During his recovery, you bond with his family while he refuses to accept his weakened state, only wishing for you to let him wither. However, as you help him through it all, Johnny is reminded why he fought to stay.

18+

CW: smut, tiny angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, deals with medical topics, recovery from injury, mention of depression and struggles related to recovery, cuddles. LOTS OF CUDDLES.

Masterlist 🦊 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Not Johnny.

One hundred and eighty-four days.

One hundred and eighty-four days since Johnny got a bullet in his head. Six months since you saw him flatten against concrete. No lights if not those of the torch tucked in your tac vest.

One hundred and eighty-four days since your own heart stopped beating. More than four thousand hours since the moment you snarled – bellowed. Voice raucous and loud echoing in the tunnel. Raw fire burning your tongue all the way to your fingertips; those that curled around the trigger of your gun.

Makarov on the floor with a hole in his forehead. Mouth-gaped, exhaling his last breaths, mouthing like a fish out of water. Cross-eyed. His lids fluttered, shaking. Pathetic.

Not Johnny.

One hundred and eighty-four days since you pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. And again. To his chest. To his face. To his legs, groin, shoulder.

Since Price hastily got up from where he’d been thrown and grabbed you from behind. Burly arms around your waist lifting you off the ground. Your gun still shooting, bullets now hitting the cinderblock of the walls. The trigger clicked empty, but you still pressed it – autopilot.

The roar that echoed scratched your throat, made you choke. You spluttered and coughed. Tears and spit, foaming at the mouth. A rabid dog. 

Not Johnny.

More gunshots echoed, but they didn’t come from your weapon. Price dropped you, your knees knocked against the floor. Helpless, you folded. You draped your body over Johnny’s. Forehead to his chest, arms limp next to his face – fingers grabbing at his cheeks, enough to indent the skin. Blindly skimming through his features, feeling the slick blood carve its path through the tiny folds in your fingerprints.

Senses dull. Not Johnny.

Cotton in your ears. Each explosion from the guns was nothing more than a muffled thud. Bullets flew past you. Bullets hit you. You felt the familiar blinding pain of mangled flesh in your left arm. It caused your body to flop further – a ragdoll. It burned, yet it was nothing compared to the agony currently disemboweling you.

You were gutted. Much like a knife piercing flesh. Cutting its way through layers of skin, muscle, and fat. Intestines pouring out, blood and water and bile mixing on the floor – cocktail of death. Not yours. Johnny's.

Not Johnny.

He heard. His chest rose under the weight of your head, and life was breathed into you again.

───────────

It was absolutely mind-boggling to you how he’d survived. You saw it; you saw Makarov pull the trigger. You saw the bullet pierce his skull. You saw him crumple on the cement in that underground tunnel. You felt the blood on your hands. You felt how slick it made his skin.

But apparently, it wasn't enough to snatch the life out of him. 

And as you spent the following days sleeping uncomfortably, curled on one of the chairs in the waiting room of the army hospital, doctors came and went to talk to Price. 

Or to Johnny’s ma.  

She’d flown all the way from Glasgow to Hereford in the blink of an eye, bringing with her a goddamn squadronof MacTavishes. Four sisters with his blue eyes, and his dark hair. All of varying ages. Even a little one, half of yours. Her long hair was in a plait that swung behind her back. You watched it – transfixed. Too catatonic and dazed to care that you might have looked like a right weirdo – staring at a kid like that.

But she was the one who looked like him the most. Maybe it was in the tilt of her chin. In the shape of her eyes. In the slight fold of the tips of her ears – God, you weren’t looking like one, you were a proper weirdo. 

Her braid swung like a pendulum, marking the time you spent apart from him.

A guarded prognosis meant that no one aside from close relatives could enter the room. Family only - and the leader of Johnny’s unit. So, you spent your days of medical leave with your ass on those plastic chairs that were made for short sitting sessions, looking at a platoon of women going in with flowers and chocolates and leaving with tears and bloodied gauzes.

Your arm was wrapped in a bandage of its own, the muscle torn at the bicep. The pain was dull, much like the goddamn sight of you. Or the smell, which you reckoned mustn’t have been the most pleasant whiff to catch with one’s nostrils.

Price took pity on you because he knew. He acted like he didn’t for the sake of his team, but he knew. And he conveyed his awareness with lingering, judgmental glances he gave you and Johnny when the Scot let his hand travel a little too low on your back.

You watched them all from afar, perking your ears to catch any news the doctors told Johnny’s family or your Captain. Clawing at the walls for some information. You’d give your right kidney to know something more aside from the sparse words Price told you out of sympathy.

And then, out of nowhere, after tortuously long days spent with stomach and heart utterly empty, a nurse came to you.

She tapped your shoulder and you flinched. Bloodshot eyes swiveled to land on her face. She looked down at you apprehensively, knowing she’d have to tread lightly. A cornered animal, you were. Pitiful thing.

She called your name, and you blinked.

“The lady there said you’ve been here a while,” she spoke oddly soft and yet respectful. Must’ve spotted the pips on the epaulets of your uniform jacket, the one currently draped over you like a blanket.

Your eyes were unfocused and blinky. Lashes fluttering to swipe away the fatigue – a broom against dust. Looking around made your neck tingle, muscles corded, but you did. Your pupils locked with bright blue ones at the other end of the hallway.

Johnny’s ma waved.

Your brain rewired itself from its slumber and you sat upright. Your shoulders popped as you pulled them back at attention. Legs uncurled from where they were tucked underneath your weight, finally stretching out. Palms to your knees. Your jacket fell to the floor, you didn’t mind it.

“She wants to know if she can talk to you,” the nurse prompted.

You nodded eagerly, probably looking a little too desperate. Your leg bounced in anticipation and anxiety, tiny needles piercing the muscle as it awakened.

Gingerly, his mum walked to you. She sat right in the chair at your side. It took nothing but a look for her to understand: the crust in your lashes from the tears you’ve shed, the bandage around your arm gone from white to yellow with a splotch of brown in the middle. Dried blood and pus. The wound festering beneath it.

She hugged you. She didn’t care if you hadn’t washed in days. If your injury was probably infected, or at least smelled as such. You curled your fingers into fists against her back, and you cried.

She did, too.

𓇬

You understood that Johnny took his fire straight from his ma because she was currently bullying the doctor who had been preventing your entrance into her son’s room.

You stood almost embarrassed next to her, feeling like her child yourself.

She had forced you to wash, after all. Took you to one of the washrooms and helped you out of your clothes. Stroked your skin with a sponge when she noticed the weakness of your movements. Washed away the suds with the showerhead. Dried your hair and braided it.

You’d have felt pathetic if she weren’t there, constantly telling you it was alright. You'd have felt guilty that you became an additional burden to her if she weren't continuously whispering that “whoever loves my Johnny like you do, ‘s mine to care for.”

You took a few steps back the more she argued with the doctor, trying to flee from that predicament. Maybe you’d be lucky enough to peer through the cracked door and spot Johnny’s face now that both surgeon and nurse were busy trying to tame (fruitlessly, they’d learn) Mrs. MacTavish.

However, your back hit something. You lifted your arms, elbows out to create more space around you.

You looked behind and clocked a girl, and her braid. She was slightly shorter than you, about fifteen. The resemblance with her brother was so striking it caused your breath to hitch.

She looked at you with caution. Assessed you like antiques at an auction. Whether you were worthy of her brother’s affection, or not. And you found yourself thinking you’ve never wanted someone’s approval more than you did at that moment.

It was a game of stares that she was clearly winning.

Comical, really. How your skin had bled because of bullets tearing it apart. Knives had ripped crimson gashes on your flesh. Bombs had gone off in your vicinity. You’ve killed. You’ve seen death and brought it, too – a harbinger.

Yet now you stood stock still in front of a teenager. Eyes locked with the depth of the azure sea hers bore. Frozen in place with your elbows still out and your hands hovering between you two.

It was silent for what felt like hours when in truth only mere, tense minutes had passed. The only sound that of Johnny’s ma giving an earful to the doctor and a very tired nurse.

Your lips parted on their own accord then, and your voice came out wet and strained. “You’re so much like him.”

That girl had tried to crack open your skull with the sheer force of her eyes and somehow managed. Then snuck her fingers in the hollow of your stomach and curled them around the handles of your ribs only to rip them open and take a gander at the battered thing that was your heart.

What she said next made your chest clench to the point of pain. Your heart stomped against the hard bone of your rib cage. Her voice was heavily accented yet softer than her brother's. The meaning behind her words was different from the ones you uttered. They went deeper than mere physical appearance.

The thought that she might have seen something in you that even remotely reminded her of him made your heart ache - feeling undeserving of it.

“You are, too.”

───────────

One hundred and eighty-four days since the incident, you could’ve gotten a goddamn medical degree. You took a long compassionate leave to stay by his side, hastily apologizing to doctors and PTs alike for his behavior because during that time, when they’d show up at your doorstep, he’d bark like a dog for them to leave.

For one-hundred and eighty-four days, the moment he fell asleep, you’d bury your head in medical manuals and books. You had his physical therapist explain to you step by step all the exercises he’d have to do for his limbs, so he’d regain strength and mobility.

The massages. The oils. The meds. How to put an IV in. How to change the bandages of his bedsores. You helped him shower. You helped him dress. You did his beard or his hair, and while he pushed for it to be a bland buzzcut or just let it grow, you always let the airstrip at the center stay – gelling it up sometimes, for good fun.

When you’d place a kiss against his buzzed side, next to the healing scar, he’d find himself giving in more and more. His back would soften against your chest, fingers curling at your forearms wrapped around his front.

By the one hundred and eighty-fourth day since the incident, Johnny still barked like a dog at whoever dared to walk in his flat that wasn’t you or a member of his family. But at least now the rest of the lads had their privileges.

At least now he let you sleep on your side of the bed – sometimes daring to curl his arm around your waist so you’d scoot over to his.

At least now he kissed you again and brushed his fingers along your cheek, or through your hair.

His strength came back at a languid pace, but his hands didn’t tremble anymore when he held a fork, so now he could eat by himself. He could lift small weights, but still couldn’t sit up on his own. That was the next achievement you both were aiming at.

His personality now shone through the fractures of the shell he'd locked himself into. The cheeky grin slowly came back like molten gold mending the fissures. That glint in his eyes - a reminder that he was alive.

You already knew it, but he didn’t – and now, he was on his way to finally realize it.

On the morning of that day, Johnny was lying in bed as you’d just finished helping him wear a pair of grey sweatpants. Your back was to him while you folded clean laundry.

He watched like a hawk each movement you made, no matter how mundane and trivial. Shame and resentment still had a tight grip on his heart, withered his soul, but the sight of you – simply there – was enough to make those feelings hush.

“Can’t believe you bloody stayed.”

You stilled in your motions, and only resumed a moment later, setting down the laundry back in the basket. Then, in your sweats and one of his t-shirts, you moved towards the bed. Sat at the edge. Lingered there for a moment as you took him in.

He was thinner. However, against all medical logic, his muscles were still there. Definitely less bulging, definitely much less defined, but there. Apparently, it takes a lot more to wear down John fucking MacTavish. However, you’d have to give credit where credit is due, and your relentless insistence in forcing him to do all the exercises as the PT instructed you, even when Johnny all but cursed at you, might have helped his muscles keep their tone.

You lay down in bed next to him, propped on your elbow with your cheek in your palm. You placed your free hand over his chest, his strong heartbeat at your fingertips.

"'cause you're too hot to drop, eh?" You quipped.

He tried to keep up with your joking mood, his lips curving into that trademark smirk he used to don so effortlessly. Differently from before, when life seemed to flow smoothly, it was short-lived. And while his heart felt like it was being torn apart, he lifted his arm and slung it around your waist, bringing you close.

You snuggled in his side for good measure. One leg of yours was draped over his two, palm still flat on his chest, and now your head lay there as well. While he’d almost returned to his usual self, these moments in which he allowed you to touch him were always sparse and rare. You’d take your fix whenever you could.

His chest still felt tight at the sight of you huddling against him. “Why do ye love me?”

His voice rumbled in his ribcage, echoing in your ear pressed against his pectorals. It perfectly scratched an itch in the back of your brain, almost giving you gooseflesh.

"Because you're pure dead brilliant.” You replied quietly, drawing shapes over the fabric of his tee, "You make me laugh, you make me happy."

Absently, you smiled – memories of your relationship even before it bloomed into love came running in front of your eyes. He could only see the top of your head, but he felt the way your cheek lifted against the cotton, somewhat scrunching the fabric.

"Can't imagine a life without you, honestly.” You lifted your head from his chest and placed a chaste kiss over it. Your shoulders shrugged, the answer being simple. "You're my Johnny."

As much as your words served as a balm to his wounds, he felt as if you were describing someone else. Attributes he was undeserving of – ones that described the man he might have been once but didn’t feel like anymore.

His hand lightly gripped your hip. All he could do was tilt his head down and plant a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger a tad longer. Savoring your skin and the salt of it.

“’m the luckiest man alive,” he mumbled. The press of his mouth against your flesh slurred his words, but you caught them anyway.

Luckiest for real, you mused but didn't voice it. He didn't need a daily reminder of the sheer miracle his survival had been.

Instead, you only relished the touch of the chapped skin of his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed to block out anything else that didn’t involve that tiny, warm feeling.

"My lucky charm,” was all you could muster up to say.

He huffed. The air escaping his nose was warm as it hit the crown of your head. You could tell by the way he tensed that he was hesitant, still mindful when it came to having you close. Insecure, ashamed. But you'd linger there unless he pushed you away – hoping, deep down, he never would again.

In very Johnny’s fashion, he masked his insecurity with a lighthearted joke. “C’mon, inflate my ego a bit more.”

And you did, despite knowing it was all a façade to hide the inner turmoil he’d been brewing constantly ever since. Despite knowing he silently craved your words of reassurance, because maybe, if you repeated them enough, he’d eventually believe them, too.

A chuckle bubbled up your throat. Johnny felt its gentle rumble in his bones, and it stole a smile from him.

“You’re absolutely hilarious – you crack me up,” you continued like he asked, “Sharper wit than mine – which I thoroughly appreciate.”

You leaned your head back, reluctantly pulling your forehead away from his lips, only to be awarded with the blue of his eyes.

“You’re kind and compassionate," you sighed, "You care ‘bout others even when you shouldn’t. That’s noble.”

But then your mouth pursed, because its corners struggled to keep a smile, "You're also absurdly hot, love.”

He scoffed, giving you a look – shallow. But he couldn't deny the way the last comment made his chest puff a little.

It was unbearably hard not to burst out laughing. Difficult to keep the warmth inside, in the face of the familiarity of it all. You cleared your throat, mustering up the most serious expression you could pull at that moment.

“You’re the strongest man I know.”

And just like that, his smile was gone. The dancing flame he lit in your heart, smothered by ice. Johnny, who’d always been the gasoline to your fire, now felt like freezing water.

He shook his head, trying to hide the unease. “My strength is long gone, love.”

And even if your blood was struggling to boil against the ice he instilled, you decide you wouldn’t have that. Not in a thousand years.

Your eyes welled up with tears, as much as you tried to fight it. He sounded so tormented - you craved to take it away from him. Your fingers curled at his jaw, gently. Tilting his head, you forced his eyes to lock with yours – making sure to keep him there, focused on you.

"You, my love," you repeated, voice wavering but filled with resolve, "are the strongest man I've ever met."

Yet your words only fueled the self-hatred. He failed to see the determination in your eyes because the wounds in his brain, both emotional and whatnot, only made him perceive pity.

“I hate this,” he growled. While your fire had been smothered, his only grew. His eyes held defiance and fight, unfortunately against all the wrong things. “I hate this so damn much. I – I struggle to live, darling. I can’t even fucking stand. I’m like a useless sack of sh-”

"None of tha'." You interrupted him. This time, you sounded angry.

Hell, you understood. You were a special forces operator, too. You were in his same team. You fucking got it. The pain, the worthlessness after having been fully independent and, at least on his part, generously strong for most of his adult life.

But you weren't having it.

Your fingers held his face in place, curled at his cheeks. Not too tight, always gentle and mindful of his head injury, but firm enough to indent in the plush of his skin.

"You are Sergeant John – fucking Soap - MacTavish." You stated firmly, and while your eyes were glossy, your voice didn't hesitate this time. "You are a sniper and demolitions specialist. The best out there."

Your pupils sailed the storm in his eyes with unparalleled skill. "You've survived a gunshot to the head. You fought to live, and I swear 'ere and now, John, I'll make fucking sure you will."

Johnny found himself fighting a war he couldn’t win. And while he wasn’t used to it, he realized he didn't mind losing. He had been biting each hand that tried to feed him, to nurse him back to health.

Even yours.

He failed to see, however, that you came back each time – mangled fingers, bite marks and all.

He hated being the reason you cried, even if it was for the sheer amount of feelings that had been brewing all at once, threatening to spill over.

Without warning, he put his hands against the mattress and sat up. And because it wasn’t enough for him apparently, he grabbed awestruck-you by the hips, pulling you on top of him –  with no little effort – to straddle his lap. That was the achievement of the week, he thought, and with an exhausted sigh, he flopped with his back against the headboard.

He used to be able to absolutely manhandle you and place you wherever he wanted, once. Now, his chest heaved as a result of barely lifting you an inch. The concept was still hard to grasp for him, but he realized how proud he felt when his eyes landed on yours, when your gasp reached his eardrums.

And he understood, then. He might have thought that he was a useless sack of shit, but you weren’t, and steaming Jesus, he’d do it. For you, he’d take the fucking praise of having lifted a spoon without dropping the stupid golf ball you placed on it. He’d take the kisses you’d pepper his face with each time he’d bend his knee to his chest without your hands helping him fold it.

He’d take that look you were donning right there on his lap, your eyes going from heated to watery. Brows pinched. Mouth-gaped.

He’d take it like a fucking champ, and he’d be proud of it.

"Johnny,” you breathed, steadying yourself with your palms on his shoulder.

The bastard smirked; lips parted as he caught his breath.

He brought his hands up to cup your cheek. His thumb rubbed at your jawline and his fingers threaded through your hair. “How are ye so bloody beautiful, eh?”

You almost melted right then and there.

You huffed. Breathless and shaky. You leaned your cheek against his palm – perfect fit. One could hear the clicking sound it would’ve made as it fell into place.

“Gonna have to cross tha' from our achievements list." You slurred, your words as wobbly as your lips.

He hated your bloody achievements list, but he’d take that one, too.

His voice was raspy. Scratched you in all the right places. “We should put a reward for each one you tick off, mh?”

You blushed.

You did, and you weren't even ashamed of it. How many people could say that their significant other made them flush even after years together? You bet very fucking few.

Because Johnny made your heart stutter like the first time although it had been years you two shared the same bed. Johnny made your chest swell, your cheeks pink, and your panties wet even after he'd seen you naked and bent however he pleased – and he could do that with a very visible craniotomy scar on the side of his head.

You gave him a knowing look, though.

"Just a kiss," you replied, sounding a little too patronizing. Almost as if you were scolding him. "The doc said no sex, Johnny."

Indeed, now he almost looked like a child who just had his favorite new toy snatched away. A feigned pout, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. “Not even a tiny bit?”

He looked utterly gorgeous, even when he acted like this – normally, it would’ve driven you up a wall.

The blue of his irises was now a mere halo around widened, dark pupils. He took a greedy handful of the meaty part of your hip. His other hand journeyed from your jawline to your bum, and he wasn’t parsimonious there either, as he curled his fingers around the plush skin.

"What even is a tiny bit of sex, Johnny?” You huffed. Before he could reply, because you saw that cheek in his eyes, “And for the love of Christ – Don't say just the tip.”

He grinned, caught red-handed.

You fixed him with a blank stare.

And then, you spouted all the knowledge you had acquired during these months while he slept away. You went full medical encyclopedia on him. "Sex increases blood pressure, which might cause weakened blood vessels in your brain to burst, potentially leading to a hemorrhagic stroke. You could -”

Johnny barked a laugh. You ended your lecture by pursing your mouth in a tight line; rolled your lips between your teeth to hide how much the sound of his genuine chuckle had affected your heart.

He absolutely demolished you with a sentence only.

“But I sat up today, sweetheart.”

Your shoulders deflated. Utterly powerless.

He pinched the air between thumb and forefinger in the space between your faces, “Just a glimpse, yeah?”

You scoffed and briefly looked down at the spot where he’d placed you in. All by himself, no help from you whatsoever. You were so fucking proud it made you arrhythmic.

You settled on a glimpse.

Gingerly, you grasped the hem of your (his) tee and pulled it off your head. You tossed it in a vague direction behind you, eyes focused on his. Deft fingers went to unhook your own bra, and you let it fall.

Sitting up on your knees, which gave him a very nice close-up of your breasts (the lad went cross-eyed at the sight), you hooked your fingers at the waistband of your sweatpants. With one motion, you took down both pants and underwear, which pooled at your knees.

You leaned back, sitting on your rear, and pulled them both off your ankles. Much like your sorry t-shirt, they landed somewhere on the bedroom floor.

Planting your feet on each side of his thighs, you kept your knees spread and leaned back on your palms, as if to say There, enjoy.

"Better?"

Johnny’s eyes darkened instantly at the sight before him. You looked wet already for reasons unknown to him. Poor man couldn't grasp the idea that no matter how he looked, he'd always make your heart race and your cunt glisten.

Johnny slowly rubbed the back of his fingers against his lips.

“Better,” you heard him rasp.

You nodded imperceptibly, eyes never leaving his. You raised a hand and drew a map of your body with your finger, tracing a path he’d hopefully follow again, one day.

It started from your mouth, fingertip tugging at your lower lip until it bounced back into place. Then down your chin, down the curve of your throat, traveling in the valley of your breasts.

"You behave, Johnny," you breathed, letting your own hand grab a handful of your breast and squeeze. The fat bulged between the grooves of your fingers.

"Follow PT.” You pulled at your nipple, "Take your meds, do as the doctors say."

Your palm snaked down your belly until it reached your core. You spread your lips for him with your fingers, "And I'll be your first meal after recovery."

Johnny’s eyes followed your hand, hypnotized. He swore his mouth watered and he thought this wasn’t much of a reward as it was torture.

His heart throbbed against his ribs, and his eyes clocked yours once more.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, his voice thick with an unspoken need – and he would.

Johnny decided that he’d take this, too. Fucking hell he would.

Your lips quirked to the side, trying to hide the small smile of delight. The only thing you wanted was for him to get better. Small steps: he had already managed to sit up in bed by himself, so maybe the next step would be to stand up on his own, one day.

Then walk. Then run. Then train at the gym, or take you out for dinner. Fuck you senseless into the mattress. Get on his knees to make a meal out of you. Or get on one knee, holding out a ring.

And by God, if what he needed was a reward – he'd get it. Honestly, if it would help him improve, you'd give it to him every bloody day. You’d bend, break, turn, and fucking dance if he asked. As long as he stayed here, alive.

You were unabashedly wet, so there was barely any friction as you plunged middle and forefinger inside your core. You hissed at the sensation – pleasure and pain. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes closing just briefly.

You should've been embarrassed about the sound your own cunt made when you slid them out, but the way Johnny's eyes widened made you anything but. His hand dropped from his mouth onto his thigh, limp.

Utterly disarmed himself.

Sticky and wet with arousal, you placed your fingers on his lips, gently pushing them inside to rest on his tongue.

"Good man, Johnny," you breathed, your own heart thrumming, "So fucking proud of you.”

Johnny’s chest warmed and his eyes flickered between your own, his tongue automatically coming forward to taste you on your fingers. His cheek hollowed as he sucked, which did absolutely nothing to the already dripping state of you.

You scissored your fingers against his tongue, “Take it.”

His eyes fluttered closed. Sweet and salty, ambrosia on his tastebuds. The tang of you, forever impressed in his mind – a man parched of what he used to drink almost daily and had been denied for months. He thought it had been criminal of you to take it away from him for so long.

And while this totally wasn’t the most appropriate moment to think about it, he realized that you never denied him anything that wasn’t for his own good.

He did it to himself.

Which made him angry. Which prompted his hand to flit up and wrap around your wrist to keep your fingers there, snug in the cavity of his mouth – wishing he could never part from them.

The humming sound of pleasure vibrated through your hand, and you shivered in response. He grunted in a low, husky murmur – words barely muffled by your fingers, “I want my reward, pet.”

Your own eyes were hooded and heavy. He looked perfect, despite that thick scar on the side of his head. Actually, the fact that he was still here, in this plane of existence, with his brain injury - somehow alive, by sheer miracle - made him even more perfect.

You took your fingers out of his mouth. Johnny begrudgingly released them with a pop. He looked flushed and ravenous. It would’ve scared you, the voracity in his eyes, if you weren’t already accustomed to it – known it like your own, same hunger that’d been festering in your lower stomach for months.

You helped him lay back down again, making sure his head would fall softly against the pillow, back flat on the mattress. You stretched out like a cat, settling yourself on your knees between his legs.

Resting your palms against his thighs, feeling the taut muscle underneath, your fingers gently scraped over the fabric of his sweatpants. The obvious tent he sported imperceptibly twitched in reflex.

You grazed the bulge with your nails. Johnny shuddered.

Only then, you curled your fingers at the waistband of his sweats and slowly pulled down, exposing him. His cock bounced back against his abdomen once it unhooked from the elastic of his boxers.

It was your mouth’s turn to water. You’d seen him naked several times in the past one hundred and eighty-four days, but the purposes were very much different. Of course, it wasn’t only him that had to refrain from intimacy. While you could, well, DIY your way to bliss, it clearly wasn’t enough, because your body was reacting dramatically at the mere sight.

Your hand almost darted at the base. Johnny’s hips gave a tiny jerk, and you could hear the lack of sounds coming from him. He was holding his breath, almost in anticipation of what he knew would happen.

Thankfully he’d always been vocal, and when you gave the first stroke, Johnny absolutely melted. Quite literally, you saw him deflate against the pillows as if he were made of wax and your hand was fire. His lips parted in a whine you hadn’t heard in ages. Or maybe never. At all.

You decided you wanted to hear that again. Fucking pronto.

You started slowly, stroking up and down the way you knew he liked. Dragging the skin over the tip, using the honestly baffling amount of precum as lube.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Johnny always looked gorgeous, and during sex, he looked like a god.Made to worship and praise. Now, his eyes were half closed. The narrow space visible was white – he had rolled back his eyes. Lips parted by heavy pants. Brows tight, as if he was concentrating.

Because he was.

“Slow down,” he drawled, seemingly unable to have his mouth follow along with his thoughts. “Fuck, plea-“, he whined, again. That sound you were looking for. Goddamn music that could feel like silk to the touch.

Your thighs squeezed together for some needed friction, and you did as he asked. He exhaled shakily, fully closing his eyes to get a grip. Johnny’s jaw clenched. He gritted his teeth, releasing a sharp breath from his nose.

Slowly, you bent at the waist, shifting a little on your knees. Your face was right next to his length as you held it up by the base, stroking languidly.

Johnny felt your breath hit his shaft and his eyes snapped open. You saw how his chest stuttered, eyelid twitching at the sight. How the indent of your spine drew a curve that tipped at your ass, tilted up. The lashes framing your doe eyes fluttering right next to his cock. Your lips pink, as if they might have caught teeth. The sheen of his precum around your fingers.

Johnny could’ve come right then and there.

To prevent it, he slid his eyes shut again. It was useless, because he felt that plush mouth he loved oh, so dearly, leave a trail of slow kisses from his base up to his angry-red tip. Johnny hissed a string of curses, wringing his eyes closed until his lids wrinkled.

You lingered a little more on his tip with your lips barely grazing it, tasting the salt of him and reveling in the desperation he was showing. Not a bad thing – this wasn’t that kind of torment you hated to see. Indeed, you liked it.

Very much so.

“Johnny,” you whispered, “Look at me, baby.”

Johnny could only oblige; however, he did beg whatever deity up there to give him enough resolve not to cum on your hand. His eyes drifted open and the sight of you, once again, threatened to have him end the moment way too soon.

He gulped. A fruitless endeavor, because his mouth was dry and his throat stuck. He parted his lips to mumble something. Something incoherent and jumbled because his brain was haywire.

Whatever he had to say, however, came out as a choked sound. Your lips parted further and wrapped around his head. Your heavy-lidded gaze locked with his much too wide eyes, and Johnny crumbled once and for all.

“Christ,” was the first sensed word he growled. His head fell back against the pillow, but that made you still.

He moaned again. Not that sound you liked, but more like a lament – why did you stop. Your mouth left his shaft with a sonorous pop. His head lifted and he glowered – how dare you.

“Eyes on me, Johnny.”

His breath hitched, and he thought you couldn’t have looked more beautiful. His eyes softened at the order, and he gave a simple nod, trying not to look as desperate as he felt and failing spectacularly.

You grinned, and he corrected himself: you could look more beautiful.

Whatever devoted thought was about to cross his mind was stopped in its tracks when you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock. Tortuously slow.

You used your hand at the base to slap the head against the flat of your tongue while your other palm rested on his thigh, feeling how he tensed beneath you. Only then, your lips returned around his cock. The muscles in his neck bulged and the tendons tightened, resisting the urge to just flop back once again.

His hips gave yet another tiny jerk, and he bit his bottom lip. "Careful, pet," he warned you, his voice strained against the rock lodged in the back of his throat.

He reached down and grasped at your hair but did not pull, simply just holding on to give you a sense of where his hands were. He wished he could sit up and ram his cock down the back of your throat. He knew you’d take it – fuck, he knew. 

But he’d used enough strength to gain the current reward, which was also the other reason why his muscles felt too syrupy to hold him up.

The tight grip on your hair almost made your eyes roll back at the promise of what it could’ve meant. The memories of how good he’d guide your head down his length made your cunt flutter around nothing.

You dived down until his tip reached the back of your throat. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to breathe from your nose.

“God, sweetheart,” he moaned. Didn’t growl, or groan. John fucking MacTavish moaned, and you were unsure whether you liked this more than the gruff sounds you were used to.

You rose up again and then rammed down. Up, and down. Again, and again. And Johnny thought he could’ve cried. His chest heaved and his lungs burned – struggling to keep up with his rapid intake of air. His thighs tensed.

“Just like tha’.” He stuttered, voice cracking at the edges, “Yes, love. Yes.”

It took a lot of him not to collapse right back against the pillow and just enjoy the feeling and the obscene sounds you were making. And while his eyes stayed focused on you because you had commanded so, he also didn’t want to deprive them of the sight that you were.

You knew his tells: breathy voice, taut quadriceps, those tiny jerks of his hips to meet your mouth. Your hand curled at the base to help you out in your endeavor, stroking lightly and twisting as your mouth still worked. Your eyes locked on him, lidded and watery. Tears down your flushed cheeks.

A fucking sight alright, Johnny thought.

With the last spurs of strength left in his body, he selfishly pushed your head down, burying your nose in his curls. He groaned a desperate “Oh, fuck”, lifted his hips to meet you halfway. With a shudder, you felt him empty himself down your throat.

The grip he had on your hair tightened to the point of delicious pain, stinging your scalp. Johnny's legs went stiff under your touch. His cock twitched, buried deep down your throat, as spit and cum bubbled at the corners of your stuffed mouth.

You didn’t fight how your eyes rolled back this time. Struggling to breathe through your nose as you obediently swallowed.

Johnny allowed himself to collapse back against the pillow. Unfocused and dazed. The way his orgasm hit, like a needle puncturing his brain, made him think that maybe you were right and he’d gone and done it – the hemorrhagic stroke, or whatever it was you said.

When you finally pulled back, Johnny looked down at you with hooded eyes. His chest was still rising and falling at an alarming pace. And just when he thought it was over, that the bliss had regrettably ended, you locked eyes with him. His mouth went dry again.

He slowly let the grip on your hair go to allow you some freedom to move. He reached out to touch the side of your face. His thumb skimmed your lower lip, smearing the spit and what was left of him on your cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly – more than just a compliment.

You blushed. As if your cheeks could get any redder.

After tucking him back into his pants and sweats, Johnny beckoned your face closer to his. You followed his guidance, only to have him curl his fingers at the nape of your neck to tilt your head, and let his lips meet yours.

He didn’t kiss your hungrily. He savored you, allowing your lips to slot, and your tongues to mold. He tasted himself on you, and you tasted yourself on him.

Johnny tucked you under his arm, guiding you to rest your head on his chest like before.

You looked up at him, a cheeky smile on your lips. Tapped your fingers over his heaving chest.

“Slow breaths,” you instructed, “Keep the blood pressure low, baby.”

He huffed, “Fuck off, darling.”

You laughed and nuzzled against him. Johnny could only chuckle with you – could only think you were a vision. And when your face lifted to prop your chin on his chest so your eyes could meet, when your smile beamed in his direction, he was sure you were one.

"Now will you," you tapped his nose with your finger, "Cooperate a little more?”

Johnny snorted.

His lips curled into a tiny smirk. His cheeks were flushed as well, a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. His eyes were droopy and a little dreamy when he took you in. You looked so beautiful his heart could’ve stopped, and if that were to be the last thing he saw, he would've died a happy man.

You were proud of him, and for the first time, he was proud of himself, too.

He fell silent and only basked in your glow, reveling in the sunlight you brought. The arm that held you by your waist traveled upwards, and he curled it around your head. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, tangling with some of your hair as well.

And Johnny thought he’d take it. He’d take it any day.

“Get that achievements list,” he whispered, “Wanna cross that shite myself.”

[alicerosejensen]

No time to die

Warning: Death of the reader; injuries; mention of blood; implied parting with Leon; Old leon; Fem!reader

Synopsis: he should have decided on his feelings before telling you about love. He should be taking care of you instead of running after Ada again, but now he will have enough time for this activity.

A/N: Sometimes I write about Leon's slippery ass. Well, I really had disturbing thoughts again.

If you were given a choice on whose hands to spend the last minutes of your life, you would never have chosen the hands of Leon S Kennedy.

In fact, you would rather lie in a pool of your own blood, moving away from him as far as possible, leaving dark scarlet streaks behind you, than let him help you. After all, despite all his love for this man, he caused you a very strong pain. Even stronger than what you feel now, when you try to get to your feet leaning on torn palms, spitting out a thick foam of blood.

Well, ordinary civilians can hardly resist a giant bioweapon that has crushed a bunch of people like bugs up to this point, but if Ada Wong was only slightly knocked down by a blow, which caused her to lose consciousness for a while, then you were thrown with such force that the organs inside seem to have turned into porridge.

But at that moment you didn't care anymore. The pain pierced every cell of your body and the only desire in your head was just to hide from it somewhere. Leon and his endless love for Ada didn't care anymore, but this pain will always remain in your heart. After all, he came to her aid and not to you.

You started coughing up blood. From every breath it became increasingly unbearable to breathe, and then you lost that fragile balance that you found for a couple of short seconds, collapsing on shards of glass that crumbled under your weight. Everything swam before your eyes. You didn't have the strength to curse anyone because all you wanted was not hugs and a declaration of love, but for this painful hell to end faster! A grunt escaped from your throat when someone tried to turn your body over and provide first aid, but only blood splattered out of your mouth.

"God," Leon's partner looked at you with big frightened eyes, trying to think of something, but stopped when you gathered the remnants of your strength and grabbed her hand, looking at the gun in her holster.

The last mercy for the dying.

"Please..." your hoarse, very quiet whisper begged Helena to "finish it"

Tears flowed from red eyes mixing with the blood that was on your face. From this pain, the vessels in your eyes burst and it seems that the only way out was a kind of voluntary euthanasia by a bullet in the head and not waiting for your body to stop fighting death before the damaged organs stop working themselves.

And then Helena's loud voice was heard calling Leon to finally break away from his beloved and pay attention to the dying you. If your condition were better, you would spit this very blood in his face. However, he really ran up to you after a couple of seconds, laying you on his lap, trying to do everything carefully so as not to cause additional pain. You didn't really want to spit, but you accidentally soiled his face when he stroked your hair.

Crimson thin rivulets slowly poured out of your nose and you closed your eyes a little at a new outbreak of suffocating pain that filled your whole body reflexively clinging to Leon's hand. His skin showed signs of broken nails, but he didn't seem to mind. It was unbearable for you to take even a small breath; even one attempt was accompanied by a bloody, foamy, painful cough at the edge of your mouth. It was like Hell.

Leon seemed to be looking for something that could help you, delay death, but Helena already understood everything. Anyone who saw you would understand that the injuries you received were not compatible with life.

“Please don’t...please,” Leon muttered, trying to stop the scarlet stain spreading under your chest. “Baby, I know, I know it hurts, but be patient.”

“Leon...” his partner called quietly, hinting that it was pointless.

And at some point you noticed Ada looking at you without pity, without disgust, without any other emotions. Just another corpse that crossed their path. Wong only had a couple of scratches. She did not writhe in agony and Leon would quickly find solace in her immediately after your death, this thought made your body gather its last strength and with a tearing cough look at the man in front of you, in whose eyes you could see fear for your life. On your last breath, you decided to hurt him before you die, as punishment for what he did to your heart, crushing it like a paper ball, and then tearing it apart, throwing you pathetic scraps... Well, that's how you saw it.

Leon caught that look, something in it even scared him, but your next words, which were the last, were forever imprinted in his memory and on his heart. Because you knew how painfully he endures the fact that someone hates him. You pulled your hand out of his and with hatred hissed something that was not even true in essence. It's just that at this very moment you wanted him to understand what pain he caused you with his love for Ada Wong.

"I... ha-te... you"

Everything inside Leon snapped in the same second. His love for Ada has remained a pain in your heart, but... the same pain will remain in him. The last breath, and your eyes, which he loved so much, glazed over, and your mouth remained slightly ajar. Ada... she didn't say anything, but was she surprised? Leon grabbed your hand again, trying to feel at least a weak pulse, but the words you said were pounding in his head, making tears flow from his eyes.

"No," he whispered softly, unable to believe what was happening. You couldn't die in his arms like that and you couldn't say those words. You had no reason to say those words to him! "Come on, look at me, I'll take you to a safe place. They will help you"

Helena put her hand on his shoulder, realizing how it hurt him in the end. He doesn't even have the opportunity to leave your body in a safe place and all he and Ada could do was watch him stroke your cheek with one hand holding your shoulders. The pose is exactly similar to when he defended Ada in China, only she was able to survive and you unfortunately did not.

"It's not your fault... no one is to blame for her death," Ada only said. She felt sorry for him " And her words... Leon..."

"She was not herself," Helena picked up, looking at Leon silently

Ada at some point correctly decided that it was out of jealousy. Just the last time to prick a loved one knowing that he will keep these words to himself for a long time. But they didn't have time for mourning and tears, however, even she didn't have the tongue to tell Leon to leave you here. So she just asked for his jacket and wrapped you in it, believing that you really would like it - to be enveloped in the fragrance of a loved one before death.

now was simply not the time and place to grieve, but even she did not understand the meaning of the words you said. After all, Leon really left her for you. Ada couldn't give him the stability and love he needed. Their complicated relationship hurt Leon in a way, but with you he became a normal person. She understood this, so she calmly retreated, because neither he nor she had ever felt sincere love for each other. Leon found this bright feeling in you by breaking off even short dates with her forever, and all Ada could do was really help him later.

Your death was committed out of place and all three of them understood that from Leon now only the shadow of the former man will remain and he himself will wallow in alcohol constantly replaying your dying words on repeat.

You really shouldn't have told him that.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Video Games Part 11

Alien: So what is this one about? Human: Vampires in the wild west. Alien: Sounds interesting. Human: You’d think so, but when the main characters are as animated as the undead monsters they fight it’s pretty hard to take them seriously. Alien: From your own admission they are fighting vampire cowboys…..how serious were you expecting it to be? Human: ……. Touché. ---------------------

Alien: What is “The Quarry”? Human: Murder porn and sadness. Alien: ……………… ------------------------

Alien: “Boltgun”? Human: A man too angry to die because of what a sassy bitch he is. Alien: How does being sassy make you avoid death? Human: Because even death is afraid of being mocked so hard. ---------------------

Alien: Why would anyone want to play an aquatic predator? Human: You ever just look at someone and wonder what they’d taste like? Alien: I believe that is called cannibalism. Human: Not unless you’re a giant fish. ---------------------

Alien: Why does the tiny creature have a machine gun? Human: To stop you from eating it. Alien: Most effective. ---------------------

Alien: I heard this one is a popular game. Human: Eh, I guess. Alien: What do you mean “eh”? Alien: There have been five of them made. Human: It’s mostly made for people that like to watch a slow mo shot of a bullet going through a man’s balls over and over. Alien: What sadistic beings are you?!? Human: You should let me tell you about Meat Boy sometime for more context. ---------------------

Alien: This one looks cute. Alien: It’s about a brother in sister in your primitive era. Human: And a shit load of rats. Alien: What? Human: Yeah, you can make the rats devour a man whole as he screams and begs for his life. Alien: I…..but…..just….why? ----------------------

Alien: Why on florps name would someone want to play a game about manual labor? Alien: is not the point of your entertainment games to seek enjoyment? Human: Some people feel pleasure from a job well done. Alien: That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Human: Didn’t your people worship a rock a couple centuries back because when the light hit it the thing sparkled? Alien: ………touché. -------------------------

Alien: I wish to escape this bunker. Human: You just need to find some dynamite and a plunger to trigger it. Alien: Sounds easy enough. Human: And avoid the ancient giant rat god stalking the halls of the bunker. Alien: What is with your people and rats?!!?!?!? ----------------------

Alien: What is this “Crackdown 3” about? Human: A cops fantasy about how they view themselves. Alien: How so? Human: They see themselves fighting crime when more often they help prop up a totalitarian regime. Alien: Did not the second one have monsters in it? Human: That’s how they see poor people. Alien: Holy gargle…..that’s messed up. --------------------

Alien: What is this one? Human: Designing overly elaborate death machines to murder guys in metal suits with swords. Alien: Is that not what we did to your people during the third age of your species? Human: Come again? ------------------

Alien: Is this game about zombies? Human: More a social experiment. Alien: How so? Human: It has no set rules or goal in a zombie apocalypse, but more often you find people choosing the worst things to do to each other for shits and giggles. Alien: It can’t be all that bad. Human: I watched a group of high level players capture a new player, strip them of their gear, and force them to drink bleach under pain of death for a meme. Alien: ……………….. ----------------------

Human: How’s the new game goin- Alien: *Grabs human friend and sprays them with foam Alien: Good…you’re not one of them. Human: spits out foam One of what? Alien: A shape shifter! Alien: They were everywhere on the station and that made me wonder if those bastards are here in the home as well! Human: Wouldn’t say they’re all bastards. Table: Yeah, some of us are actually nice fellows. *Alien and Human both scream*

[sant-riley]

GenZ!Reader: Do it. Take the shot.

Soap, with a nerf gun: You concern me

He still takes the shot tho

Soap shoots you and you end up with a bruise with how close range he hit you in the face so you go running to Price like 🥺 Johnny hit me in the face, it hurts.

Price rolls his eyes while he holds your face in his hands, his thumb brushing over the mark.

"You're a piss poor soldier, getting a bruise from a piece of foam."

"He shot me!"

Soap catches up and he's rolling his eyes and mocking you "He shot me~", snickering when you turn around at him and pout, your arms clinging around Prices shoulders. The captain sighing deeply as he shakes his head to ward off his impending headache.

"You asked for it, no point getting upset about it now."

In the midst of Soap and yours game, you forgot the other player you had invited.

Soap feels the cool plastic of a nerf gun brush against the back of his head, swearing under his breath before the foam bullet hits his head full force.

"Fucks sake Ghost!" Bringing up a hand to rub at the skin, turning around and glaring up at the older man.

Ghost just stares down at the scot, looking up towards you and seeing you giggle at Johnny's pain.

He shrugs a little, then reloads again.

[inklessletter]

Steve and Eddie are different in many ways, but they are very much the same in many others. Eddie is a ball of energy that often needs to be redirected, has strong opinions and shows his love through unexpected bites. Steve is the most comfortable when he's the host, he's a people pleaser, more easy going in conversations and so easily stressed when his routine gets fucked up.

Yeah, they're different. But what they have in common is that they know how to mold into each other's energy to brighten their days. To put a smile in their faces.

And they both love surprises.

Steve gives into Eddie's chaotic energy a random Friday after work because he knows Eddie's had a rough week, so he makes a plan. That night, Eddie came home to find all lights off and a single note in the coffee table:

Babe, I've got a surprise for you, but I need you to get ready. Look under the table.

When Eddie does, he finds another note attached to a black cawboy hat and one of his bandanas.

This is for the vibes, you gonna want to wear that tonight. Look in the fridge.

Eddie's smile keeps growing as he goes through the house, note to note finding props, building anticipation, his smile so wide his cheeks hurt now, until he was fully dressed as a cawboy, with a belt full of foam bullets and two guns. The last note is in the back door.

How you dare to come back to this place, you filthy bandit. You think you'd be welcome here after last time? You really think the sheriff is not here to put an end to your life, you goddamn traitor? Cross this door, and fight me, you coward.

Eddie's smile faded as he got into character, so goddamn ready to play the villain. He put the bandana across his face, covering his mouth and nose. Eddie crossed the door and found the back yard with with several hay bales (did Steve rent those out?) scattered all around, and waiting patiently, sitting in one of them, there was Steve, all fully dressed as a sheriff (even with a shiny gold star in his vest!), with a cigarette in his mouth, already wounding Eddie with a mischievous smile.

They played for a couple of hours until the roleplay got heated up and they ended up making each other come behind the hay bales, still in character. They only dropped the act when they came back into the house and they got each others clothes off, where the fun continued as themselves.

They didn't sleep that night. Eddie's smile lasted for days on, and Steve's love bites mark all around his body took a day or two to fade.

Yeah, Steve was a fucking perfect host.

Unbeatable, so.

Until Eddie took revenge.

[rae-writes]

Hey, I've had this idea for a little bit involving the obey me characters and wanted to do it, but I'm lazy as f*ck so maybe you can because your writing is very good.

I've just been imagining this but what if the obey me brothers and Mc had, like, a Prank War senerio, like maybe Lucifer vs the anti-Lucifer league and at some point there's a nerf gun war (and it's very dramatic) I don't know, just thought it might be funny. :)

I WAS ON THIS SO FUCKING FAST- LUCIFER VS ANTI-LUCIFER LEAGUE LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The iconic western duel music playing from Mammon's phone in the background almost had you breaking character, but somehow you managed to keep a straight face and raise your [nerf] gun higher.

"Mc?" Lucifer sat with Barbatos, Lord Diavolo, Solomon, and Simeon- all having been in a meeting (read: tea time) together.

"I'm sorry Lucifer..." You broke out into a grin, not being able to take the sight of your demon accomplices poking their heads out from behind the entryway, effectively making the dramatic moment shatter with your laughter.

Satan, Belphie, Mammon, and [a very much bribed] Levi stepped out into the common room with various complaints of you ruining the surprise attack and/or theatrical flair (to which you promptly ignored in favor of laughing harder).

"I just wanna say-" you cocked the plastic gun, aiming it in their direction, "I was promised pudding." and then you fired, hitting Lucifer square in the forehead, before shooting again and hitting Diavolo in the chest.

"ATTAAAACK!"

Hoots and hollers echoed off the walls as the House of Lamentation turned into a chaotic air soft range; Team Lucifer was now firing back with magic while the Anti-Lucifer League + Co was barrel-rolling across the floor and vaulting over furniture as they frantically shot the foam bullets you were all equipped with.

Truly, you didn't know exactly what the hell was going on for a while, only that Satan was going one-on-one with Lucifer, Belphie was taking shots at Diavolo from behind the couch, Mammon had the misfortune of being paired with Barbatos, and Levi was taking on Solomon (Simeon chose to sit on the sidelines and discretely help you).

"Mammon!" your over the top cry got everyone's attention- both the magic and bullets stopped flying as they watched you run to Mammon (who was sprawled on the ground) in amusement.

"M-mc," the second born's performance was even more dramatic than yours, "I feel cold...I t-think m'dyin, mc. U-use Goldy at least t-three times a day for m-me."

Practically in tears from laughing, you quickly tugged Mammon's body up to shield you from Solomon's attack, "LOVE YOU! THANKS!" and made your way to Satan to begin shooting at Lucifer again.

Lucifer is relentless with his magic attacks, not even blinking when you barely managed to dodge, even going so far as chuckling when Diavolo and Barbatos joined him- having defeated Belphie and Mammon.

(Belphie ended up tiring himself out and just stopped mid-roll, allowing Barbatos to land his attack. The seventh born just gave a thumbs up and went limp on the floor so he could just lay there and watch the rest of the game play out).

The five of you were all that was left when Solomon and Levi called a tie ("Shut up, Mammon! I might be a good shooter, but it's kind of hard to land a blow when he's firing shit at me that's breaking apart into more attacks!"), making the competition even more tense. It was evenly paced for at least three minutes before Barbatos withdrew.

"Give up now, Lucifer," Satan sent you a subtle nod, "Or suffer the consequences."

"You couldn't even beat me by yourself. How do you expect to win with Diavolo by my side?"

The largest magic attack that's been used this entire game came from said demon, directed right at Satan with a 100% certainty of landing.

That is, until it slammed into you instead.

Your body flew a couple feet back, skidding across the hardwood upon landing. The entire room went silent as the two opposing members rushed forward with your name falling from their mouth.

Lucifer reached you first, lifting your head to check for injuries softly, "Mc? Does anything hurt?"

"Mc, I'm so sorry-!"

You gripped Lucifer's wrist, tugging weakly (as if you had no strength), "Luci..fer.."

The first born leaned down, conveniently missing the bullet that hit Diavolo's shoulder. "What hurts?!" he was so uncharacteristically worried- it almost made you feel bad. Almost.

"Long live the Anti-Lucifer League."

Satan landed a hit right on the back of Lucifer's neck and a deafening cheer erupted from your other team members. It was all celebration and laughter and recounting the night's highlights until you let out a hiss after trying to sit up.

"That actually did hurt, though, can someone help me up? I might've sprained something....again."

"I'm so, so sorry!"

"It's alright, Lord Diavolo- it was all part of the plan-"

"-getting injured?"

"...Not that part, but winning definitely was. Can I have my pudding now?"

[silkscreaming]

I made a volume 10 trimax vash cosplay for MAGfest and I am SO proud of how it came out :) Some process stuff below! Warning for image and text heavy.

Truthfully this cos is only about 85% complete—I’d purchased a bunch of hardware to really go in on a volume accurate version of his undersuit and belts, but simply ran out of time before the con. It was the first cosplay I’ve sewn since 2017 and the first wig styling I’ve done since 2020, so I’m not gonna beat myself up too much!

(This is all purse hardware off Etsy and some buttons from M&J trim)

This was my first time ever making a muslin mock-up, but I knew it was going to be necessary to get the coat to lay the way I wanted it to. I really wanted to try and create proportions that elongated the legs/torso and widened the shoulders by placing the coat tail splits appropriately and raising up the shoulders with some padding. And of course arm and leg details that I’ll get to someday lol.

I created two mock-ups. One of basic muslin that helped me go from an existing pre-bought pattern to something more Vash-shaped, then a second one on a slightly sturdier scrap fabric with my finalized torso proportions with padding so I could accurately pattern out the sleeves and collar.

I was tracing my pattern pieces onto newsprint and vellum as I went, so once all of those were finalized, it was time to cut my fabric! I used a heavy cotton twill from B&J fabrics and two kinds of fusible interfacing from Mood (I’m spoiled by being local to the fashion district these days). A smarter person would have bought a thinner fabric to line the inner torso with, but I did not feel like getting that complicated with my first ever muslin-drafted AND lined project, so I simply cut double of every pattern piece in order to create a lining.

Sleeves were done by interfacing and cutting into a top panel, carefully snipping at the cutout portions, ironing and fabritacking in place, and then top stitching the whole piece to the main sleeve. I later added some leather backing squares and interfacing behind the larger eyelets for aesthetic while keeping the ventilation in tact. Ideally in the future I'll also add a strip of fabric to the gun arm that creates a slight bunching effect since that sleeve is a little more ruffled over the cuff. Photos below also include three shoulder pads pinned together on each shoulder, but I ended up forgetting not using them on my final wear.

Unfortunately at this point I was approaching con time, so I started cutting some corners that I made easily replaceable for future upgrades. The coat tabs are just painted craft foam cut to the size of the buttons, tacked in place where the button pierces through the tab and where it wraps around the edge of the front panel. The straps that attach to the lapel and wrap under the arms also were just decorated with some silver trim instead of hardware, and I skipped the side button panels at his hips for pattern-making simplicity and time. They'll be added later! I'd also love to do some weathering, but don't think I can quite bring myself to riddle the coat tails with bullet holes as some people do haha.

Gun arm attachment was also a quick and dirty addition, just some vinyl trim on eva foam attached with contact cement and a decorative button. First time working with contact cement somehow, but I look forward to also being able to upgrade this at a later date to a more accurate shape with the full belt attachments!

I was also hoping to update the shoes a bit by making some boot covers for them and rub-n-buffing the soles to disguise the platform a bit, but I love my pick for the cleat-look that Vash has! Some good ol' Demonias in classic vash fashion :)

Last but not least: The Wig. My pride and joy.

I got lucky enough to nab an Arda sale, I think right before Halloween, and picked up the Morpheus lace front in black, along with some extra wefts in pale blonde. (I also bought a whole separate pale blonde Morpheus wig, boldly thinking I could swing a normal trimax vash wig lol. It made for a convenient Eriks wig in the mean time.)

Since I was aiming for the end of volume 10 post-Wolfwood death look, I started by trying on the wig, roughly tracing out my hairline, then gently unweaving that portion of black in order to re-ventilate it with blonde.

After I replaced that whole strip of plucked hair, I tried on again to finalize where I needed to ventilate to cover my own hairline, and completed my outline with both blonde and brown-black wefts (i had them on hand lol). All in all, I ventilated more than 4 square inches of blonde, and at least a solid centimeter extension of the black hairline across the whole front of the wig. Probably close to 30 hours of work in the ventilating alone, but I am a little slow since I haven't ventilated in a few years and didn't keep clear track of time.

If there's one thing I should be used to by now about Arda wigs, they are THICK. There is zero teasing in this wig. None. Just got2b, a blowdryer, and a prayer. And a good load of bobby pins. The wig was also sadly a last minute hotel room mad dash, and I do hope to restyle it under less duress, but I do think I successfully achieved the Trimax swoop and am very proud of it! It was unbelievably windy on the walk from our hotel room to MAGfest, so the photos in the start of this post show a bit more droop than my initial styling, but I think I'll be able to touch things up next wear.

And of course, shoutout to my partner for gifting me the official glasses for Christmas :) And thank you to my roommates who barely saw me for a month and a half except for when I needed help with a hem lol.

All in all, I am unbelievably proud of this cosplay, I can't wait to put some more love into it and wear it again!

[callsignfate]

My dear, What are you going to do now?

Day Five of Writemas/Birthday posts!

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here TW: Talk of guns and fake weapons, Valeria hunts you? If I've missed any let me know!

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

Valeria endured a tedious day filled with dry paperwork. She huffed her way through the endless stacks until, succumbing to her boredom, she sought you out. Typically, you'd be in bed or somewhere close to the bedroom, avoiding Valeria's men who always seemed to be around.

She understood your need for space, even if she preferred having you close for reassurance that you were alive and well, combating her nagging thoughts.

Pushing open the bedroom door, she was surprised to find it empty. The room was neatly organized, and a brightly colored plastic gun sat on the bed. Caution etched her features as she approached, glancing at the note stuck to the bed.

'Here is your weapon, I have one too, good luck - xoxo your future wife.'

She scoffed but picked up the toy gun with a smile, stifling a small laugh. Turning on her heels, Valeria left the bedroom quickly, head moving rapidly as she inquired one of her men. He looked at her in confusion before pointing down the hallway, watching her laugh to herself as she headed in that direction, holding the brightly colored fake gun as if it were real.

Valeria repeated this process, asking her men about your whereabouts, each time following their directions as she stalked toward you. You had chosen a small corner with a large plant pot, a chair, and a small bookshelf nestled into it.

Spotting her from your cramped hiding spot, you slowly pulled out your Nerf gun, aiming it as she approached. The small click preceded the foam bullet shooting out, hitting Valeria in the leg. Her eyes widened before you leaped out of your hiding spot, dashing away while trying to stifle your laughter.

Valeria took off after you, yelling that she would win, playing along as she chased you. To your dismay, you took a left instead of a right, leading to a dead end. You cursed under your breath before Valeria laughed, standing only a few feet away.

"You've hit a dead end, my dear. What are you going to do now?" Valeria said, clicking her tongue in mock disapproval.

"Beg for my life?" You said, trying to act innocent and giving Valeria your best pouting puppy-dog eyes.

She scoffed before smiling and shaking her head. "It wouldn't work; El Sin Nombre can be pretty ruthless," she said playfully, observing your every move carefully.

"Then I'll... run!" You said with a laugh, attempting to run past her. Her arm grabbed your waist, pulling you towards her roughly.

"You've lost, but I bet there's one way you could convince me to let you live," she hummed out lowly, pressing the fake gun to your side as she escorted you back to the bedroom, her lips whispering obscenities as she did.

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here

[marlynnofmany]

The only reason you can see more than eyes in this picture is because I messed with the contrast. The carpet's actually forest green.

And yes she IS ready to pounce in this picture.

Someday I will write a kids' book about "The Invisible Bitey Potato," about the black cat that curls up to hide in the shadows before attacking my ankles mercilessly.

It will take the literary world by storm, and no ankles will be safe.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Big Brave Man

Bleeding in Moonlight: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven |

CW: Creepy whumper, reluctant whumper, dehumanization, werewolf whump, hunting runaway whumpee

-

The last half-mile of the hike back home was always the worst part. The woods were at their thickest, which helped to hide the scattered buildings hidden down a dirt road from prying eyes, but it also meant it would be so easy to get lost, drift off the hidden path, and simply never be seen again. 

Austin had been taught the signs to watch for since he first learned how to walk, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a little worried every single time that he’d miss just enough of them to end up miles off course. He’d been taught to hold on to that worry, that it was people who were cautious who made it home.

Still, he was so damn tired now.

His legs were shaking from exertion, from the miles and miles he’d spent the day walking, clambering, and climbing. Exhaustion had his eyelids feeling heavier with every blink, but Austin knew better than to think he could head off to his own small room to sleep off the last twenty four straight hours of trying to find that little shitstain Rusty. 

He wasn’t even grown - how had a juvenile been able to get away so fast? The blood trail had made it clear that he’d been hit by one of the silver bullets… how had he managed to keep running? 

He was going to be in such deep shit with Bill about this.

Distracted, Austin tripped over a tree root and swore when he nearly dropped his rifle, scrambling not to let it touch the ground. His father would have something to say about that, too. You never put down your gun, he knew that rule better than any other. 

Especially not on a full moon, when werewolves wouldn't hesitate. When they would bite and tear and claw and shred in mindless violence until their sadistic desires were satisfied. Werewolves were at their worst during the full moon.

It was the first thing Austin had learned in homeschooling, how to recognize werewolves even in human form, what to watch for, and when they were most dangerous.

Reading, writing, math, history... the rest all came once Austin knew what to be afraid of. And how to do the wolves harm before they could harm him.

Even if those warnings didn't really match the captive pack that Bill kept for his search for a cure. Even if the wolves in the kennels had never acted the way he'd been taught they should.

Bill had always claimed it was because captivity made them safer to be around, made their viciousness weaker. But... sometimes Austin wondered.

Last night had been a full moon, and Rusty had run through a camp and then found his way to a car with campers and Austin had found an empty parking spot marked with only Rusty's blood. No bodies. No bones. No vicious monster growling and snarling with red-tinged foam around his fangs.

The moon was supposed to turn them into killers.

So why hadn't Rusty killed the campers?

He was too tired to think about this.

Once he finally eased out of the woods into the first of the compound’s small cleared spaces, what hit hardest was the silence.

The moon had begun to rise, and normally the wolves would have been restless in their kennels, human and canine forms shifting back and forth in sickening ways, desperate to run out the energy that coiled through their wiry wasted muscles. He’d have heard the scraping of accidental brushes against the silver-lined fencing, the little whimpers from the younger ones, the older shushing them. He’d have heard the whispers as he walked past, the growls, the whining pleas to be allowed to hunt.

They want to hunt you, Bill had always told him. You're the prey. They play at sounding weak and scared, but they'd rip your throat out if we let them.

Still. He'd always searched for that mindless rage in their eyes, and Austin had never seen it.

Now there was nothing to see at all.

The kennels were emptied out and silent. Nothing moved in the shadows. There was no soft pattering of paws in the dirt, no yellowed eyes gleaming in the dark. 

Austin turned away before he could acknowledge the guilt that still tugged at him, a sickening pull at his insides. 

The kennels were silent, because all of the wolves were now on the other side of the barn, far enough away where hopefully the smell wouldn’t be too overpowering. The wolves were all in the pit they’d spent days digging, just to shoot the creatures they’d kept as long as Austin had been alive or longer.

That’s where the last of the gleaming yellow eyes had gone.

He wondered if any of their eyes were still open, under the dirt they'd piled on top of the bodies, and shivered. 

All his father’s hard work had faltered. There was only so much to learn, and every attempt at a cure had been fruitless. But at least, Austin thought, there wouldn’t be any more mournful howls in the darkness when they took the puppies from their mothers. At least he wouldn’t have to watch his father’s tests any longer, holding the creatures down in human or wolf form so blood could be drawn or bits cut off for Bill’s experiments. He wouldn't have to hear their screams of pain.

At least there was that.

Really, what they had done was a mercy, right? The werewolves had been miserable, and frightened, and now they were neither. It had been a mercy to give them death.

Keep telling yourself that, Austin. Whatever keeps the look on Rusty’s stupid wolf face when he dug out of the pit out of your mind, right?

Whatever helps you sleep at night.

Coward.

Not that he'd be sleeping any time soon, considering he still had to give his debrief to Bill, and he was starving hungry, too. Needed a shower. Needed to work out the nervous, jittery energy that still coiled underneath the fatigue that made each step drag a little more with every foot of distance he covered. 

Austin’s feet were barely moving by the time he made it to the house, fingers fumbling at the handle to the screen door, his boots scraping along the concrete steps. “Mom?” He called, voice heavy and husky. The moon hung full above him, and it felt absurdly like it was watching him - just one big white eyeball in the sky, all pissed off.

He cut off a half-hysterical giggle that threatened to erupt, like a volcano. God, he was so tired. He needed sleep so badly.

Wherever Rusty was, he was probably enjoying the moonlight. Gone rabid and torn out the campers' throats and rolled in their blood. Then again, maybe he’d bled out and died somewhere after he’d found those damn campers to treat him like a shelter dog.

That would make things easier, if they could just find the body.

But first they had to find the people he’d caught a ride with.

“Austin!” His mother appeared, looking as tired as he did, her hair a frizzy mess still drying from her nightly shower, already wearing her quilted flower-print robe over her nightdress. She moved to him, then wrinkled her nose and stopped, still a good couple feet away. “Oh, honey. You are absolutely filthy.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Running on pure muscle memory, he unloaded the rest of the silver bullets from the rifle, then set it into the empty spot on the racks mounted along the wall just inside the door. Next step was putting the bullets back in the special wooden box full of them, listening to the click as each one dropped back in. Minus the one he'd lodged, he thought, pretty deep in Rusty's leg.

Only then could he lean over to untie the laces to his boots. A new wave of exhaustion hit like a wall of bricks and he found himself listing to one side, knocking a shoulder into the wall. “Shit.”

“Language,” Sandra scolded automatically, without much feeling. Austin had hit adulthood years ago, and by now it was mostly just an instinct because of the younger kids. Not that any of them were still awake, not this late. “Did you find Rusty?”

Austin exhaled. 

Sandra read the answer in his face, and she sighed. “Oh, honey. Your father’s not going to like that.”

“Yeah, Mom, I know. Bill hates everything I do, though, so it shouldn’t be too different from any other day for me.” The first pulses of a headache threatened, his growing fatigue was rapidly becoming a heavy weight alongside the beat of his heart. He left his muddy boots on the mat and made his way to the fridge. He’d downed half the beer before he even thought to take a breath, rubbing a hand over the shadow of stubble that had already started to grow. “To answer your question, though… I actually did find him. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Her eyebrows furrowed in concern and more than a little disapproval. “What does that mean, ‘sort of’? Don’t tell me you let Rusty go.”

“I’m not stupid, Mom.” Austin let his forehead drop against the cool stainless steel of the fridge, closing his eyes. If he could just sleep, this would go so much better. If he had time to plan what he would say, to think it through. “I didn’t let him go.”

“Then-”

His father’s voice came booming from another room. “Sandra? Is that Austin come back?”

“Yes!” Austin’s mother took in a breath, and gave Austin a slight smile. “Just a minute and he’ll be right in there.” She patted Austin on the arm and walked past him, heading for Bill’s office. Austin followed, a little helplessly, the pit of dread in his stomach growing step by step.

He should’ve been moved out and married by now. Why was he still here, following his father’s orders? Why did he still get worried when his dad was disappointed in him? Why had he let his father tell him none of the girls from their meetups had been right for him?

Why hadn't he just gotten into a car and driven until he ran out of gas years ago, set up a new life wherever he found himself? He used to dream about it. Join a construction crew or something, where they could pay him under the table. Get an apartment with some roommates and learn how to take care of himself.

He used to dream about it.

Now, he thought, he'd just dream about dead wolves in the dark.

He took the beer with him, and he ignored Bill’s disapproving stare when he stepped into the doorway. It was his own beer, and just because his father had stopped drinking a few years ago thanks to some revelation about God’s will or other, didn’t mean that Austin thought the same way. 

So brave, a mocking inner voice whispered. Such a big brave man, defying your father about beer while killing a dozen werewolves on his orders.

Bill’s office was all wood paneling and dim lamps, giving it the feeling of some barely-explored cave covered in piles of paper - including seemingly every receipt for every purchase he'd ever made. Alongside the boxes of paper were old leatherbound books and the mounted heads of elk, deer, regular wolves, and more lining the walls. 

Bill sat in an overstuffed leather easy chair he kept in here - Austin was pretty sure half his time spent ‘working’ in his office was actually spent napping in that damn chair. The older man’s hair and beard had long since gone mostly gray, and unlike Sandra, he wasn’t ready for bed, not yet. He was still wearing his flannel and jeans. His right hand rested on the head of the placid, pathetic creature that sat obediently next to him. Koko, a half-grown wolf with mostly gray fur tinged at the edges with the same rust-red that made up most of Rusty’s coat, was always like that - drugged to complacency, his blue human's eyes dull and barely aware of anything around him. 

He'd come from the same litter of pups as Rusty had, Austin thought. Same mother. It was hard to remember who'd been born when, it was just the wolves, after all.

Vicious fuckers. 

Are they, Austin? Or are you the monster hiding under their bed?

In this moment, it was Bill's stare that seemed far more likely to be followed up by violence.

Bill’s expression shifted into a deep frown. “I can tell just looking at you that you didn’t take care of Rusty.”

The disappointment burned - it always did - but Austin shoved it to the side. He wasn’t a little kid any longer, and he was too damn old to still feel like a boy chided for not doing the dishes after dinner. “I followed him as long as I could,” He said, keeping his voice low. He leaned against the doorway, refusing to come any closer than that, taking another drink of beer. He watched his father’s narrow eyes follow the movement of the bottle. “But then he left.”

"He what." His father's voice dropped to a depth Austin had only rarely heard before. 

Austin's fingertips burned cold, suddenly, as if he'd plunged his hand into a bucket of ice and held it until frostbite took hold. An answering chill took up heavy space in his ribs, just behind his heart. 

This is the strong brave man your father built, that inner voice mocked again. You’re as tame as Koko, just how he wants it. Even his own kids are just kept in a different kind of kennel.

"He-" Austin's voice broke, and he stopped, clearing his throat as best he could. He tried to tell himself strength impressed his father far more than kissing ass ever had. “He left with some campers. He got in a car with them. I lost the trail."

"Some campers," Bill repeated, voice flat now, stuck just one step above a growl. "You couldn’t get a shot in? What was all that training for, then? Are you so useless you can't hit the broad side of a-"

"I did!" Austin met his father’s eyes - and saw how Bill sat up a little. Austin rarely refused to lower his gaze. He almost never argued back. Hell, now that he thought about it, this might be the first time. 

But he couldn’t get the memory of the whining, howling, crying wolves out of his mind. The way they sounded, the way they moved, writhing as they died, trying to clamber over or hide under the dead bodies of the others. 

Rusty’s eyes had been ringed all in white before he’d taken off into the woods. Mad with terror, wearing blood from his pack, fleeing into the wood with the evil hunter on his heels.

That’s you, Austin. You’re the bad guy in the fairy tale. You're the monster. Big brave man chasing a frightened teenager through the woods. They make true crime shows about bastards like you.

Austin cleared his throat. Rusty wasn't human, he told himself. It wasn't the same.

It was.

It wasn't.

It was-

"I definitely shot him, Dad. Silver bullet, blood everywhere. But they bundled him into their car before I could track him all the way and the trail ended at the parking lot."

"Goddamn typical," Bill muttered. As if Austin failing was exactly what he had expected. As if he never did anything else.

“Language,” Sandra chided automatically.

Austin flushed dark with shame and a guilty anger of his own. “Dad-”

"No, Austin.” Bill sighed. His hand began to move, petting absently over Koko’s head. The wolf didn’t seem to even notice. Those clouded blue eyes weren’t seeing anything but whatever was inside Koko’s empty little head. “Don’t bother. This really is absolutely typical. I should've sent your mother, you were always a poor shadow of her skills."

"Bill, be nice," Sandra cut in, nervous herself, but Austin felt warmth at the sight of her squaring up her rounded shoulders on his behalf. "Austin’s just tired. Considering everything he'd had to do before he had to take off after Rusty-"

"Woman-" Bill tensed, as if ready to push himself out of his recliner.

When Sandra turned on him, though, he fell back, looking up at her, vaguely startled. "Oh, don't you dare 'woman' at me, or my cast iron and I will have something to say," Sandra snapped back. She stood like she was made of iron, too, arms crossed in front of her. "When have I ever let you call me 'woman', Bill, huh?"

Bill was silent for a long moment before looking uncomfortably away from her. "Never."

"Damn straight."

“Language,” Austin teased, and was rewarded with his mother’s tired smile and his father’s irritated scowl. 

“Fine. Austin... worked hard last night.” It sounded like he was confessing to a sin, just admitting his oldest son had done anything right. Austin tried to take the compliment for what it was, but still resentment festered. He was the oldest of the twelve children, and he’d spent his whole life working to help his father build the compound into what it had become. 

And yet he was always the one who fell short of his father’s expectations - not because they were too high, but because of something inside of Austin his father had simply never liked. 

Maybe he's just mad that you're only a killer against your will.

“Still,” Bill continued, voice heavy. “Still, we lost one of our wolves.”

“But only one,” Austin countered. “The rest of them are handled, Dad. We made sure. Rusty was the only survivor. Well, except for Koko.”

Koko's ear twitched, once, and those hazy blue eyes focused briefly on Austin. Austin had a thought - just the slightest impression - that there was a fathomless loathing for him in those human eyes trapped inside a canine face. A hatred that ran so deep Austin couldn't see into its depths, could never begin to understand it.

Then Koko laid heavily down on the floor, resting his chin on his paws, looking like he'd drift off at any moment. The bulky prong-collar he wore clearly pinched a little, as he winced and shifted. The hate faded into cloudy nothing again.

Bill glanced down, the first time he'd looked at the young wolf so far. "Koko barely counts. He’s a good boy.”

Where Bill couldn’t quite see, Koko’s lip lifted on one side, briefly showing fang, before his eyes drifted shut. 

Austin opened his mouth to mention to Bill that Koko maybe wasn’t quite as docile as he seemed, but Bill spoke before he could. “And we can't start fresh if one of them's out there hurting people because of you.”

“Start fresh?” The cold dread returned, but for a totally different reason now. The kennels full of crying puppies taken from their mothers, the wolves pacing and shifting and howling and whining... He couldn't do that again. Not when the silence already weighed heavier than lead. “Dad… you said this was it, that we were done.”

“Yeah, with this group. But they aren’t the only monsters out there. And we’ll figure out how to cure them eventually. I’m going to take in a new pack and start in on some new ideas I’ve had about silver particles in blood transfusions-”

“... Dad.. No.” Austin thought about having to fire on the wolves, one by one. Watching the light leave their eyes, watching their frantic fight to live. The years of his life he'd spent holding them down while his mother or father tested things on them, feeling their chests rise and fall in frantic terror while they were restrained into stillness. His stomach flipped. He had to fight bile that threatened to rise in his throat, tensing all his aching muscles to try and distract himself with the pain. “Dad, you can’t. I… I can’t do all that shit again.”

“Austin, language-”

“No, Mom! I-I’m done. I’m so… I’m so done. I can’t do this any longer.”

Bill sighed, shaking his head. But he didn’t burst out in rage, like Austin expected. It was so much worse - he just looked profoundly, deeply, painfully disappointed. “You let them get too close to you. Started seeing them as people and not what they are. I should’ve expected it. Your little brother can take over your duties, but not until we bring Rusty home or get rid of the threat.”

Austin closed his eyes. One last thing, and then he could stop having to be a part of this? That… sounded like his father throwing him a lifeline.

Big brave man doing what Daddy says because then he'll let you quit.

If he lets you quit.

He grabbed onto it with white knuckles and took a deep breath. “Fine. Okay. So, we got off track. I... I told you I tracked him to the parking lot by the trails.”

“Right.” Bill nodded, thoughtfully. “But you lost him after that."

“He clearly got into a car with some campers, probably the ones whose camp he ran through. In any case, I, uh, I called the park ranger, said we'd had some poachers on our land." Austin's voice was a little breathier than he meant it to be. 

Bill's eyebrows raised, and he gestured with one hand for Austin to keep talking. 

"He wouldn't show me the security camera, some kind of regulation, but… but he said he got a record of the license plate.”

“He gave that to you?”

“After I gave him a hundred dollars, he did. I wrote it down, so... so we can do something with that, right?"

"Did he tell you what state it was from?"

"He did. Iowa."

Bill's expression finally cracked into a rare smile. Even Sandra relaxed, and Austin felt his own aching muscles soothing, too. "Well. That we can work with. We’ll finish things with Rusty and call that your resignation from the family business. I'll give you some cash to get you started, after that. And you'll promise to call your mother once a week."

"Once a week at least," Sandra added. "I'd like a few times a week, really. Oh, and maybe you'll meet a nice girl-"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Sandra," Bill said, but he'd softened, and Austin felt hope for the first time. He tried not to acknowledge it, afraid Bill would see the way his expression changed and feel the need to smash him back down again.

He cleared his throat. "I want to go live in a city somewhere.”

“Your mother and I fled that life for a reason, but I suppose every generation has to learn about the evils of cities all on their own.” Bill sighed, shaking his head. But Austin could tell this meeting was finally about to end. His bed waited, and Austin knew he'd barely make it upstairs to collapse into it.

Bill hummed. “Have a good night’s sleep, get yourself rested, and when you wake up you should pack your things for a trip. You and me are going to go track Rusty down before anyone else gets hurt."

Austin didn’t point out that the only ones who’d gotten hurt in this were the wolves. “Fine. Just the two of us?”

“You, me… and Koko.”

Koko's eyes opened again. They rested on Austin, briefly focused with an intensity that Austin had never seen in the young wolf's face before.

It occurred to Austin that maybe Rusty wasn't the wolf who wanted to rip his throat out the most.

-

@finder-of-rings  @burtlederp @deluxewhump @scoundrelwithboba @shrimpwritings 

@yassifiedinformation @wildfaewhump @whatwhump @honeycollectswhump @tundra-tiger

@dont-look-me-in-the-eye @there-will-always-be-blood @fangedcinnamonroll @pigeonwhumps @yassifiedinformation

[thebrickinbrick]

The Heroes, Part One

All at once, the drum beat the charge.

The attack was a hurricane. On the evening before, in the darkness, the barricade had been approached silently, as by a boa. Now, in broad daylight, in that widening street, surprise was decidedly impossible, rude force had, moreover, been unmasked, the cannon had begun the roar, the army hurled itself on the barricade. Fury now became skill. A powerful detachment of infantry of the line, broken at regular intervals, by the National Guard and the Municipal Guard on foot, and supported by serried masses which could be heard though not seen, debauched into the street at a run, with drums beating, trumpets braying, bayonets levelled, the sappers at their head, and, imperturbable under the projectiles, charged straight for the barricade with the weight of a brazen beam against a wall.

The wall held firm.

The insurgents fired impetuously. The barricade once scaled had a mane of lightning flashes. The assault was so furious, that for one moment, it was inundated with assailants; but it shook off the soldiers as the lion shakes off the dogs, and it was only covered with besiegers as the cliff is covered with foam, to reappear, a moment later, beetling, black and formidable.

The column, forced to retreat, remained massed in the street, unprotected but terrible, and replied to the redoubt with a terrible discharge of musketry. Any one who has seen fireworks will recall the sheaf formed of interlacing lightnings which is called a bouquet. Let the reader picture to himself this bouquet, no longer vertical but horizontal, bearing a bullet, buckshot or a biscaïen at the tip of each one of its jets of flame, and picking off dead men one after another from its clusters of lightning. The barricade was underneath it.

On both sides, the resolution was equal. The bravery exhibited there was almost barbarous and was complicated with a sort of heroic ferocity which began by the sacrifice of self.

This was the epoch when a National Guardsman fought like a Zouave. The troop wished to make an end of it, insurrection was desirous of fighting. The acceptance of the death agony in the flower of youth and in the flush of health turns intrepidity into frenzy. In this fray, each one underwent the broadening growth of the death hour. The street was strewn with corpses.

The barricade had Enjolras at one of its extremities and Marius at the other. Enjolras, who carried the whole barricade in his head, reserved and sheltered himself; three soldiers fell, one after the other, under his embrasure, without having even seen him;

Marius fought unprotected. He made himself a target. He stood with more than half his body above the breastworks. There is no more violent prodigal than the avaricious man who takes the bit in his teeth; there is no man more terrible in action than a dreamer. Marius was formidable and pensive. In battle he was as in a dream. One would have pronounced him a phantom engaged in firing a gun.

The insurgents��� cartridges were giving out; but not their sarcasms. In this whirlwind of the sepulchre in which they stood, they laughed.

Courfeyrac was bareheaded.

“What have you done with your hat?” Bossuet asked him.

Courfeyrac replied:

“They have finally taken it away from me with cannon-balls.”

Or they uttered haughty comments.

“Can any one understand,” exclaimed Feuilly bitterly, “those men,—[and he cited names, well-known names, even celebrated names, some belonging to the old army]—who had promised to join us, and taken an oath to aid us, and who had pledged their honor to it, and who are our generals, and who abandon us!”

And Combeferre restricted himself to replying with a grave smile.

“There are people who observe the rules of honor as one observes the stars, from a great distance.”

The interior of the barricade was so strewn with torn cartridges that one would have said that there had been a snowstorm.

[mlmxreader]

At The Top of The Mountain | Simon Ghost Riley x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ "You hit him and I will knock your head from your shoulders'' w Ith ghost please ❞

: ̗̀➛ War is not merciful, it is not kind. Even one justifiable death is not enough to warrant it.

: ̗̀➛ blood, knife violence, gun violence, bombing, swearing, smoking, physical fighting, graphic depictions of dead bodies, graphic depictions of war

↳ PROSHIP/PROFIC/ETC DO NOT INTERACT

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The dead were piling high at the bottom of the mountain, soldiers crying as they were crushed by armoured vehicles and tanks alike; swallowed by the seemingly endless pits created by the heavy shells and grenades and mortars. A symphony of the worst kind of destruction.

Soldiers cried out for their mothers, but they would never come to collect their babies; not as the rats feasted on the fresh corpses and the wounded without discrimination. The enemy might have bled heavily, but it was not going to end there.

Stormclouds formed above, a heavy rain of pelting bombs that smashed into the already scarred lands and threw up great scabs to make the wounds larger and deeper.

A thin mist of greenish yellow was cast upon the fields, and the soldiers cried even more as they fell to their knees and coughed up foam and blood; their lungs on fire and their eyes melting slowly.

Even water was dangerous. In desperation, soldiers tried to hide and seek shelter, but where the bombs and bullets could not reach, the gas sought them out with ease. Making them spit venom that burned their insides and expelled them through chapped and blistered lips.

What mercy could ever be given?

A bullet in the skull was better than the gas, but it was somehow worse to survive. To see men turn to piles of ashes.

To see their torsos scattered up in branches whilst their limbs littered the dead trunks. Their legs and arms torn to shreds, exposing bone and frayed and torn uniform pieces; soldiers scrambled and fought over dead men's boots, tugging and pushing one another like starved wolves over a sheep carcass.

It was never going to be a place of mercy, a place of kindness; war was never going to give anyone the chance to die with dignity. It was either die for propaganda, or allow yourself to live with the guilt of knowing that you could not take anyone away from its powerful and all-consuming jaws.

Its gnashing teeth that shook chunks away from men's bodies and left them tossed carelessly across the land. At the bottom of the mountain, the bodies continued to pile up.

At the top of the mountain, however, it was far worse.

The rocks were slick and shaky, it was easy to slip and fall over the edge; you had seen it happen already. The rain was heavy, pulling your weight down as your uniforms grew heavier and heavier with every passing second; you were struggling to even pick up your rifle, hands slick and slippery from the rain and the mud coating your skin.

When you looked over to Ghost, though, your heart sank.

He was pinned down by a towering, hulking beast of a man screaming in Austrian German; he held a knife above his head, and you couldn't help it.

Dropping your rifle and launching yourself at him. He landed on his back, and you quickly sunk your knife into his shoulder.

"Scheisse!"

You pulled the knife out, not caring that the blood dripped thin and orange as the blade grew wet. "Shut the fuck up! You hit him and I will knock your head from your shoulders!"

"I will kill you!" He howled in a thick Tyrol accent.

You sunk the knife into his chest, then pulled it out. You didn't even blink as you did it; your stare growing distant and hazy the more that you plunged it into his body. Blood spattering across your face and running down your cheeks in a thick orange haze.

You couldn't stop, not until Ghost grabbed you by the back of your shirt collar and violently pulled you away. You stumbled back, falling onto your backside as you held the knife tightly in your hands. He knelt between your knees, shaking his head.

"Flanders?"

Your voice was broken and raw as you quietly responded, "Albert."

Ghost shook his head, unconvinced as he swallowed thickly. "You're not alright... wipe the blood off your face."

You didn't move as he got up, walking over the body you had left behind; he crouched down, finding a wallet and scoffing as he shook his head.

"König?" He grumbled. "Bit of an ego on this cunt... oi! C'mere!"

Steadily, you stood up, and walked over to him in a daze; you were shaking, and your gaze was still unfocused and hazy.

"Look at it," Ghost scoffed with disgust. "Piece of filth."

You didn't look down. "Uh-huh."

Slowly, he stood, and swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry I brought you here, y'know. This ain't... except for that cunt, this ain't war - just senseless fucking death."

"He attacked you..."

Ghost glared at you for a moment. "Yeah, and you risked everything to save me."

"He attacked you..." you repeated.

"You did good, soldier," he sighed. "I'd kiss you, but not until you've got that blood off your face."

He knew that he never should have allowed it; he knew that when you signed up to the mission with him, he never should have let Price agree to it.

Ghost never wanted you, his significant other, to be as scarred by war as he was.

But you were still a soldier, and he knew that. He knew that soldiers could never escape it no matter how hard they tried to.

All that needless and senseless death. All that pain and misery.

Was it really worth it?

Was there really any glory?

Was there any point?

"C'mon," Ghost said quietly, putting your arm around his shoulders. "I'm taking you back to the trenches. We'll get you cleaned up, yeah?"

You still didn't answer.

"Tell you what," he mused. "How's a packet of crisps and a sarnie sound? Price got some jam stored away, and I know he's got some cheese, too... make your favourite - cheese and jam, yeah?"

No answer.

Ghost didn't know what else to sigh as he sighed heavily, all but tugging you along with him.

War was never going to be kind.

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 20

Did you know? Hero and villain prompts were some of the first whump content I intentionally consumed! I will forever be salty that mainstream superhero content could never live up to those prompts.

Content warnings for: Gun violence, threats of death, and mildly suggestive comments

Giving Permission to Die

“So? What’s the plan today?” The villain shouted across the room at the hero whose captivity he’d been in for… a week, now. Maybe more.

“Finally giving you what you want,” he responded with a shrug, playing with the knife in his hands. Flip it over, switch hands. Flip it over, switch hands.

“You don’t look prepared to present me with your corpse.”

“Oh, my death wouldn’t end your sentence, my love.” The flipping game was getting boring, and he picked at dirt under his nails using the blade instead. “You’d be chained up here with the rotting thing until you passed away yourself. Not punishment enough for your crimes, but it’s better than letting you roam the streets.”

“Sounds like you’re not giving me what I want then.”

“Be glad my greatest sin is telling lies.” A pointed glare accused him of crimes he’d plead innocent to, yet again. The knife moved to scratch an itch with the flat of it. 

“You sure that torturing a man isn’t higher on that list?”

“The pen is mightier than the sword, love.” A gesture with the damned thing now. He pushed down the urge to point out the obvious differences between that little thing and a sword. But the dick joke was funny in his head and didn’t involve initiation of a measuring contest.

“And your forked tongue doesn’t salivate ink. Swords can make quick work of those.” 

“Oh, shall I try it out on yours?” The hero stuck out his tongue at him.

“Put me out of my misery first.”

The knife plunged into the floor and he stood, never taking his eyes off of the villain.

“That. That’s what I’m talking about. Always egging me on. Trying to make me go too far.” He stalked forward and pulled a pistol from the inside pocket of his jacket. Entirely concealed from the outside. “I’ll go too far today. Just for you.” 

“Cute prop.” He hid the way his body shivered at the sight, praying the hero wouldn’t call his bluff. He was chained to this wall by his ankles, wrists, and neck. It wouldn’t be useful to put himself in a more vulnerable position.

“Here, let me fire. Maybe you’ll believe it then.” The gun aimed at the concrete beside his head but he paused. “Oh, who am I kidding. I should save your hearing for the last few minutes of your life.”

Foam earplugs were thrust into his ears and held still while they extended to block the canal, and the other did the same for himself. 

“Now, where was I?” Of course, shouting loud enough to bypass the earplugs. He aimed only a foot to the left of the villain’s head, pulling away as far as he possibly could, and fired. 

The sound ricocheted around the room, admittedly too small to facilitate gunfire, and he grinned at the way his victim flinched, eyes going wide. He walked forward and plucked the bullet out from its newfound pocket in the concrete, scattering dust and chunks that had stood solid just moments before. 

It was still warm from being shot and he dropped his knees, pressing it into the villain’s hand and folding up fingers to protect it. It trembled in his grip. 

“Do you believe me now, dear?” he spoke low into their ear, making sure he could still hear the threatening tone.

“Leave. Put that damn thing away and leave. You won’t shoot me and I know it.”

He cradled his cheek with the gun. And slid it up to sit against his temple. 

“How confident are you?” 

“Deadly so.”

BANG.

The world was fuzzy from the shot. The noise too close to his head, bleeding into his vision despite the protection. He looked down at his hands to see the blood dripping down them, spraying from his forehead. But only the bullet rolling in his palm greeted him. 

“Oops, guess the magazine was out.” 

Comprehension was a struggle. His forehead burned, but without blood… the hero’s thumb reached up and he flinched back uselessly as it rubbed over the not-hole. It came back covered in soot, wiped against his jaw like it was nothing. 

“What…?”

He released the magazine from the gun and presented it. Empty. 

“You were right. I didn’t shoot you.”

“You…”

“Pulled the trigger? Absolutely. Let’s rectify that little mistake, love.” Another magazine from his pocket, showing the bullets loaded inside, and shoving it into place. 

Then the front sight pressed against the villain’s lips, wiggling between them and scratching his teeth. He shook his head, turning it to the side. 

“No, no. You asked me for this, baby. I’ll follow through for you.” His hand steadied his chin, squeezing his jaw, and the muzzle jammed into the teeth with the threat to break. He had no choice but to let it in.

Gunpowder was a repulsive taste. Ash and acid. Then metal, still warm from recent discharge, but cooling rapidly. He guided it in, not stopping when teeth clamped down in an attempt to ward it off. The muzzle pressed toward his gag reflex when the trigger guard finally brushed his lips and he sighed, a whiny pathetic thing. 

“C’mon. Nod, babe, and I’ll pull the trigger. Hero’s honor. To save those in need.”

Nothing. He held him by the back of the head, devious smile aware of each action’s connotation, and twisted the pistol to force it further, making him gag on it. 

“Tell me to do it. I’ll let you die. I’ll blow your fucking brains out, sweetheart.”

The hammer clicked back. His finger inched toward the trigger. The villain held his breath, unmoving.

And then the gun ripped out of his mouth, sight tearing across his cheek and lip, splattering his blood across the floor where it flew and spun to a stop at the other end of the room.

“Right. Don’t ask me again.”

[kentocalls]

toshinori yagi | emerald

sfw. vague healing quirk. mafia!au (that will get written one day). mentions of: violence, feelings. reader is female & has long hair, also psst @actuallysaiyan

His first instinct is to keep his breathing steady. There’s an unfamiliar weight on his chest, not too heavy but light either. It’s warm, radiating, like a cat if he owned one. But he doesn’t.

As Toshinori Yagi opens his eyes, he first spots an unfamiliar spring green tuft of hair on his chest, it smells familiar. Like candies and apples,  then the sparkle of his diamond ring on your hand that seems to be emiting a sense of calm throughout his upper body.

Aren’t you quirkless? 

Perhaps this is Heaven and despite all his bad deeds he’s blessed with one of his many dreams of you coming true.  Gosh, why hasn’t he held you like this when he was living, why did he spend so much of his time pushing you away?

He knows why, he knows the danger his status brings.

He knows only peril awaits those that stand at his side.

His heart aches still though, if he’s here then, where are you?

It comes back to him like a rush, what Toshinori remembers is the start to a beautiful dinner spoiled and then tables being over turned, fire and guns and your face caked in something awful and red. He had held you into him, kept you from harm right?  But what is he doing here? In this dream land? He has to get up, speak to the ruler of Heavens and get back to you.

This must be a mistake, fuck. Please, he urges his body to move, to lift up. Please he has to get back to you, to that restaurant, to that chaos. He has to get you out of that hellscape, that’s his job, he promised you didn’t he? He’d never leave you alone, he’d never fail to protect you.

Fuck.

“Toshinori?” oh your sweet voice, eyes darting to the spring green hair that moves, revealing your much more paled and blanched eyes. They fill with tears anyway though, the beeping of a heart monitor, the sharpness of hospital lights, the cold air hit him all at once.

So it’s not Heaven, but still close enough since you’re really here with him.

His breathe eases, a hand to the top of your head, your deep emerald hair has faded from that earlier spring green to chartreuse. Is this why he feels peaceful, painless? Is it your hand on his heart causing this? “My…dear wife, I am here, I’m fine.”

This must be awfully uncomfortable for you, hunched over his hospital bed, but one of your hands stays firm on his heart as the other goes to touch his face, it still radiates peace and warmth and your fade fades still, into sea foam. “What…what are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to use it but y—you and the bullet —the doctors said it they removed it but it was still touch and go and I couldn’t…I couldn’t…risk it if you didn't wake up.”

To think you had a way out, to think you still chose to save him, why would you do such a thing? Why do you cling to such a deceptive and vile man like him? Marriage to him has brought you nothing but loneliness, pain, endangerment.  You had no say in this, he promised to keep you safe and today he has failed it. He doesn't deserve any of your warmth or affections.  Toshinori holds at your wrists, lifting your hands off, the shock evident on your face. He can always tell what you’re thinking and he’s so sorry he keeps choosing to push you away.   

He can’t keep risking your life along with his, you weren’t asked to marry him, you pushed into it.  You aren’t meant for pain and tears and it seems that’s all that’s come to you since the wedding.  That’s all he’s able to give you. (In his eyes, from his skewed view of himself and the world he's trapped you in. Had he known the depth of your kindness, the fullness of your heart, had he known....)

“I’m fine.” But you know he means to say, please don’t strain yourself.

“Go home.” Because he knows you've been here for two days fretting over him, and he won't say you need to rest.

“Have the driver take you—“

“You stubborn man!”  Your hair color returning, the energy flowing in your veins increasing, he smiles at that. So your quirk is related to your hair, so he’ll always know if you push yourself too hard, “You took a bullet for me when you could’ve just flung it away.”

He could have, but to risking miscalculating and have the bullet graze you in any way? Never. Not worth it.

“I can’t die, my wife.”

“Yes, you can, my husband.”  He can, he can if he keeps stupidly taking risks like this.  Stupidly keeps rushing into help his men, his friends, his fraction. If he keeps this strong front up twenty four seven he’s going to—

“You’re upset again, I promise I'm okay.” A soothing hand to your face, you’re conflicted, you want to push away from him, to yell at him some more but also to be in his embrace, because here in this tiny room he’s not Toshinori Yagi, he’s not part of the MHA fraction. He’s not providing protecting and shielding others from big bad men.

Your hair is darker now, a woodland fern he thinks, it’s almost back to the shade that captivated him, that stark dark emerald against your white wedding dress. He thinks this is a good sign, he hopes it is. Your face is less pale, your eyes returning to their original color too. Except, “You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”  And angry and frustrated and sad. What if you didn't get the chance to tell him how you really feel? What if things didn't turn out okay?  And yes, what you are wearing is meant for a romantic dinner. (For the confession you so need to make.) You wanted tonight to go so differently, it’s tumbled into such a big mess. You shiver at the low hum of the hospital AC. Suppose you could go buy a warmer attire from the hospital gift shop but that would mean leaving Toshinori and that would mean not being able to use your quirk to make sure he heals.

“Come here, let me hold you.”  It will never stop bringing you joy when he offers moments like this, when you allow yourself to feel the depth of your emotions and move closer to him.

As you crawl onto him, the too small bed, the wires, and mattress protest but Toshinori stubbornly wraps his arms around you, he has to keep you warm too, protect you from the cold. Ensnare you with affection he wants to pour over until all your tears dry.  He knows he shouldn't covet your skin against his but he does. “My stupid, dumb, lovable husband.” His beautiful, adoring, precious wife.

He ignores the last word, “I am, I know. I make you worry.”

For all the violence his hands know, for all the cruelty his arms have dished out, he holds you gentler than a flower, let’s you plant your chest on his, let’s burrow your face in the crook of his collarbones, root your arms around his neck.  He breathes deep, candies and apples and your hair returning to it’s pretty pretty pretty green.

He can tell you’re fighting sleep, can feel your body relaxing and tensing, “Rest, it’s been a long day hasn’t it?”

“It’s late Saturday," so two days have passed, "…and another eight hour surgery…you made me worry so much.”

“I’m sorry, you must be so tired, here let me-“ As he tries to shuffle you off his form and onto the bed, you protest, hold him tighter, channeling all your inner koala and hold on. “Not leaving you, not until the doctor gives the all clear.”

You forget his strength, his own power, his own quirk.

But it feels nice, being fussed over, and in the privacy of this room, in the haze of painkillers and fleeting adrenaline, he lets himself indulge in it. Keeps you on his form, holds you close. “Then you need to rest too. Promise me.”

“You’ll be here? When I wake up, you won’t go…”  Ah, he has a terrible track record of doing that right?

“Rest, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Later, you’ll explain your quirk and why you don’t tell a soul you have it.

Later, you’ll yell at him more about needing him safe.

Later, you’ll confess the words that were so eager to slip from your tongue at dinner.

Later, right now, all you need is rest. All you need is your husband’s heartbeat.