#like a knife attached to the end of a rifle

[tripleyeeet]

last 3 vox machina episodes gave me so many angst ideas for zay/percy i'm going to scream

[silaslich]

Words that melt in your mouth

Simon “Ghost” Riley x afab!reader

Wc - 2k

Summary - Simon is finally home, you show him how that makes you feel.

Cw - 18+, smut

He looks different every time you see him.

Perhaps not literally, but you’ve always seen through the mask. Both real and metaphorical; it’s as if another layer of him is stripped away with each passing footstep through the pools of blood coagulating in the sand and across the broken slabs of concrete that are left in his wake. The splintered buildings crumble and the structures give way around him, yet he never quickens his pace, as if he welcomes it - almost like he’s waiting for it.

“Deserve it” he’d grumble to you, mumbled against your throat when you question a fresh scar or open gash, because his voice is more often than not a grumble or laced with a somber tone that totally contradicts what he might actually be saying.

You’ve learnt to live with that. The self depreciation that comes along with Simon Riley. You’d learnt to live with what little value he puts on his own life and happiness for the sake of feeling like he brought this on himself. He won’t ever change - no. He was made this way, further moulded by the death and destruction he brings with him when he flies over seas and straps a gun to his chest.

He doesn’t talk about it, not much, you never dare to ask. It’s one of those things you don’t talk about, biting your tongue till you taste copper out of morbid curiosity because it’s a basic human reaction when it comes to the life he leads.

Of course you ponder what killing someone is like, doesn’t everyone?

They’re lying if they say no. It’s human. It’s instinct, long ago maybe, but instinct. Fight or flight. Predetermined to be overcome by the adrenaline or fear, so much so it’s often the urge to fight that outweighs the instinct to flee.

If given a chance, a free pass; you’d ask him about all of it.

The bloodshed and the bullets, what it’s like to bury a knife so deep into someones throat that your knuckles meet the thick corded tendons that hold their oesophagus together.

What does death smell like, exactly?

How is it that you make the split second decision on ending someone’s life or letting them live?

The foggy skies filled with rifle smoke and looming rain clouds, washing away the blood splattered stains on the sandstone and what’s left of the men, women and children killed in the line of duty.

Part of you thinks he’d tell you, he’d tell you too much, make you regret asking.

He carries that weight in a way he shouldn’t, but how can’t he? It’s like a chain-link mass of lead attached to his ankle, dragged with him wherever he goes, the clank of metal resonating in his ears as the weight almost pulls him under - soon enough he’ll sink.

That’s why he looks different.

It’s not the scars that tally up with each visit or the way his lungs rasp with the tacky sickness of tobacco hindering them that have caused him to change. Nor the length of his hair, wether it’s newly cropped or he’s let it grow a bit longer, it’s not even the sadness in his eyes that he tries to hide as anger or as lacking any emotion at all.

It’s the way he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. His guilt and his sadness; an ugly creature with jagged teeth and weathered skin, a stench of booze emanating from its skin when it hisses his name in his ear. Hissing like the snakes in his childhood, tormenting him in his bed, when the image of his guilt and resentment build themselves into a tangible image -

He’s that little boy again. Too small to stand up for himself and his mother, too weak to open his mouth and say what he thinks, and too much of hopeless dreamer to pray to god that things will get better. They didn’t. He cared too much back then, now he doesn’t care at all.

It stings, somewhat, knowing he’s not fighting to come back, but at the end of it all - you don’t think you can blame him.

He’s sitting on the sofa, a book in hand, flipping mindlessly through the pages. You linger in the doorway, drinking him in for a second, he sits in his own blanket of silence. You assume he enjoys the quiet, he’s drowned in too much noise for months at a time, it must be a nice feeling to leave it all behind. If only for a few days.

You make your way over to him, he spares you a glance, watching you come close. “Alright darlin’?” His voice is low, it rumbles in his chest when he speaks, it makes your stomach flip. Even now, after so much time has passed you both by, the novelty never wears off. “Much better with you home” you push his hand down, the one holding the book, climbing over his knees and setting yourself astride his thighs. You feel the muscles in his legs tense beneath you, so sturdy, solid.

The book is discarded, tossed aside, all the focus is on you. He tilts his head, the light catches the scars littering his face, the one that cuts through his right eyelid and the one that drives down through his lips at a sharp angle are the most prominent, you tell him that they add character- he disagrees.

“That so?” He asks with a raised brow, you nod profusely, “indeed” you purse your lips “all the other fellas that come over aren’t nearly as fun as you” he pinches the slight flesh over your waistband and you squeal, he doesn’t let up. “You’re a cheeky fucker” he smiles, slightly toothy, he dips his chin when he smiles out of instinct and you wish he wouldn’t.

You cup his face in your hands, mapping out his features, the notch at the bridge of his nose from multiple bad breaks and the speckles of honey that litter the deep walnut-brown of his eyes, everything’s perfect to you. “You’re so pretty Simon” you huff, “it’s unfair” you jut out your lip and he pinches at your flesh again, “don’t start” he groans and you lean forward to bury your face in his neck, drawing him in. You wish you could fold him up really small and put him in your pocket, a keepsake, treasured forever. As long as you remember to take him out before you stick the clothes in the washer.

He searches your eyes, there’s that vulnerability that sticks there, disguised as so many other things, but nothing gets past you, not when it comes to him. You lean forward and press your lips to his, a tender peck. “So so unfair” you say between kisses, dotting them over his face, over his scars and freckles. He groans again in annoyance and his fingers root deeper into your flesh, one big hand on your thigh while the others at the small of your back. He’s had enough, “come ‘ere” he meets you half way, back straightened as one hand moves to cup your jaw, he kisses you in that tender way that makes your bones melt into nothingness.

Simon’s efforts are never halfhearted, he starts as he means to go on, that cruel tongue and those plush lips, a deadly combination. It’s never innocent, he kisses you with intent, with meaning and passion and you can never deny him. You’d be denying yourself, still after all this time you never get tired of this, of him and his ways.

You roll your hips forward, teasing, testing. Simon moans into your mouth. Unabashed, all for your ears to hear, he doesn’t hide it from you. His hand cups your throat, thumb stroking over your neck, tenderly. Your fingers root into his clothes, warping the fabric you’re sure, you need him closer. “Fuck” he rasps, the word travels from his lips to yours, right down to your core, dropping lower. He’s hard, it’s a given, doesn’t take him much when it comes to you, it’s an issue at this point - the two of you had to return home from food shopping the other day because you made an indirect innuendo about the uses for whipped cream and he couldn’t pick his mind up out of the gutter.

It’s not as if it’s still the honeymoon phase, so much time has passed and yet you’re still both horny at the drop of a hat.

You smile against his lips, catching his bottom lip with your teeth. “Can’t wait Simon”, he growls something low in his throat. You both fumble with zippers and pants, shoving layers out of the way, as quick as possible.

It’s a sensation you hope you’ll never have to forget when he pushes home, rooted deep inside you, his cock slicked in his own spit where he wasted only a second to ensure it didn’t sting too much. It’s always too much, there’s so much of him, but you wouldn’t ever change a thing. You gasp, rocking forward as Simon hisses, bruising your flesh in his grip, it’s always so good.

“Fuckin hell” he groans, tilting his head back till the cords of his throat bunch beneath his skin, straining. You preen, “it’s so good Simon” your voice carries off, rolling your hips to a rhythm as he guides you by the thighs. It’s gotten so hot, your brow is sweating and your skin is clammy, you don’t want to rush but you need this so badly. “Wanna cum Si” you moan, leaning forward as you brace your palms on his stomach, he nods. “Yeah? Wanna cum for me love? Gonna cum all over my cock?” he smirks, eyes black as a shark, a predator - you nod like a maniac.

Your skin all but shreds itself to pieces when he brings his hand between your bodies, his touch is like electric, sending sparks right to your nervous system. He knows just how to get you going, just how to bring your to the edge and let you teeter there for as long as he sees fit - today? He’s not playing games. “Oh god” you pant, throwing your head back, digging your nails into his shirt to keep yourself upright. “Right there, that it love?” He asks, tone dripping in sex, “yes- yes!” You gasp. He hums, watching as he pleasures you, his lids are low as he watches his own show. You moan, “I’m so close-god” you groan, you’re so nearly there.

His hips rise to meet your rhythm, fucking up into you, pressing deep - it’s heaven. He’s panting, “m’close love” he grunts, lids low as he focuses on where the two of you meet. You arch your hips and it’s enough to topple you both, the way you squeeze his cock as you cum sends him over the edge just after you and the sounds he makes will forever be engrained in your memory.

You’re both heaving, catching your breath, slicked in sweat as your clothes stick to your skin uncomfortably- no time to even remove them. He leans forward again and catches your lips sweetly, big soft Simon Riley, kissing you gently after fucking on his sofa, what a good day.

[wayrad]

hiii number 15 on that prompt list would be delicious if u fancy it

omgosh yes anything for you legend <3

for prompt 15: “this is going to hurt, okay?”

Usually John’s the rash one, the on who jumps in over his head, doesn’t think things through. Prefers it that way, too; if he’s going off the deep end at least he knows Gale will be there to reign him back in. Get a hand on his nape and tell him knock it off, Bucky, always in that tone of voice that John needs.

That’s not how it happened today. Today, just another tick on the wall, and Gale woke up on the edge. He goes non-verbal, somedays, has got a storm brewing in him, and no seems to notice it but John. He knew today was a bad one, and not just for Gale; the Luftwaffe officers feel it too. The edge, like a knife licking up the spine. They hold their rifles a little higher, the chains on their dogs a little looser.

Gale had been so quiet. He’d never been the one they watch, especially not on days like these, but. But.

And John should’ve known. Should’ve.

Now, perspiration gathers on Gale’s severe brow bone. He looks pasty as a ghost, sounds like one too; the air in his lungs is rattling about like it’s slipping through the cracks of him. He looks drunk- but that’d be a mercy in here.

“Gale,” John says, tries, for what seems like the hundredth time in the last thirty minutes. “Gale, baby. Baby can you hear me?”

The pain’s making him delirious. He’s in shock, too, up to his head in it, shivering, muttering all incoherent. And John hasn’t been able to look at it, not for long- Gale's sleeve, pulled up, what’s waiting there for them. It’s still in the shape of a mouth, like the mutt was still hanging onto Gale’s tattered flesh, yanking, pulling as the German officer just watched and let it all happen.

John had ordered every man to stay out. He’d— handle it. He’d take care of Gale.

“I’m going to get your shirt open, okay?” he says slowly, taking the ruddied fabric between his fingers. When he shifts it experimentally Gale’s chest heaves, a wet sob breaking apart from his lips. It’s the loudest he’s been all day, loudest he's been since the bite took him.

John takes Gale's shoulders, hopes it's soothing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he lulls. "Ain't no doctors around, not yet. Just me. I'm doing the best I can, huh?"

To that, Gale says nothing. Just clutches at his shoulder like he's trying to keep his arm attached to his body. John gives up on getting Gale's shirt off the right way; he finds little dull scissors the guys use to cut out pinups and takes the sleeve right from the seam. Warm clothes are hard to come by, and Gale would say as much, if he could.

Without the fabric to cover the gash, John's faced with the gravity of their situation. Puncture wounds litter the purpling skin of Gale's forearm, blood tacked and dripping across his wrist. There are chunks of skin missing. Around it, a mottled bruise blooms purple and green over the entire thing, makes John think it really could fall off.

"Jesus," he mutters. They've got nothing to clean it with, nothing proper, but- and that's an idea. John cups Gale's jaw. "Hey. I'm not leaving, okay?" he says. Gale shivers against him. His skin is clammy and too-hot, but he nods, and that's something.

John makes across the room, below his bunk, to where a jar of contraband liquor is stashed next to the notebook he was able to scrounge up a couple weeks ago.

This isn't exactly the special occasion he'd been saving it for.

Rounding up on Gale again, John smooths his sweat-stringy hair from his forehead. "Gale," he says. "This is going to hurt, okay?"

Gale flashes John his eyes- blue and full of pain- and John almost can't do it. Almost.

He unscrews the cap and tips, takes Gale's wrist when he jerks, crying out in pain. Forces it down. He holds Gale's arm and doesn't stop pouring until he runs through the entire jar. "Shh," he says, and it isn't enough, nothing could be enough. "Shh, Buck, it's okay."

Gale's body kicks against his chair. Slumps, eyes shutting. He's hasn't got enough fight left in him to break John's grip: he isn't eating, isn't sleeping, and now this. John's never seen him like this before. Not once in his life.

"Did good, Gale, huh?" John says. Presses his lips to the fire-hot skin of his forehead, slumping too. "Did good."

[pagesfromthevoid]

Cowboy Like Me | d.d.| 14

Don Djarin x princess!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Canon violence. Fucking FLUFF

Author’s Note: Thanks for all the love. This is it! This isnt the end I lied Jk. Listen to Getaway Car if you’re inclined <3333

Series Masterlist | Talk to Me!

The Way

There was no time to treat her wound, leaving it exposed to the elements as they tore through the capital city of Senex. The speeder bike was easily commandeered from someone at the party, allowing Din and his princess to escape as Han and Leia distracted Calisto and Gideon. Several party goers joined the fight as well, supporting their princess and her attempts to escape. But many evacuated, allowing for the two to sneak out with the crowd.

The Crest was not far off, allowing for them to get a headstart on their getaway. But Din knew better than to assume they were safe; they were far from it. Storm troopers were hot on their trail, though he had the advantage of the Crest being hidden away. They were together, however, and that’s all Din cared about as they skid to a stop outside the Crest. With the ship’s hatch opened and ready for them, he hopped off the bike and took her good hand, leading her into the ship. 

“We need to get off this planet,” Din announced, flipping switches in the cockpit of the ship.

“Really? I thought we’d get married in the fields,” she retorted, sliding into her own seat. 

He rolled his eyes under the helmet, handing Grogu to her once she was strapped into the seat. “We can’t go back to Sorgan; it’ll be the first place they look.”

“Or Nevarro –I’m certain your bounty hunter friend wouldn’t be thrilled with us.”

“We need to find the other Mandalorians,” he settled, starting the engines of the ship. 

Blaster fire suddenly rained down on the ship, and she ducked down over Grogu to protect him. Din looked over at her, frowning deeply as he pushed the ship to take off, but the damn thing was too old for it’s own good sometimes. The engines were too cool, and with Calisto and Gideon’s men trying to keep them down –Din had to take the offensive.

“You know how to fly?” He asked, standing from his seat.

She gave a half-hearted shrug. “Kind of. My father tried teaching me, but our ships were newer –,”

“Doesn’t matter,” he pointed out, motioning at each control and explaining the purpose of each one. She watched closely, moving out of her seat and into his. If their lives weren’t in danger, it would have been a hell of a sight. “When I say, you need to get us into the air.”

“What are you doing?” She demanded as he started climbing down the ladder. “Din, you cannot take on a squad by yourself.”

“Didn’t you tell Calisto I’d like my odds?”

“I was trying to scare her. Not encourage you.”

He waved her off, climbing down into the hull. Opening the armory, Din pulled out several grenades and attached them to his belt then took out his pulse rifle, looking it over for a moment. Then, he opened the hatch on the roof of the Crest, climbing up and keeping his feet hooked into the ladder. 

“Can you hear me?” He asked through the comms, into the cockpit.

“Uh, I can, yes,” she responded, though her voice sounded muffled through the speakers. “The engine is still heating up. Please be careful, Din.”

He didn’t respond, instead opting to lower himself against the metal of his ship and take aim. As the chaos of the troopers shooting raged around him, he tried to remain calm and focused. Din knew that his skills were the only thing standing between them getting out of Senex alive. As he fired shot after shot, he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was what he was born to do - to fight, to protect, to survive. And he would not stop until everyone trying to hurt his clan was taken down.

“How’s that engine looking?” He asked as a trooper dropped onto the roof of the ship and swung a boot into Din’s face. He grabbed their ankle and dropped them though, shoving a knife into their leg and shoving them off the roof.

“Almost there,” she promised as the ship began to shake with preparation. “I’d hold onto something if I were you.”

Din couldn’t, given the situation at hand, but he appreciated the concern as he aimed at the speeder bike that was barreling towards him. One calculated shot later and the bike –and two others –were blown up and the Crest was taking off into the air. He thanked the Maker as he dropped back into the ship, shutting the hatch, and rushed back into the cockpit.

Grogu was sitting in her seat, hands in the air as she pushed the throttle forward and the ship took off over the capital city. Din hovered behind her, hand gripping the back of the seat as he pushed various buttons and prepared to exit the atmosphere. But other new ships were appearing around them; Imperial ships that he was certain belonged to Gideon. 

Din's heart sank as he realized how outnumbered they really were. While he knew a clean getaway was a long shot, he should have known better than to assume Gideon wouldn’t have brought an army of his own. He quickly assessed their situation, trying to come up with a plan of action.

"We’ve got company,” he said, his voice low and urgent in her ear. 

"I see them," she replied, her hands moving deftly over the controls as she tried to evade the incoming ships. 

Din activated the ship's weapons systems, ready to defend themselves if necessary. He knew that they were outnumbered, but he wasn't going down without a fight. As they flew through the sky, lasers from the Imperial ships streaked past them, narrowly missing their ship.

"We can’t fight them, Din,” she pointed out as he took control of the ship’s blasters. 

“We don’t need to fight them if we can distract them,” he offered as reassurance, turning the ships guns on the Imperial fleet that was catching up to them.

But the ship needed to gain more speed if they were going to jump into hyperspace, and he needed it to last long enough against Gideon and Calisto’s forces to do that. Din gritted his teeth as he fired the ship's weapons at the incoming Imperial fleet. He knew that their best chance of survival was to distract them long enough to make the jump to hyperspace. But he also knew that their weapons weren't strong enough to hold off the Imperial forces forever.

"We need to go faster," he said, his eyes scanning the control panel for any way to increase their speed. "Can you give me more power to the engines?"

“I don’t think so,” she admitted, looking over the panel herself with a deep frown. “Din, I-I don’t know if we’ll get out of here alive.”

“We will,” he promised, returning his attention to the fleet that was on top of them.

“Din, tell me the vows,” she insisted, her hand reaching out to grab his arm.

“No,” he snapped, looking down at her for a moment. “No, not like this.”

Din felt a surge of energy as the ship's engines roared to life, propelling them forward at an incredible speed –the engines were finally catching up to the urgency that engulfed the cockpit. While the Imperial ships were caught off guard by their sudden burst of speed, Din took the chance to pick off a few more of the fleet.

But the Imperial fleet was relentless, and their ships were quickly closing in on them. Din knew that they had to make the jump to hyperspace soon, or it would be too late.

“Tell me the vows,” she demanded again as a blast hit the side of the ship, too close to the engines for comfort. She yanked on the exposed part of his arm, drawing his attention to her. Her eyes were watery with unshed tears. “Marry me, Din Djarin.”

The dawning realization that they might actually not make it hit him hard, and he couldn’t argue. “Repeat after me, okay?” Din remained focused on firing the weapons as he spoke. “Mhi solus tome, we are one when together”

“Mhi solus tome,” she repeated, eyes locked on the ships that she was maneuvering around. “We are one when together.”

“Mhi solus dar'tome,” he continued, bracing against the controls as another round of shots hit the ship. “We are one when parted.”

“Mhi solus dar'tome,” she closed her eyes for a moment as Grogu cried out, as if he knew something was going wrong; that they were on more danger than ever before. “We are one when parted.”

“Mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde,” Din concluded, looking down at her finally as one of the engines stuttered. “We will share all, we will raise warriors."

“Mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde,” she finished, looking up at him now as well. “We will share all, we will raise warriors.”

Din couldn’t pinpoint why it felt right to marry her right there, in the middle of battle, but it did. Perhaps it was the adrenaline pumping through his veins, or the realization that life was precious and fleeting. Maybe it was the way she stood by his side, fearless and determined. Whatever the reason, Din knew he couldn't let her go.

“Kiss me, Din.”

His heart almost broke, realizing now that they were married –and very well could be dying at any second. But he nodded, finally abandoning his post at the weapons control. His hands here on his helmet, hesitant for just a moment, before he lifted it and set it down. Decades of wearing the helmet, not showing a single living thing what he looked like –all abandoned now as he faced his wife for the first time. 

She stared up at him with wide eyes, the tears finally falling as she reached up to touch his cheek. Her touch was warm against his face, where her fingers stroked the scars that had settled there. Blood still caked her nails, but her wound was wrapped and he had to look away. He could see the worry in her eyes, but he also saw the trust and love that she held for him. He leaned in slowly, savoring the moment, before finally pressing his lips against hers. It was a gentle kiss, but it held a depth of emotion that words could not express. For a moment, the fight around them faded away, and all that existed was the two of them, locked in a tender embrace.

But the ship still rocked from gunfire, reminding them that the end felt too close. They pulled away from one another just barely, foreheads resting against one another. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling as her eyes traced over his face, taking in everything she could. He had never felt so exposed, yet so liberated. It was as if he had shed a heavy burden that he had been carrying for so long. He reached up and cupped her cheek, staring deeply into her eyes. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to express, but the words eluded him. Instead, he simply leaned in and kissed her again, pouring all of his emotions into the tender touch of his lips.

“Falcon to Crest, do you copy?”

Both of them looked to the comms, then at each other before finally pulling away. His helmet slipped back on, ensuring it was only her who would ever see him.

“This is Crest,” Din announced, leaning against the control panel.

“It’s Han,” the pilot explained, and gunfire could be heard in the background. “Leia and I are holding them off –got a handful of Senex fighters on your side out here.”

He looked to her, then back out the window of the Razor Crest. “You hold them off and we can get out of here.”

“That hunk of junk can hit hyperspace?” Han ribbed, and Din knew the man was smirking. “Gotta love classics.”

“Gideon got away,” Leia pointed out, voice gravelly through the comms. “So did Calisto. But if you get to the Outer Rim again, you should be safe for a while.”

“If you’re gonna jump, now is the time,” Han warned as Din moved her from the pilot’s seat and took over again. “Good luck with whatever the hell it is you two are up to.”

She laughed and Din glanced at her, smiling beneath his helmet. With his hands on the controls, Din hit the switch and pushed the throttle forward –the jump to hyperspace knocking them both back into their seats. As the stars streaked by in their blur, Din felt a sense of relief wash over him. The battle was over, at least for now. They had emerged victorious, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he allowed himself to relax.

Beside him, his wife let out a contented sigh, her hand reaching out to take his. He laced his fingers through hers, relishing the warmth and comfort of her touch.

“I can’t believe we did it,” she whispered, taking a deep breath as she looked up at him.

Din turned to her, his heart full. “It’s not over yet,” he reminded her gently, taking his hand back for just a moment. She watched in curiosity as he lifted his helmet, revealing himself once more to her. “But whatever is out there –we’ll handle it.”

She stared at him again, slowly standing from her seat. Her hands –covered in dried blood and streaks of sweat –reached for his face. For a long time, she simply stood above him, eyes and fingers tracing over his features. One hand held his jaw as the other ran over the bridge of his nose, up to his brow and over his eyes. Her thumb skated over his cheek, against the stubble that had grown over the last several weeks.

“You have brown eyes,” she whispered, both hands now resting on his jaw to hold his gaze. “You have brown eyes and you are so beautiful.”

He’d never been called beautiful before, and the compliment made his heart ache as he reached up to hold onto her wrists. Her touch was warm and gentle, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, lost in the intensity of their emotions. It was as if they were the only two people in the galaxy and nothing else mattered except the connection they shared.

Finally, Din broke the silence. "I love you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled at him, a soft and genuine expression. "I love you too," she promised, her voice barely more than a breath. “I get to look at you for the rest of my life.”

Din felt his heart swell with love for her. He knew that he had found something special, something worth fighting for. And no matter what the future held, he was determined to keep her by his side. As they soared through the galaxy, her touch on his skin, Din felt a sense of hope for the first time in a long time.

Grogu cooed suddenly, drawing their attention to him. He held his arms up and she laughed again, lifting him into her arms. Din took off his gloves, tossing them to the side, so he could run his thumb over their child’s face.

The future was uncertain; there were still threats out there. People hunting them down. But with his princess and their child with him —he knew this would be The Way.

———

Taglist (CLOSED): @r4iner @sgt-morgan @mingeniee @darling1darling @teriolan-blog @venusfalling @double—take @sunshine96 @lovelessprick @mxtokko @ellesvoid @waddafaknik @c-ms1ut @kokoirne @sl-ut @munsons-queen @intense-sneezing @geekrenaissance @dilf-din @tizylish @ruleroftides @aheadfullofsteverogers

[ravennaortiz]

Sexy smutty filth with Juicy? Maybe...him snooping through his person's stuff and finds a vibrating butt plug with a tail attached? And he gets all... STEAMY AND SUBBY

This is my first time writing a subby character and I'm excited to give it a try. Also you know I love my Juice! Lets see what kind of NSFW magic I can make here! As always my stories are 18+. Smut below the cut.

Naughty Boy

Juice was bored as he wandered around your house. You were away visiting friends and he was lonely and feeling needy. He figured he would just go to your house and grab a pair of your panties real quick to get him through until you got home. He was rifling through your dirty clothes basket when he saw a box poking out from your bed. Curiosity got the better of him especially because you had texted him about having a surprise for him when you got home. You had been teasing him for the last few days with hints and photos of your panty clad ass. Keeping him in a perpetual state of turned on and no way to relieve himself as you had forbid him from cumming while you were gone.

Three minutes later Juice was sweating and his heart was racing as he read the description on the back of the box. Vibrating butt plug with tail attachment. He had always wanted to do anal with you but you always denied him and he had stopped asking when you told him not to be a naughty boy. He hated being a naughty boy. Right now though he was thinking about it as he ripped the box open. Groaning at the feel of the soft fur in his hands compared to the contrast of the cool metal plug. The more he stared at the plug the more tight his camo pants were getting. He knew he should put it back and take your panties and leave. He needed to be good…..but you wouldn’t know right?

“Fuck it” muttered Juice as he tossed the plug on your bed and started stripping. As much as he loved letting you dominate him and shit he couldn’t help but be a brat and try and take your control. Once he was naked he grabbed one of your small decorative pillows and quickly slipped the pair of panties he had been planning on taking on it and placed it at the end of the bed. It wasn’t as good as you but it would do he thought as he bit his lower lip. Grabbing the butt plug back up he pondered his next move as he started slowly stroking his cock smearing the precum that had been leaking around his tip making himself let out a groan.

Grabbing his knife off the floor he cut a hole in your panties and situated the toy so that just the tail came through the hole. He swallowed hard as he looked down at his makeshift you. His hand was back on his cock slowly stroking himself as he pictured you splayed out below him. Your ass high in the air, full from the toy, your pussy glistening for him. Unable to move or push him away due to the restraints he had on you. Maybe he would even put a leash and collar on you. Yanking on the leash to keep you arched perfectly for him. Make you his good girl for once.

 “You are going to  lay here and take it” he murmured closing his eyes he imagined himself sliding into your soft walls, your moans feeling the room as both of your holes were filled. He moved faster as he imagined the feel of the vibrations on his cock as your walls convulsed around him, pulling him in deeper. “You like that slut? Being so full.” He growled as he knelt down on the bed knowing he was close as he yanked the tail plug out in his head as you came before shoving his cock in your ass. “Going to cum in this pretty tight ass” His fingers gripping your hips as he pounded into you before with one final thrust he would shoot his load into you.

Juice let out a strangled sob moan as he came hard, spurting thick ropes of cum across the pillow and your bed. Juice collapsed on the mess as he panted. He was sweaty and sticky as he laughed to himself at the mess he made. His euphoria was short lived though. “Seems like someone has been a bad boy” you stated as you leaned against the doorframe. Juice jumped, wide eyed as he tried to think of what to do. “I…I…. your home… so …glad” he stated as he moved towards you stopping as you put your hand on his bare chest keeping him back.

“No no no . Bad boy don’t get hugs and kisses.” You scolded gently as you moved your hand to cup his cheek. “Clean my bed up while I shower” you added grabbing his jaw before moving over to your closet. Juice nodded as he turned to grab his clothes. “No. I want you to stay naked babe” you stated as you turned too him again. “I love seeing what’s mine. Juice couldn’t help the smile that formed at your words as he nodded. “Anything for you baby. I love you” he murmured as he quickly gathered your bed clothes and left the room. You waited until he was gone before grabbing the tail plug off the bed and making your way to the bathroom.

A few minutes later

Juice couldn’t help but let out the whine as he tried to open the bathroom door only to find it locked. “Baby please unlock the door. I just want to be near you” he begged as he jiggled the handle again. He wanted to help wash you and he knew you were punishing him. “I’m sorry. I was just so excited” he added as you remained silent the only sound from the other side of the door running water. Pouting he turned and moved to sit on the bed and wait.

The sound of the door opening had him glancing up. He couldn’t breath as he watched you walk out completely naked, rivets of water still slipping down your perfect body. Moving towards him, you leaned down giving him a gentle kiss. “I forgive you my good boy” you murmured as you pulled away making him grin and his cheeks heat up. His eyes widened when you turned away giving him a clear view of the tail you were now sporting. He swallowed hard as he watched it sway with every step you took as you moved to lay on the other side of the bed.

“Baby” murmured Juice as his fingers trailed down your hip, his eyes still on the tail. “Hmm” you called keeping your back to him. “Could I….could I umm taste you, make you feel good. Please” begged Juice as his fingers trailed between your legs as he moved closer to you. “Yes” you replied with a grin as you looked over your shoulder watching the joy dance across his face. Juice wasted no time in moving you to where your ass was in the air as he buried his face in your pussy from behind. The soft fur of the tail sending shivers down his spine as it brushed his scalp.

The vibrations when you switch the toy on with the small remote in your hand have him pushing his tongue farther in your slick hole. The feel of the gentle pattern making it tingle as your sweet juices dance across his tongue. He groans against your core as he feels you clench around his tongue. Grabbing your hips he digs his fingers into your soft flesh to keep you in place. He loses himself as you moan and speed the toy up. Grinding his erection into your mattress as he whimpers and whines when you start grinding back on him. Juice is close to cumming again as he grinds his achy cock harder into the bed as you cum on his tongue, dripping down his lips and chin as he rushes to catch all of it. “Maybe later you can be in me” he hears you pant right before he himself tips over spilling himself on the mattress.

Want more Juice click here?

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[miscfandomwrites]

A/n: Slight daydream about this so I made it reality. A little short but I was feeling a bit burnt at the end, if you like it let me know.

Pairing: Simon Riley (Ghost) x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Language

Words: 945

Tagging: @tyler-t0t

~

“Y’know I know someone who can take care of those knives for you, Ghostie.” Soap told him as he watched him try to scrub off the dried blood that seemed to be embedded in the steel. 

“I don’t want anyone else touching these.” Ghost shot back, debating on using steel wool to try and help them look clean. 

“Oh c’mon, she’s good at it, known all over base. She only charges fifteen dollars per knife, but she has a deal if you give ‘er more than three to take care of she’ll drop it down to ten per knife.” 

“She?”

“Yeah, ‘er name is Knives.”

“Knives?” Ghost paused and looked at him confused. 

“Yeah, tha’s what we started callin ‘er. Even Price goes to ‘er.” 

“You’re pullin my leg here, aren’t you?”

“Nope, call Price and ask him if ya want.” Soap told him as he leaned against the wall, doodling in his sketchbook. 

Ghost paused for a bit, before finally deciding to call Price and asked him who this “Knives” was. 

Fifteen minutes later

Ghost found himself in front of a small steel building towards the back of the base, a bit worn-down but seemed to be holding up, even with the rust decorating the edges of it. He could faintly here music coming from the inside, and if he listened a bit harder he could barely make out the lyrics of Seven nation army playing. 

A hand slapped him on the shoulder, almost making him jump as Price stood beside him, holding his own set of knives. 

“Took you long enough.” 

“Oh shutup, I had a meeting with Shepard.” 

“Meeting, right.” 

That earned him a smack on the back of the head, for which he grumbled at. 

“Y’know I don’t like her like that, Riley, now c’mon before she closes shop for the night.” 

Price opened a side door and Ghost followed him, eyes widening at the interior. Two walls held nothing but shelves full of materials and various things, one wall held rows and rows of knives, each with a small paper tag attached to them. The last wall held a massive desk, in which a woman was sitting at, inspecting a large k-bar that Ghost was certain was bigger than his forearm.

“Knives, been a bit,” Price called out, heading her way.  She didn’t look up, but paused, reaching out to the stereo that was on the desk and pausing the music. “Been a bit Price? You saw me last week.” 

“I brought you a new customer though, can’t be mad at me for that.” 

She turned around in her seat at that, and her eyes locked with Ghost’s. 

“Fuckin’ finally, I was wondering when Johnny could convince you to come here.” 

“Took him like two weeks, but I was the one that did it, not him.” 

She narrowed her eyes at Price, “Oh really? I thought it was a team effort.” 

At that Price huffed, “Well fine, team effort.” 

She nodded, getting up and stretching her arms, walking towards them. Ghost was finally able to get a good look at her. Standing below his shoulder, wearing a sports bra with some black jeans and military-issued boots, a dark henley tied around her waist. When she reached them she held out her hand, and Ghost reached out to shake it. 

“Your knives, idiot.” She told him and he paused, before reaching and pulling out the various knives he had strapped to him. 

Price chuckled, and took his knives and set them on a separate work desk and picked up a small notepad, jotting some things down on it. 

Ghost only growled slightly at that, before finally handing her the last knife he wanted cleaned. 

She walked with the over to the workbench Price was at as he handed her the notepad. She glanced at it, before sighing. 

“Two days, Price? You know my rules.” She said, glaring at him. 

“I don’t need these for this one though, just my rifle and my benchmade.” 

“You all say that, then come back with a broken bone and complain that you didn’t have your knives.” 

“You have rules?” Ghost asked her, a bit confused. She, in turn, gave him a look that made him feel very stupid at that moment. 

“Yes, Ghost, I have rules. Rules which I expect you to know by now, if you’re here.” 

He turned to Price at that, who only gave a small shrug. “I thought Soap told you.” 

“No one told me shit, obviously.” 

She huffed and pointed to a sign made from scrap steel and a spray-paint stencil that was hanging above them.  He took a step back to read it; 

Three day’s notice if you require the knives for deployment. 

Knives will be held until payment is given. 

No favors. 

“Pricing varies, most knives are around fifteen dollars, but the larger or more difficult the knife is, the more I charge for it, and the more time it takes.” 

“So do you just clean them then?” 

Both her and Price chuckled at that, before she pointed towards the wall holding the knives.

“Each one of those knives I built, by hand, and someone has already bought from me. Yes, I clean knives, but I also sharpen and make them better than new.”

“So you have your own business on base doing this?”

“Kinda, I still work and get deployed, but I mostly do knives. If I remember correctly, the GOW in America carries one of my best.” 

“..Alright then. Can I prepay?” he asked, digging out his wallet from the back of his pants. 

She smiled at that, making his heart skip a beat. “Of course.”

[fandomnerd9602]

Hunting Ghosts

Sam Carpenter x Wick!Reader

For @tokufighter

Sometimes the past comes back to haunt you when you least expect it. For you and the Carpenter sisters it was a mixed bag. On one hand, they had to deal with the serial killer known as Ghostface. For you it was the festering wounds that the Continental Hotel had brought on. You find yourself loading up on guns and any assortment of gadgets you needed to combat the dollar store slasher villain. You holster the P30L pistol and pack your grandfather’s tactical rifle into a duffle bag. The attachment that Winston mentioned was a secondary shotgun barrel retrofitted for dragon’s breath incendiary rounds.

You snuck out, having Sam and Tara in the safe confines of the Continental Hotel. You even took Sam’s cellphone that way whoever this Ghostface was, they would be hunting you and not them. You made your way down Times Square, walking around just waiting for a call from the killer. On the cue the phone rings. The caller ID reads Charon. You pick it up, “tell me the girls are safe” “Oh we’re safe.” Sam answers back. “Where are you?” “I’m ending this. Today. I won’t let you or Tara get injured again” “This one’s different. I can’t lose you too. You come back right now. You hear me?!” Sam begs you.

“I will…when Ghostface is six feet under” you hang up. Another call rings, you pick it up without even looking at the caller ID. “Sam, baby, I’m sorry I-” “Oh I’m sure you are” the slimy voice of Ghostface answers back. You stop dead in your tracks. “you look snazzy in that suit. I’m sure if you weren’t with Sam, Quinn would’ve gobbled you up in an instant.” “I might’ve let her. She was smoking hot till you gutted her like a fish” you retort, “of course Sam wouldn’t have minded sharing” “Tempting that would’ve been. Honestly that outfit is missing something…”

“Yeah what?” you say, your instincts kicking in at that moment. “It’s not stained red!” the voice shouts from behind you. You duck and weave, narrowly missing the blade of Ghostface. You counteract the next swing of the blade and stab your own blade through the assailant’s arm. A shriek that sounded feminine in form rings out from the mask. You knew who it was in the moment. “Hello Quinn” you smirk. You hear a growl under the mask. You give your assailant the finger and run off into the crowd. You can feel her give chase. Your mind runs wild - if Quinn is under the mask, who is her partner in this? There’s more than one, as always.

You run into an abandoned building, Ghostface is hot on your tail. You run up the staircase of the complex, you can practically hear the boots of the killer right behind you. You reach the top of the staircase and roll into a shooting stance. You fire off several shots which ricochet off the robes of the killer. “It’s amazing what you can buy on eBay” Quinn retorts “Someone sold out the tactical tech.“ you huff. She drives her knife towards you. Quickly rolling again, you pull out your own bowie knife and swipe at her, landing a few jabs at her left knee and elbow.

She screams before driving a knife into your right calf. You grit your teeth to muffle any scream. “Funny” she retorts, “I always was hoping you’d stab me. Over and over again” She gets real close, removing her mask. She licks your face, a sign of mockery, or maybe that was just her sex positive attitude leaking through. She slips her mask back on and readies the knife over your heart. “We’re in the endgame now” Quinn whispers, readying to run you through with the knife. “You know what I love about a franchise’s endgame?” you smirk as your hand reaches into your duffle. “What?”

“It always ends in fireworks” BLAM! You fire off the dragon’s breath attachment. Quinn’s robes catch fire and ignite. She screams, trying her best to dampen the flames. BLAM! BLAM! Two shots ring out, bouncing off her robes. The masked Quinn slams into the railing and tumbles down the staircase. And with that, she disappears. “Chasing ghosts, kid?” A gruff voice rings over you. “More like being hunted by them” you respond as a hand reaches down to help you to your feet. “Apparently one’s helping me now” You get pulled up to your feet by John Wick, who offers you a weary smile and a hug. “It’s good seeing you again” he says, rubbing your shoulders reassuringly.

“Good seeing you’re still kicking, Dad” you respond, “I thought you died in a duel in Paris with Caine” “It’s the city of love, not death” Wick responds. “let’s go” Your dad guides you out to a jet black Mustang. Sam jumps out with her own shotgun a second later. “I thought i lost you for a second” Sam runs up and hugs you. “Wicks are hard to kill” you retort. “And even easier at resurrecting” John finishes as he shakes your girlfriend’s hand. “Come on” Sam smirks “lets kill a ghost”

[theplumsoldier]

aftermath [1]

summary: two intruders enter your home, seeking refuge. you'd think being stabbed was reason to deny them, yet you can't find it in you to turn them down

pairing: joel miller x reader

word count: 2458

warnings: vulgar language, mentions of blood, minor fight, reader is stabbed

series: aftermath

Ellie could barely feel her legs. It felt like she was balancing her weight on spaghetti, each step as wobbly and unsure as the last. Joel reminded her that snow would have made it much more difficult to hike through the mountain strip and that she ought to be glad that was no longer a problem they were faced with, however, Ellie was having difficulty seeing anything remotely positive in the situation.

It was not long after her latest complaint that they heard a faint, continuous sound. It was music.

"What the fuck?"

"Where is that coming from?" mumbled Joel. His old age had taken a toll on his hearing, so while he was focused on listening for the source of the stereo, the sound of Ellie sprinting off, made him frantically run after her. "Ellie!"

There was no stopping her. The music cured her of exhaustion, her step ending up matching the beat of the song as she got closer. Then she stopped, abruptly. Joel panted her name when he caught up to her, a warning, but he was just as quick to be mesmerized by the towering house and front of them.

It was by no means a fortress. There was no fence keeping infected at bay, there were no traps (at least none that Joel could find). But it did not exactly look abandoned either. The exterior was recently painted, only halfway done. A wood block stood sheltered in what appeared to be a brand-new garage attached to the side of the house. There was no car, however, and on the second floor, several windows were smashed.

Ellie appeared to have run the same analytic thoughts as Joel, only she had decided it was safe to enter. This time he was quick to hold her back, giving her a warning glance before positioning the rifle against his shoulder. He was not yet convinced it was safe, primarily because he could not tell whether someone lived there, or if someone recently had.

With slow but steady steps, they moved in stealth. Ellie moved to turn off the stereo, which, funnily enough, had begun blasting "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go", but Joel stopped her. He motioned toward the kitchen and Ellie went to inspect. A pan, dirty from cooking. Grease coated the sides and Ellie picked up a piece of burnt chicken. It was cold but when she broke it in half, it was clearly fresh.

Her ability to analyze the situation made Joel feel proud.

Joel motioned for Ellie to get behind him and she swiftly did, pulling out her knife, putting on her meanest look, head silently bopping to the Wham! song spelling trouble.

They checked room after room, relieved and concerned they did not find anyone. Then they heard the floorboards creak in the room directly above them.

Ellie looked expectantly at Joel.

"Behind me."

Carefully moving up the stairs. Little did they know, their wariness was a nugatory effort, seeing as you were well aware of the guests.

The second they had opened the door to the house, you had been alerted by the gust of wind silently seeping through the upper floor. The draft pushing open the door to the room you were now standing in gave them away.

Listening to the footsteps, you noted there was more than one intruder, probably not infected seeing as they had no clue as to how to be quiet.

Neither did these fools, thought you. Everybody knows the best way to avoid creaking floorboards is to walk closest to the wall.

You took your stance, readying yourself for anything. The second your eyes caught sight of the tip of a rifle, you took a grip on the barrel. With the element of surprise, you twisted the gunman's arm so that his rifle aligned with the wall, and the tip of your sword poked the chest of the assailant, ensuring a distance between the two of you.

Quickly, you realized the element of surprise had been your best move. The man in front of you, fitting perfectly in place of the door. With your eyebrows furrowed, you peeked behind him, finding a little girl but not before she yanked a small knife into your side. Emitting a small grunt, you easily knocked her over with your foot behind her own and a palm shoving her backward by the face. All in a matter of seconds.

Shoving the rifle which had fallen to the floor in the predicament away, you stepped back to assess the situation. Looking down at the knife piercing your side, not bothering to take it out just yet, you looked back at the two intruders.

"What the fuck?" you yelled, your face twisting into such a contortion one would expect from a bewildered person, certainly not one of a woman with a knife tickling her insides.

Joel was apprehensive but having moved back away from the sword's tip, he spoke, lifting his hands to signal they meant no harm.

"Please, put 'own that thing--"

Then Ellie took over, an unappreciated cackle. "Is that a fucking sword?!"

You ignored the girl who was still on the floor, looking at your weapon of choice with a big grin of disbelief.

"Uh, what the fuck are you doing here?"

The girl got up. "We need a place to stay."

"No we don't," interjected Joel curtly.

You nodded in agreement waving your sword toward the man.

"What daddy said. This ain't a hotel."

You gave the two another look, deciding they were of no threat. At least the little girl wouldn't, the man, however, yeah, he could probably take you out with a single punch. But considering he did not seem to want to fight over a bed in your humble abode, you disregarded the two of them and walked out.

Your focus was now on the knife stabbing through your side. You carefully made your way down the stairs and retrieved a thread and needle, rubbing alcohol, bandages, and a cloth. You steadied yourself against the kitchen counter and inhaled deeply before moving to pull out the knife. You had done this before, the larger scar just a few inches from the wound being a reminder of it. It felt like some cruel joke, the universe having destined for you to only ever be stabbed in that particular place. Through your first time, you had learned there was no risk of internal damage at the wound site, only a nasty infection and an ugly scar would deform your skin as a result of poor treatment. It made you a lot more careful this time when cleaning and stitching yourself up. You felt only the warm sting of the penetration to be hurting and this knife was no barely any larger than a salad fork, so you had no fear it would have punctured anything.

You heard the man and the girl coming down the stairs, but you were focused on yourself for now. Ellie watched you at work, noticing how you pinched the area before poking through the skin as if she was trying to learn from you.

Joel nudged her, mumbling let's go before walking toward the door. She went to turn down the music instead.

"Ellie."

"Look lady, we need a place to stay. I really didn't want to do this, but if need be, Joel here will be forced to show you hell, okay? Ain't it right Joel?"

You turned to look at him, the entertained smirk twisting even more on your lips. Damn, he was fine. You almost wanted to test his patience. You chuckled before turning your attention back to your wound.

"You know, I'd kinda like to see that."

There was a certain quietness to the situation now. Your mind was fixated on cleaning up the wound properly, knowing from the last time an infection really was the dominant danger. Ellie had walked up to you, partly assessing the damage she had done while inspecting your treatment up close. She swiftly snatched her knife from the countertop, noting the wound could not be that deep as the blade looked as if it had been dipped only half its length.

Turning to look at Joel, she mimicked an expression that insisted they made an effort to stay. She was really tired.

At first, he merely gave her a look, no, not nearly tired enough to let his guard down in a stranger's makeshift abode. Now that Ellie had stabbed you, not a single thought managed to put his mind at ease.

They went back and forth like that until Joel finally gave in, dragging his hand through his patchy beard and he walked towards them.

"Look, ma'am--"

Promptly interrupting, you stated your name, not sparing him a glance but immediately wondering why you said that. Perhaps it was his honey-dipped voice that made you tremble or maybe it was the authority in his tone.

"I'm Joel, this is Ellie. And... yeah, she's right, it really would be nice if we could rest 'ere--just for the night, o' course."

Oh yeah. It was the gruff accent that did it for you.

"O' course," you mimicked, putting the needle back in a little pincushion, finally, and regrettably giving him a look--damn, even finer up close. "--It would have been another conversation if this lil' Ellie here hadn't stabbed me, wouldn't it?"

Ellie looked up, having already begun inspecting your home, and like someone blind, she apparently needed to touch everything in order to see it.

"Sorry," she shrugged and you couldn't help but roll your eyes.

"That's a terrible apology, from content to tone." Cleaning up after yourself, you threw the bloodied scissors into the sink. You took a deep breath, focusing on the pain in your side, ensuring that your stitching skills had not failed you.

Joel jumped in now. "To be fair, she was just tryna protect me. Can you blame a girl--"

"Yes, I can," said you and lifted your index pointedly at him, face stern though a hint of mockery glistened in your eye. "Could've at least given a shout or something."

"Hey, we didn't know anybody lived 'ere, 'kay?" Joel gestured like one would when attempting to de-escalate a situation. It only made you more annoyed with him, though. It was in your best interest, you figured, seeing as he looked like someone you would have a difficult time staying mad at.

You threw your hands in the air. "Oh, well, sorry my house isn't quite homely enough for you!"

Ellie quipped, "yeah, well, it's cold as shit."

"Ya think?" grumbled you, shutting the front door only to realize you had already decided on letting them stay. "The whole upstairs is even colder, so y'all will have to make do with this room. Also, I got just one house rule for you two. My bathroom, off limits. Finally fixed it. I don't care what you gotta do, it ain't gonna be in there. You gotta go, you go outside. Understood?"

Joel offered a curt nod as his answer and although Ellie had been quick to slump down on your couch, she was even quicker hanging over the backrest of it, gaping at you.

"You got running water?"

"What? No, shut up--now, stabber," you scowled at Ellie, "run up and close that door, and uh--Joel, get the fire going, yeah? Would hate to move around two frozen corpses in the morning."

You sighed, watching as they did as they had been told. Going for your jacket, you tucked in to venture out in the cold. In the colder.

"Where you goin'?"

Although Joel's voice was really just a coarse grumble, you couldn't help but melt into the depth of it. Chills.

"To kill some fucking babies--I don't know, chop wood or something."

With that, you quickly went out to blow off some steam. This whole situation was sending your mind into overload.

An unfairly hot man. A knife-wielding little girl. All up in your business now. Great.

Pulling on your gloves, you breathed out before you swung the axe above your head. Already working. You quickly felt a pain in your side, wincing. Too soon to be chopping wood. Got it, you thought even though you continued the second the pinch subsided. Another block, another pinch, less steam clouding your mind.

It had been long since you had even thought of human company. In your head, making up scenarios it had gone smoothly, sometimes you had even found yourself some happiness. But that's what daydreaming is, right? A cozy little state of make-believe. You had never been good with social situations. It took preparations and a structured day. No day-to-day planning. No spontaneous happenings. So you can imagine the turn it took when the Cordyceps suddenly meddled with your everyday life.

You could never again count on knowing what would happen next, and that was the worst thing.

Joel came out. You recognized his heavy steps as he got down from the porch, but you didn't dare look. One-to-one interactions were just as bad as group socialization.

Joel stepped up in front of you, though he left a few feet separating the two of you, lest you had no clue as to how to wield an axe. He quickly caught on, thinking medieval weapons might be your thing.

"That looks painful," he commented. Whether it was his low voice or the fierce cold making you shiver, you did not know. Your pride imputed the temperature.

"Got the fire going?"

"Yeah," hummed he, watching you closely. "Didn't wanna bother ya--jus' say thanks."

"Yeah, sure--whatever," you babbled, hoping the "sure" didn't give him any ideas. Didn't want them staying longer than necessary, right?

Stubborn as you were, you continued stacking blocks of wood, chopping one after the other. You would definitely have to look at the stitches when you had finished your passive-aggressive rage job.

When Joel finally decided to go back inside, you stopped for a second, peeking through your lashes. Even looking fine as fuck walking away. This next day would be challenging, you just knew it.

"Joel!" You had called out for him the second the thought entered your mind, desperate at the thought of spending as little time with him as possible, and yet, conflicted as you found yourself adjusting your stance over the wood chunk. Send him away. "You go catch me a rabbit. If you bring me two I might even cook something up for you guys, too."

A smirk tugged on the corner of his lip and Joel made a quick salute, accepting the challenge.

Great. Now you would be free of his alluring charm for a little while.

[feybeasts]

continuing the melee gun ask train: are/were pistol bayonets a thing to your knowledge, and if so, are/were they a viable thing

They were definitely a thing in a few cases, but usually less a case of a bayonet as used in a traditional sense, and more “can we combine the best aspects of a pistol and a knife?”

My going example is the Apache here, which is a combination dagger, brass knuckles, and small bore revolver. It’s more of a derringer than a proper combat firearm, however, something you’d use to end a brawl over a game of cards than a real… practical firearm.

The thing about a bayonet is, it needs the length of a rifle to be used as designed- which is as something of a spear-

The more length the firearm has, the longer the reach of your “spear”- which is why you had ridiculous things like sword bayonets come into play as a miniature arms race developed prior to WWI to have the longest reach- and thus the ability to stab the other guy first in a melee-

So generally, the bayonet works best when you have that reach- but a pistol is about the length of your hand, so the advantages of a bayonet are lessened- you’re gonna be in arm’s reach anyways, and at that point- why not just use a regular knife, instead of one awkwardly attached to the end of a pistol?

Or y’know. Just shoot the guy.

[hamspenalty]

kill bill au?? 👀👀👀👀👀

When Max was a kid, his dad’s favorite knife bigger than his tiny forearm, he’d told him the most important thing about their job. It was simple, really. “Do not get attached. Whatever personal feelings or remorse you have gets thrown out the window. Do your job, and deal with the rest later.”

Since that day, Max had tagged along on his dad’s appointments until he was considered old enough to start taking appointments. When he was 9. He still remembers it; some angry ex-wife who’d asked Max and his dad to kill her cheating, deadbeat ex-husband. His dad had let him fire the fatal shot that ended up killing him. Quick and dirty.

He’d had nightmares about it until he was 13. The blood splatter against the wall. The way his dad had patted his back with a triumphant smile, lips curling into something sinister as he flashed his pearly whites at Max.

At 18, he’d learned all he’d needed to know. How to properly clean a toilet. How to make coffee. And how to hide a dead body.

*

Max stares at his target from the rooftop of some run down apartment that’s infested with rats. It stunk strongly of mold and decay, and if Max hadn’t developed such a strong stomach from seeing and smelling brain matter since the tender age of 11, he’d probably throw up.

He finishes the last of his chocolate croissant, licking the crumbs off his fingers as he looks down the scope on his rifle, zooming in a little on the man’s ugly, screwed up face as he came. Max tamps down a laugh. If only he knew what was coming.

That’s the thing about assassinating people. They usually never know what’s coming for them. One day they’re having their morning coffee, and the next they’re dead. Simple as that. It used to tear Max up inside, all those years ago, but he’s learned how to manage it, he thinks. You see something enough and it becomes normal.

He shoots next to the man’s head, narrowly avoiding his ear. The bullet grazes it, if his screams of shock are any indication. The man does exactly what Max wants him to do. He runs out of the house screaming.

“Got you,” Max whispers to himself, looking down the scope once more. Everything slows down, his back muscles tensing, his breath becoming shallow as he fires one last shot, right into his chest.

The man stops. His eyes glaze over, and he falls to his knees with a deafening crack. Max smiles, triumphant.

As he packs his things up, he wonders whether he should order Thai or Indian for dinner. He thinks about the stacks of various food menus resting in his kitchen drawer, sticking together like one happy, symbiotic machine, and settles on Indian. He’s been craving chicken tikka masala.

He sighs as he gets into his beat up, sun damaged ‘95 Honda Civic, turning on his favorite Dutch radio station. He listens to the familiar songs from his childhood while driving to his apartment, aching for his bed.

Max lives in a shoebox. He has to, though. He can’t live in a nice, expensive apartment while killing people for a living. It just doesn’t make sense. He has to stay under the radar.

So he lives in a shoebox with no heating and no central air, with loud neighbors and two stray cats that love to visit him on the fire escape. He tells everyone that he works a regular job; a security guard for some high end law firm; and pays his taxes like a good citizen. He’s golden. No one has to know that he’s been killing random people since he was a child, and that sometimes he wakes up in a panic because of it. He was mostly okay.

Max runs through the rest of his day in a haze. He says hi to his neighbors, smiling in a way he hopes is believable. He runs through the motions of calling his favorite restaurant to order his food, hoping that his voice sounds normal, and not fuzzy and distant like it does in his head.

He finishes the last of his food while watching some stupid reality TV show that was in the recommended section of the previous apartment owner’s Netflix account. She’d never logged out on the TV she’d left behind, and since Max didn’t want to risk getting found out by something as stupid as a Netflix account, he used it to his advantage.

He let himself sink into the leather of his couch, listening to the contestants argue about who to kick off the island until he fell asleep. Sometimes he likes to pretend that those people were really there with him, that it wasn’t just him and his own parasitic thoughts.

Sometimes it helped.

[andreas-river]

Little Touch [Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader]

Summary; You find out that you feelings for Simon are strong, more than you think.

Warnings; blood, wounds, gunshots, near-death experience, a little bit of humor, fluff, a bit of sadness.

Word count; 800 ca.

Disclaimer; I do not own any Modern Warfare characters.

A/N; english is NOT my first language, so any advice, correction, ect. are welcome. Enjoy this “thing”, or whatever is this.

¤

How can anything end like this?

You never thought about it until now, you have always lived every day to the fullest of possibilities, because the today we know will be only in the past.

And now, as it all begins to dissolve, you start to ask yourself: have I really lived my day as if it were my last?

~

[20 minutes before.]

You get Hassan’s attention again, trying to cover up Soap for a while longer.

He has the controls in his hands while he’s on the other side of the room. Hassan’s right in front of you, looking for you, knowing he’ll find you.

One wrong move, and you’re dead.

The wrong action, and everyone dies.

Everyone you know, who you’ve grown attached to, who you’ve... fallen in love with.

Ghost.

Actually, Simon.

His name echoes in your mind, his voice is like a soft whisper behind your back.

He is a puzzle.

One of those made up of thousands of pieces, pieces you can lose if you’re not careful.

It was only yesterday that despite the rain, Graves and his Shadow on your heels, you were giggling because of the jokes that Soap and Ghost were exchanging, terribles jokes that you could not not laugh.

But now, Hassan, turned around, was your opportunity.

Holding your trusty knife in your hands, you make your choice, because it is the mission.

Hassan is the target.

And you want him dead.

You run towards him, he can’t see you, you know you have the advantage.

The blade pierces his arm and he drops his rifle, a wave of satisfaction loads you with adrenaline.

He try to hit you, turning with rage, avoiding his fist.

But you don’t notice the gun in the other hand.

How..!

You feel the bullet going into your chest, you can’t tell if it’s at the heart, or the lungs, it’s happening so fast, but you feel everything amplified, the pain, the blood wetting your shirt.

You try to move, just to see Soap on the floor, Hassan is on him.

“...you think you can stop me..?”

No. No no no. It can’t be. Not him.

You are powerless, in front of that scene. Soap is still on the floor, his eyes half closed, injured like you.

It can’t be...

“We are not attacking...”

“We are invading.”

Hassan lifts Soap to his feet as you watch in horror the most painful scene of your life.

But what you think doesn’t actually happen.

The noises are muffled, you feel under you a pool of your own blood.

Someone calls your name, but your eyes are too heavy, the sounds too distant to be heard.

Your mind produces one last thought: Have I really lived my day as if it were my last?

~

[The next day.]

Regular beeps slowly fill your ears, the sound cradles you hypnotizing your mind.

“... Soap was freaking out. Damn, there was too much blood...”

That voice.

Shit.

The quiet beeps you’ve been hearing so far become more frequent, overhanging the silence that was created.

You slowly open your eyes.

The room is poorly lit, it looks like dawn.

You’re on a hospital bed.

Alive.

Instinctively you turn, the skull mask of Ghost welcomes you, noticing in his eyes something different, something new.

“Did you sleep well?”

You blink a couple of times, it doesn’t feel real.

“How is poss.. -” the voice comes out hoarse and weak, you try to clear it as best as possible.

“The bullet hit a rib, no organ was hit. That’s how.”

“Oh.”

The room falls again into silence, you feel pure embarrassment, your cheeks are on fire and that stupid machine keeps monitoring your heart-

“Though we lost you.”

Is voice is soft, it awakens something you haven’t heard in a long time, a warmth in your chest that makes you feel... more than good.

You look down, embarrassed. You can���t stand his insistent look, his eyes going through you like butter- and his hand is over yours.

Okay, now you feel too hot.

He gets up, but against all the expectations his face is a few inches from yours, covering the distance between you.

He touch your lips, feeling her lips through the soft fabric of the mask.

His eyes shine, you notice folds on them, you know he’s smiling.

He leaves the room, your hands tremble, the fingers touching your lips, now smiling too.

[bemyawakening]

HAYLOFT; chapter eight

fandom: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Original Female Character

short summary: Marzia Moretti, known as Siren, is one of the secret agents of the CIA, meant to deal with missions quietly and gather information. Not only did she work on her biggest mission for seven years, digging for information about the Sicilian Mafia which was running the most secretive human trafficking business, but she also did this to get revenge. Recently, she gets assigned to Task Force 141 in order to finish the mission once and for all.

translation of Italian can be found at the end. You can also read this book on ao3

previous chapters: on my masterlist

warnings: human trafficking, rescue mission, blood, gore, deaths

Linda Walker didn’t have anything incriminating apart from her walk in her park which only showed that she was one of the people who squeezed cigarette buds on the pavement instead of throwing them out where they belonged. The woman was taking her freedom seriously and staying undercover as much as she could.

            Some unusual activity has been noticed from a private warehouse district in the district of Toscana. Some businessmen owned it for shipping huge cargo out with ships – deliveries. Intel managed to find out that a few transactions from that business ended up with Linda Walker years ago before she was in prison. It also has been confirmed, that the place was swarming with people during the night—night security as they called them, but they believed that the night security won’t be holding assault rifles with bulletproof vests.

            The warehouse district was big enough for the Task Force to split up in order to cover it all. The buildings were surrounded by huge containers, meant for shipment. The place was swarming with criminals, probably Torros, only to show that they were hiding something incriminating.

            The plan was that Price and Soap will cover the left wing of the warehouse building complex. Siren and Ghost will take care of the right wing. Gaz will find a high place to keep them informed about incoming danger and protect their backs. The mission was meant to be quiet and quick. There weren’t a lot of guards to take care of, so the need for them to use assault rifles was unnecessary. The best play out there was silenced pistols and knives.

            Siren has almost forgotten what it was like to wear a proper military vest. It was tough at first to wear it, the weight of little pouches full of med kits, ammo and other necessities attached to her. It reminded her of the seriousness of the situation. This wasn’t a satin red dress meant to charm and even if she felt odd with this extra weight and a silenced pistol in her hands, she liked the change of a mission.

            The warehouse complex was near the sea—the area around it was fairly abandoned. A lot of ‘keep-out’ signs in the distance of five kilometres from this place. There were three main buildings: all made from metal, industrial type – once were fabrics, but now were used for storage. The shipment containers were outside, a few transporting vehicles were parked around. There was a large fence around all that complex, that’s why Ghost had some metal cutters strapped to his back, already cutting their way through to the right ring.

            They chose a spot to hide where one of those containers was placed in front of the fence. Ghost looked down at his Sergeant, watching as she took her hunting knife out of the case strapped to her thigh. Doing the same, he peaked through the corner, noticing two guys making their rounds and he motioned for her to go around the container to take care of one of them.

            Nodding, she silently moved towards the man, waiting for the moment when he passed her container. The headache-causing lamp from above was making her wince—this place really looked eerie at the night. But she ended up at the end of the container, grabbing the man from behind by his mouth, muffling his mouth and plunging the knife through below his chin upwards, hearing a disgusting squelch of his meat, the man instantly growing limp. She dropped him on the ground without hesitation, noticing the tall frame near her do exactly the same.

            Ghost looked at her and she gave him a nod, motioning for him to lead the way. It surprised him how calm Siren has been this whole day. Even at the base, preparing to leave, she was focused on making sure her vest was secured on her body and that she had everything she needed. He didn’t know why he was always so impressed with her ability to be determined about something. He already has noticed the way she works. She knows when to draw a line between work and fun.

            Getting closer to the entrance of the right-wing, he heard a set of footsteps again, motioning her to go around another container to take another guy out. Himself, he walked out of the shadows, grasping the man towards himself as he covered his mouth with his gloved hand and pushed the knife through his temples. Soon enough, she joined him in the shadows as well, her vest slightly bloody, but she didn’t seem to care about it.

            Near the entrance, there were another two guards standing there. Both of them seemed determined—they weren’t bored. They didn’t even look tired.

            Moving back, he noticed how she grabbed a little pebble from the ground, throwing it to the right of the entrance, getting a reaction out of the guys. She moved around the container from the other side, seeing the man closer to her notice her presence and raise his rifle, but she extended her hand with the pistol and shot a clean silent bullet into his eye socket—ugh. His friend noticed his comrade falling and as he was about to turn on his radio, she appeared in his view and offered him two bullets: one in the stomach and the other to his forehead.

            Ghost simply stood there, annoyed with her not waiting for his order to proceed. But she took care of that nicely. “Show off,” he mumbled.

            The woman overheard that and she fought back her smile, dramatically bowing, extending her hands towards the door for him to keep on going.

            The metal door wasn’t unlocked and they both stepped into a large area of the same containers and shelves. Ghost quickly pushed the button on his comms, speaking into it: “Captain, this is Ghost. We’re inside.”

            “Copy that. We’re in the left wing.” Price announced.

            The inside was eerie—the translucent lights were slightly flickering and the electricity was buzzing loudly. It was a huge space full of the same containers. Nothing looked suspicious, but it was too soon to judge that.

            Moving away from the door, he motioned for her to go to the other side to take care of the rest guards. Siren complied and moved to the right, hearing some distant footsteps. She pressed her back to the wall, hiding herself behind a small column, hearing the footsteps coming in closer.

            “Io le comprerei,” the man spoke, startling her for a second, making her realise that he wasn’t talking with her.

            “Non hai tutti quei soldi,” a distant voice coming through a static noise was overheard.

            The man chuckled, his footsteps getting closer: “Potrei rubarne uno. Ce ne sono molti altri.”

            The two men were speaking about people. Stealing them. Selling them. As a joke. It was at that moment that she realised that they have hit the jackpot—this warehouse was on the right track. This place was somehow related to human trafficking, but they needed to find out how.

            Siren didn’t wait for the other guy to answer and she spun, seeing a tall guy in front of her widen his eyes, but she plunged his knife into his chest, hearing him croak out in surprise. His eyes were wide, mouth open to choke something out, but nothing came out of it. She retrieved her knife and kicked his knee, making him fall in front of her, and leaving him to die.

            The thud of his body on the concrete made a few whimpers appear in the space. “Ghost, you copy?” She spoke into her comms.

            “This place is empty,” he replied.

            “The guard was speaking about buying someone. We’re on the right track.”

            Siren didn’t receive another answer from him as his figure was visible in the distance, coming towards her.

            “What did they say?” His rough voice always made her feel uneasy, noticing that the comms soften it slightly.

            “One of them wants to buy someone, and talks about stealing since he doesn’t have that kind of money.”

            Another distant whimper was heard. Knitting her eyebrows together, she went to the closest container, knocking on the metal. Pressing her ear to the coldness of it, she heard a muffled whimper coming from the inside, making her heart drop to the ground.

            Turning to Ghost, she choked out: “People.”

            Siren moved to the front of it, putting a bullet through the lock of it and ripping it off the loop. Loudly, the door opened, hitting her with a stench. It was rust and body liquids—piss, sweat and a hint of iron – blood. The light from the room revealed about twenty women turning their heads to her—mouths tied, hands tied and horribly terrified.

            Putting the gun in her holder, she immediately raised her hands in a surrendering manner, looking at the shaken figures of these women—they were of different ages, and most of them were young, too young, just like the list they have decoded.

            “I’m not going to hurt you,” Siren silently announced in Italian, knowing they will be listening to her. “I’ll get you out of here immediately.”

            Ghost walked behind her, looking at the open cargo. A frown tugged on his lips. His job wasn’t easy and he lived with haunting images every night. Even if killing people wasn’t bringing him down, the rescuing missions always made him feel sick to the stomach. So much fear was lingering in the air, the muffled whimpers by the duct tape and he knew well his whole appearance wasn’t making them feel better. So for the first time, he was glad Siren was there.

            He watched how she said something in Italian, her tone was soothing. She worked on the binds of the first girl. A girl. She was not older than eight years old, her summer dress was ripped in some places and dirty. Her arms were visibly bruised and when Siren removed the duct tape from her mouth, she started to cry without a sound.

            She clung onto Siren immediately, silencing her sobs in her overstuffed vest. Lieutenant felt uneasy watching this, but he stepped inside, taking the binds off an older woman, hearing them all whimper louder.

            Siren said something in Italian again and he knew she was speaking about him. Hopefully, she wasn’t turning them against him. After her words, the women seemed to calm down just a little bit. Ghost gave a small pocket knife to the older woman, not knowing how to say that she should help the others, but she understood everything without telling her anything and got to work.

             “There are more in the other containers. Let’s go,” Siren urged in English, both of them leaving the container.

            Moving in different directions, the Lieutenant contacted Price, telling them that they should check all of the containers because there were victims inside. After that, they worked quickly and silently.

            There were about ten people and more in the containers—twelve containers in total. Most of them were women, from ages four to forty. Ghost tried to ignore the lump in his throat and not look them in the eye as he was trying to help them. However, he knew that whatever he saw today, will haunt him in the night as well.

            He overheard Siren opening the last container and she gasped, not saying anything. The man peeked his head through the container, watching her figure looking at the container, frozen. He quickly made his way to her, looking from behind her, noticing a pile of dead bodies just tossed on top of another. It smelled like rotten meat and excrement—fuck… Quickly, he grabbed the door of the container and closed it, making her turn around to face him.

            Her eyes were wide and teary—she was slightly away from him, not thinking straight at his moment. His gloved hands squeezed her shoulders tighter, making her pupils widen for a second before she looked at his eyes through the mask.

            “You with me?” His voice was rough and breathy—he was trying not to react to the dead bodies behind them.

            “Yeah—yeah,” she shook her head as if she was trying to snap out of it. Then she nodded, breathing in: “We checked all of the containers. Let’s get them to Gaz.”

            Clearly, she wasn’t okay, but he was in no position to soothe her. Now, all that mattered was to get these people to safety. It was their job. They will battle their emotions in the night.

            As Siren went to gather them up, he pressed on his comms:  “Gaz, get to the place of agreement. Over.”

            “Moving to the spot, Lieutenant,” Gaz’s voice reached him through the headset as they all agreed beforehand that if they would be able to find some of the kidnapped people, Gaz would show up at the entry of the whole warehouse complex, calling for some backup to transport the people into safety. 

            There were about one hundred people out of the containers. Some of the women were too weak to walk, but the others made sure to hold them in place. Ghost came closer to Siren, who was explaining everything to them in Italian, gesturing a few times to him. The same girl, who clung onto Siren before, quickly made her way to him, her bruised little fists grasping the end of his jacket. He looked down, his breath hitching, making him curse silently as this was reminding him of his past. Ghost could never understand how others were that evil to hurt children.

            That’s why he didn’t move her away from him—he could never. Even if he was surprised that she wasn’t scared of his skull mask, he had to realise that she has been through so much worse. And just like that, he scooped her in his arms as soon as Siren gave him the sign that they can go to the entry of the warehouse complex.

            There were a few relieved sounds coming from the people as soon as they were outside. As they went to Gaz, Price and Soap were there as well, with about fifty people as well.

            Siren took the initiative to explain to the poor people what was going on. The shaking figures of the people seemed to relax just a little bit, giving Ghost an opportunity to place the little girl beside him, making her grasp the end of his jacket as well. It made him realise that perhaps she was alone in here—Jesus, her parents must be going crazy. The girl was clinging onto him as if he was her saviour and he just wanted to hold her close and promise her that no one will hurt her again.

            A promise he once couldn’t keep.

            In the distance, he noticed Siren talking with one of the women. The poor woman was grasping Siren’s shoulders desperately, a quick conversation going between the two. Only then he noticed that Siren was slightly shaking—the view of the last container was following her. She looked tired. All of them were.

            Siren walked closer to them, announcing: “I’m going back in. One of them claims she had a little sister and they took her away. I will scoop the building once again.”

            “No, let me,” Soap disagreed. “We don’t speak Italian if somethin’ happens.”

            “Backup is coming—they’ll handle it,” she pointed out since the backup will be mostly Giovanni’s crew. “I’ll be quick. In and out.”

            Siren looked at Ghost, then down at the little girl, offering her a small smile. 

            “Alright. Go find her,” Ghost agreed and watched the way her figure faded away in the sea of containers.

            Siren tried not to think. Tried to stay professional. At least for now. She couldn’t break down at this moment. She got back into the right wing, not checking the containers again, but moving to the metal stairs that were at the end of the room. She quickly moved up, revealing a small watching area to the containers below.

            There wasn’t seem to be anything in there, but she moved to the end of it, seeing a door at the end of the corridor and she opened it. It was an office—well, papers were on the floor and everything was messy. It wasn’t used for working, but it was empty.

            Then thought that the sister of the woman could be in the container alongside the dead bodies made her take a deep breath and close her eyes. Placing her hands on her thighs, she leaned a little bit forwards and tried to control her breathing.

            She had to stay strong. For now.

            Shaking her head, she sniffed, blinking faster so that she wouldn’t cry and she turned around to leave before she noticed a closet. It was a shot in the dark, but she moved to it, opening the two doors and she breathed in deeply, her voice getting stuck in her throat.

            There was their trap.

            There was the little girl. Looking at her with wide, teary eyes, shaking like a little leaf. Her back was pressed against the wooden wall of the closet behind her, hands tied together in front of her, mouth taped shut as the little figure of her was wrapped in a time bomb.

            Turning on her comms, she pressed the button and opened her mouth to speak, but then she slightly moved to the side, watching the little screen on the side of the bomb, the numbers flashing how much time she had left: 00.01.30

            “I found the girl. She’s strapped to a bomb. I’ll get her out.”

            The four men furrowed their eyebrows immediately as they heard her voice through the comms, coming through a little whine of a small girl. Her words were slightly muffled, the static noise overtaking most of it, making the Captain move further away from the crowd of people.

            “Siren, repeat that. Did you find the girl?”

            Price shared a concerned look with Ghost and now they all understood what was happening—there was the trap.

            A distant Italian was heard coming through the static—she was talking with the little girl before some words reached them: “I repeat – there’s a bomb on the girl. A bomb.”

            Fuck.

            “Siren, can you get it off the girl?”

            More incoherent noises reached them all before the static ended—they lost her. Captain’s eyes widen and he choked out a breath: “I’m getting in there. Gaz, call the detonator team. We need them ASAP.”

            “I’m coming with you,” Soap nodded, but before any of them could move any further.

            A thud.

            The ground started to shake slightly as the metal down the hill started to shake, a burst of flames visible on the right wing. The saved people gasped loudly, moving slightly down, covering their ears as the glasses in the warehouse buildings shattered from the sudden explosion.

            “No,” Price whispered, moving closer, shaking his head. “No—no! NO!” He shouted, grasping his comms, and pressing the damn button: “Siren, please tell me you are there!”

            The radio was quiet.

            Ghost was looking into the flames coming from the warehouse building, covering the girl’s eyes, pressing her closer to his leg. His mouth turned dry—yet he couldn’t take away his eyes off the flames even if he wanted to run there and find her alive.

            That’s why he preferred working alone. That’s why he couldn’t listen to the desperate try of the Captain to contact Siren. That’s why he started to tremble slightly since they all knew that this was going to be a trap and they still let her walk back in there. Everything was going too smoothly that they forgot that this had to be planned as well.

            That’s why when a small child was running towards them, with smoked cheeks and loud cries that alerted the whole district, it made their hearts drop to the ground. The little girl was there. But another figure didn’t appear from the bright flames.

            Siren did her job.

Translations:

"Io le comprerei” - I'll buy her in Italian

“Non hai tutti quei soldi” - You don't have that much money in Italian

“Potrei rubarne uno. Ce ne sono molti altri" - I could steal one. There are many others in Italian

[scamuel-likely]

Week 4 of the Writing Workshop with @bettsfic & @books

A Narrative Imperative

Always have a plan, always keep moving, never get attached. Stick to that plan, find your own method, never get attached. Do your job, create beautiful things, never get attached. Live without remorse, always have an exit, never get attached. Anticipate everything, be patient, never get attached. Work alone, be invisible, never get attached. Be efficient, be emotionless, never get attached. Don’t question the job, avoid collateral damage, never get attached. Be free, kill without fear, never get attached.

In order to get by in this line of work you must expunge everything you hold dear. Become a blank slate. Let go of it all, clear your soul of attachment. A last fleeting glance back at love and fear and joy and hope and enjoyment and happiness. You are nothing, now.

These emotions will come back in time. You will learn new loves, new fears. You will find light in new ventures. Your mind will be forever altered with this new work. Because it eats at you. It consumes you. And, believe me, it is less painful when there is less of you to be devoured.

Let your attachments float away in the deep black water, watch them meander downstream till they’re engulfed in the white grasp of rapids and never seen again. Now, once they’re gone, take the dive yourself.

It will be cold, it will be alien. You will never feel this way again. A totally new sensation, the first of many, impacting against your new self like a freight car against a rose petal. This first initial decent is painful, oh so painful. But once it’s done once, it just gets easier. It just gets better. And all you need to do is dive straight into those inky black depths. All you need to do is pull that trigger.

It’s a horrible idea, ending someone’s life. But it surprises you with its ease. With how willingly the knife slides in, the bullet tears through, the poison takes its toll. As if the target wishes to die. Maybe you’re doing them a kindness. You can start to think like that, if you lie awake at night and yearn for the warm embrace of morality. If you want for normality, for emotions and for peace. But, if that’s the case, then kill again. And again. Kill, kill, kill, until you are numb to it. Kill, kill, kill, until it becomes like air.

There is beauty in this life. No, there is. Collateral damage is ugly, dead civilians are ugly. Yes, yes, there is always some kind of moral code, ethics persist even in this world of death. For without it, what separates us from beasts? But whilst innocent death is ugly, paid for -orchestrated- death is one of life’s true beauties. When your sniper rifle spits a bullet into the scrawny neck of an arrogant dictator, who built an ivory fortress around himself -who believed himself to be untouchable, when that happens and his eyes bulge, it dawns on him, as his hands clasp fruitlessly at his tattered artery, that he wasn’t immortal, he wasn’t untouchable. He was mortal. He was human. And he becomes instantly connected to all those around him, through the sheer undeniable unifying understanding that everyone will one day die. And then, less then a second later, he does die. And that fleeting moment of true and total truth is gone.

This dictator is soon just ashes in a bejewelled urn, and a lavish funeral is held, throughout which his advisors watched each other intently for signs of grief so that they might cry harder then their adversaries and garner sympathy from the late dictator’s wife (who is secretly pleased to be rid of the brute). And it is here that the next beautiful thing occurs. The turmoil that springs up in the country with the force and suddenness of a neutron bomb. The political infighting, the civil wars, the military coups, people vying for power in a fragile country, on the brink of total turmoil. The tears, the carbombs, the laughter of soldiers, the writings of revolutionaries; all of this by your hand. Your own personal touch on the world. The world will become your canvas, a bullet will be your brush.

And the day to day isn’t so bad. A lot of travelling, yes. Airports will become as homely and familiar to you as the scent of your mother’s perfume. New names, new countries, new jobs. It’s almost exciting, don’t you think? Freedom. You are utterly anonymous; an inscrutable, practically nonexistent cog in a gargantuan machine. People will remember your face, so you must change it. People will remember your voice, so you must change it. Husks of shedded skins will congeal in truckstop toilet bowls: shredded passports and empty makeup bottles, clumps of hair and crumpled rubber gloves are all the traces of your existence-flushed down a grimy loo.

Some call what we dispense justice, others call it despicable. We call it a job. And it is not to be questioned. We don’t make mistakes, we are invisible, we are untouchable, we are immortal. For we are an idea, an ideal. Murder and money will always be married. Greed and fear will cause moral people to do immoral things. Everyone wishes someone dead. We just make those wishes a reality.

And you can to. It’s as simple as pulling a trigger.

[slifarianhawk]

A couple designs for my OC in Resident Evil: Arch Angel

Full name: Tabitha Redfield Wesker

Age: 40 [looks 32]

Birth date: April 25, 1961

Blood type: O negative

Hair color: black with streaks of grey from trauma

Eye color: cobalt blue with grey lining [they flare an ice blue when in raged]

Infected: yes, she is infected with the Angelis virus a sub strain of the Progenitor virus and the Veronica virus. This virus has three stages of acceptance varying from minor to full. Her body has full acceptance from the virus and has developed a few mutations due to it. The most prominent physical mutation is her eyes as the were originally a soft brown.

Powers: She has similar abilities to Wesker in the basic regard strength, speed, cellular regeneration and skeletal hardening. This is where the similarities end however. She is able to gather silica particles from the air to create a visor to guard her eyes and electrical currents if she has taken her enhancement drugs. When she starts to have an anxiety attack long claws and black fangs made from the silica particles as well. If things keep up and the anxiety attack gets worse her body morphs in to the "Equinox stage". This is a terrifying mutation her eyes turn to ice blue, her hair goes white and two massive wings rip free from her back. In that state her voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Unfortunately her body runs out of energy quickly when using her abilities and frequently faints once an hour to hour and a half pass.

Equipment: Protective eye glasses augmented to prevent black lash from her vision enhancement. A black and violet trenchcoat made of Kepler and leather. A black and red choker necklace that is a com link to Pheonix Corps. Black combat boots with ankle bracing.

Has a specialize attache case on her hip with viral stabilizers, anti virus and healing items.

Weaponry/ combat skills: she is proficient in handling most fire arms but prefers not to use automatic weapons. She excels at sniper rifles and precision weapons such as handguns and bows. She is adapt at using bladed weapons namely survival knifes and the specialized sword made by Surgei.

Projectile weapons:

Hand gun: Tabithas samurai edge attachable scope

Sniper rifle: H&K PSG-1 equipped with a silencer and optional thermal scope.

Magnum: Lightning Hawk 50 cal. with the Pheonix Corps. Emblem on the barrel

A black and silver compound bow with special arrows that can either inject poison or viral destabilizer.

Blade weapons:

She has her black S.T.A.R.S knife, 12 inches and made of black steel with a blueish black accent along the back end.

Family: Chris and claire (bio half brother sister)

Vladimir Sergei (bastard uncle father side)

Albert Wesker (estranged husband: believes tabitha is dead)

Jacob mueller (son looked after out of umbrellas hold given to reina mueller)

Alistar lancaster ( daughter :died in arms)

[nixalegos]

♥ - Is there an opponent they’ve fought they’ve grown particularly attached to, love or hate?

"We only fought as actual enemies ONE TIME!" He said, exasperated. "And only because our sense of fashion is more in line with cultist chic than Silvermoon standards indulge." "And our training romps since are hardly considered adversarial. Well, at least in bludgeons anyway. I still have an edge or two in sword fighting I think you get annoyed at. Hand to hand combat...well at least I can take my fair share of blows. Knife play goes to me, obviously. I take the range with wands, and the anti material tank rifle goes to you. Yeah, no, our marital martial rivalry is hardly one build out of contempt or distain." "BATTLE AXES? Really?! Do I look like a Mo'arg to you? Don't answer that you combat hungry vixen. Do they even -make- spell axes that channel magic? What? Those small ones like the shamans use? What do you want me to do stand at the other end of the ring and throw totems at you next? No I'm not saying I couldn't, it's an axe."

@tyleinth

[brummiereader]

@emotionalcadaver me throughout this entire chapter 👇...

Laur, your action packed writing is so good 👌! Have confidence in it hun, because believe me, never once did I feel like it dragged or became repetitive. If anything I felt like I read the entire chapter so quickly that by the end I was left just sitting there like "fuck, that was intense" 😂.

We got straight into it, guns blazing. And I was hooked. I love that you decided to start this chapter with an intense sequence of dodging, shooting mudering, severing heads (Looks to Lucy 😈)! You kept me on the edge of my seat throughout. FYI, I don't think I've ever told you this but, I have a cousin called Lucy. We call her loopy loulou in our family (which is nicer than what my cousin Chris is called..Christabelle) 😂. So whenever I read about your Lucy, I can't help but called her the same nickname sometimes 🤭. Anyway...Lucy is on fire in this chapter! Bloody hell!

nor any of the others, noticed that while they had entered the building with five of them, only four had made it to ascending the stairs. And this was only a small glimpse into how she meticulously took them out one by one, sneaking up behind them. The image of this is horrifying 😳. Because she's in the shadows, lurking behind them. That's shit from my nightmares!

*She’d cut his throat at the same second she covered his mouth, keeping his sounds contained in the leather of her gloves as he died" I think the darkest thing about this is, she uses a knife to kill. It's more personal than a gun. She has to literally saw at their throats to take them out. All while holding the weight of their body as she feels them go limp 😳. Then If she fancies it, she'll take their head of completely 😂.

Please be okay. This little Internal worry she had, pulled at my heart. I just want them to both make it out alive and together every time they get into something. Whether it be a gunfight or the upcoming Lizzie drama. I'm so attached to them now ❤️.

"and he mentally cursed at the realization that the Italian had brought a friend with him, the man’s rifle already half raised to point at Tommy’s chest" just saying...it's a good thing Lucy's so stubborn, and insisted on being part of the action. Because if she didn't, I reckon Tommy would find himself in a sticky situation. Girl has his back at all times 😌.

A voice that he recognized. And suddenly he could hear his mother whispering in his ear. Finally, the penny dropped 😈!! Arghh I love her flare for the dramatics when she tossed the head at his feet 🤭.

It had been her. Lucy Winters. The Red Demon. Thomas Shelby’s bitch, who had cleaved his cousin’s head from his shoulders. Well, I hate to say we told you so Luca. I loved reading the realisation sink in. It was so satisfying seeing him finally feel fear for the petite woman he second guessed.

Johnny Dogs whistled. “Six, eh, Winters? You’re giving all of us a run for our money.” it always makes me giggle how everyone else is horrified by Lucy's murderous rage but, Alfie, Johnny and Arthur, are impressed. Like it's a game and they're tallying up who got the most kills 😂.

“Because they say it harms the baby.” oh bollocks, here we go 🙈. I found it very interesting how you choose Lucy not to be there when Tommy found out this news. One, because I just automatically thought she would be there. And two, because now I'm effing nervous that Tommy's gonna hide this news from her 😬😳!!

You've left me with so much anxiety for the next chapter, hun 😭! I'm gonna need a shot of vodka before I embark on the storm that's coming poor Lucy's way 😩.

Incredible chapter Laur 😍!

Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Mistakes are made, and the consequences have begun to come home to roost.  

Word Count: 4,415

Notes: Don't ask me why I continue to chose to write things that require a good deal of action when it's one of my weakest points as an author. But I did try to do a few things stylistically to make it hopefully a little less painful to read. Warnings for depictions of violence, blood, decapitation, and pregnancy.

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Chapter 17: Heads Will Roll

Luca was still inside the truck when, to his horror, the roar of machine gunfire began to assault them from above. One of his boys who had already stepped out into the square went down, blood spraying from the holes that the weapon ripped through his torso.  

He had just enough time to burst from the doors of the van and dart behind it, using the body of the truck for cover from the barrage of bullets raining down on them. He only had the briefest of moments to catch sight of Shelby up on the terrace above them, hunched behind a massive machine gun aimed down at where they were all gathered in the square. 

For a moment, his head spun, heart hammering in his ears, trying to process just what the actual fuck had happened. 

One second, they were following Shelby’s car into a secluded little square surrounded by apartment buildings, the next, they were being assaulted with seemingly unending gunfire.

His teeth gritted. It had been Polly Gray. That bitch had baited him. Shelby had probably been in on the whole fucking thing from the beginning. 

There were no easy exits, and very limited cover, especially with Shelby already up above them with a bird’s eye view of the square. They were like rats in a fucking barrel.

His finger flexed preparedly against the trigger of his gun, waiting for the cease in the gunfire. Shelby would have to reload sooner or later. And Luca was fairly certain that it was just him. The little red-haired whore hadn’t been with him when he left the hospital, and if he had any other men with him–especially that mad dog of a brother–they would already know.

There was a brief break in the gunfire, and Luca took his chance, whipping around from his cover behind the truck, firing wildly in the air towards the terrace. Shelby ducked down behind the rail and out of sight, but Luca didn’t stop firing. Behind him, his men joined him in unleashing a storm of bullets in Shelby’s direction. Luca just barely could make out his figure dart from the crate he was huddled behind and into the open door of the flat nearby. 

A seize of rage squeezed at Luca’s throat. The fucking bastard was getting away. He roared orders to his men, sending them in different directions to come at the apartment from the multitude of entrances available to them. Matteo and a few others remained behind him as he ducked into a doorway that led to a staircase. 

His focus was so intensely turned above, fingers flexing against the trigger of his gun while he climbed the steps, ready to fire in case Shelby suddenly appeared above them, that neither he, nor any of the others, noticed that while they had entered the building with five of them, only four had made it to ascending the stairs.

∗ ∗ ∗

Lucy slowly lowered the heavy body of the Italian to the floor, her left hand clamped tightly over his mouth and nose, the other supporting his shoulder so she didn’t drop him.

They had not even noticed, as she jumped stealthily out of the shadows she’d been crouched in, snatching the Italian lingering at the back of the group after the others began to climb the stairs. She’d cut his throat at the same second she covered his mouth, keeping his sounds contained in the leather of her gloves as he died. It did not take long; her hunting knife cut into him like butter, purposefully angling his body back slightly so that the blood poured out onto his chest, rather than splattering all over the ground. 

She kept her movements smooth and silent, slinking up the stairs like a cat. Luca and two of his soldiers were climbing the stairs quickly, their focus up above, where Tommy had been, and not down below. The fourth member of their party had fallen behind a little, taking too long to try to peer out a dirty window. Quick as a viper, Lucy darted forward, and repeated the movements she had just inflicted upon the first Italian, hand clamping over his mouth and carving into his throat with her knife. 

It was risky, taking him like that out in the open on the stairwell. But they were still in the shadows, Luca and his men so far up ahead and focused on getting Tommy that they weren’t even considering what might be creeping up on them from behind. Still, after setting the body of her second victim down on the stone steps, Lucy pressed her back against the most shaded wall, waiting until she heard the men step out onto the terrace of the level that Tommy had been shooting at them from. Not that Tommy would be there anymore. 

She knew where he was headed next, just like she knew a shortcut through this very stairwell that would lead her right to him. 

Halfway up the stairs, she heard an exchange of gunfire from somewhere nearby, her shoulders instinctually drawing in until she realized that it wasn’t for her. It lasted only for a few moments, and then there was silence once more. She continued to race up the stairs, swallowing the bead of fear in her throat. 

Please be okay.

She had to figure that he was, otherwise she’d have been hearing the shouts and jeers of victory from the Italians right about now. Angling her head up, she adjusted her grip on the knife, and continued her ascent. 

∗ ∗ ∗

Tommy shouldered his way past the sheets hanging from the clotheslines. They fluttered and twitched in the breeze, surprisingly heavy as he pushed through them.

He flinched at the blast of gunfire that sharply followed him, pushing his legs to run faster, barely keeping ahead of the stream of bullets that clinked audibly where they smashed into the railing that lined the roof. The Italian man who had shot at him in the stairwell was still following him. 

Tommy raced to the door that led off the roof, then hesitated. The Italian had stopped firing, fidgeting to reload his gun. Fast and silent, Tommy ducked and weaved through the white and blue sheets, taking care to avoid stirring them and giving away his approach. 

He came to a stop when he could see the silhouette of the man through the large, white swath of cloth hanging between them. He fired at it, teeth gritting savagely, bullet casings falling to the ground with a tinkle of metal. The white sheet stained red.     

There was a shout to his right, and he mentally cursed at the realization that the Italian had brought a friend with him, the man’s rifle already half raised to point at Tommy’s chest. 

His movements were impeded by a sudden, violent jerk, eyes going wide as saucers, a hand flying to his throat as a knife embedded itself in the space just below his ear. He went down like a bag of rocks. 

“You alright?” Lucy asked, jogging out from behind the fluttering sheets, going to the Italian where he had crumpled and unceremoniously yanking her knife from his neck.

“Yeah. Are you?” he reached out a hand to her, helping her to straighten, looking her over for injuries.

“Yeah.”

“Right. Come on,” he beckoned. She followed right behind him as he pushed his way back through the swaths of drying sheets, leading the way inside. They burst through doors, into apartments containing huddled family members, staring back at them with terrified eyes. Tommy shouted orders for everyone to stay down and inside. Not just in the hopes that they would listen to him and remain out of the crossfire, but also to draw Luca in and after him with the sound of his bellowing voice. 

“Do they know you’re with me yet?” he asked Lucy as they rushed down a hallway. 

“I don’t think so. I’ve gotten three so far,” she stopped as they came to a staircase. “You go ahead. I’ll stay here and hunt them through the halls. I think that I might be able to get one or two more.”

Tommy hesitated, the thought of just leaving there making his stomach churn. “I don’t…”

“They’re so focused on you, it’ll be a wonder if they see me at all.” She was reaching up to tuck her hair more securely under her cap to hide the distinctive shock of red. “Most likely they’ll just think I’m a tenant of the building. A tiny little woman in an apartment building full of women and children? They won’t give me a second glance.”

“Unless they recognize you.”

She gave him a look, touching his cheek. “I’ll be careful.”

He glanced nervously at the hallway behind her. There was no time to argue. And he trusted that she knew what she was doing. He stooped low to kiss her.

“Be safe.”

“You too.” She took a step back from him, twirling her hunting knife. “Go.”

He cast her one last look, and took off climbing the stairs. 

∗ ∗ ∗

“Luca,” Matteo hissed from over his shoulder. “Luca,” he repeated, when he didn’t answer right away. 

“What?” Luca growled back, head snapping around the glare at him like an angered dog. 

“Where are Vincenzo and Sal?”

Luca looked back down the hall where his men were lined up behind him. Vincenzo, Sal, and Frankie had met up with them inside the apartment, having already swept the lower levels. Good thing, too, considering that Marco and Dante weren’t with them. Strange; he’d thought that they had followed him inside, but they must have stayed out on the square.  

But now all he could see were Frankie and Rocco behind him and Matteo. 

“Did you tell them to break off?” Luca asked, annoyance sharpening his tone to that of a needle, eyes narrowing in slits at Matteo.

“No! I didn’t say a thing to them.”

His face twitched in frustration, fighting back the urge to shout. “Useless motherfuckers…” they would be in for a sharp reprimand when this was all over. Breaking plans and formation without orders…

“Do you think Shelby might’ve gotten them?”

Luca gave him an unimpressed look. “How?” Unless Shelby had suddenly changed his tactics from shooting to a silent method of killing, or, even more unlikely, managed to somehow sneak around and behind them, there was no way he could have picked off Marco, Dante, Vincenzo, or Sal. 

No, it was just his men thinking that they knew better than him. Fucking Matteo, encouraging everyone to read that book about taking initiative a few months ago. What was so wrong with just being a good fucking soldier and listening to your superior officer?

He couldn’t focus on that now. All that mattered was getting Shelby. He was so close. So close to getting the vengeance and justice he had dreamed of for over a year. He would bring Shelby’s head to his mother, he decided. As a gift. She could mount it on her wall. Or place it on a stake outside her house for the crows to feed upon. 

He shook his head sharply, and, like a panther stalking its prey through the jungle, began to lead the way down the hall.  

∗ ∗ ∗

Frankie peered into the apartments, eyes sweeping over the mother laying facedown on the floor, both arms around her two children, holding them tight against her. She peaked up at him through a curtain of dark hair, gaze massive and terrified.

The creaking of floorboards behind him made him jump, spinning around, gun raised and at the ready. There was no one there, but he swore that he saw a flash of movement through the crack of the door behind him. Rifle still raised, he inched towards it, chancing one quick glance back at where Luca, Matteo, and Rocco were advancing in front of him, heading towards a staircase at the end of the hall, checking inside each apartment as they went.

He pushed the door to the flat open with his fingertips, immediately replacing the hand on his rifle, steadying his aim, preparing to fire upon Shelby the first moment he saw him. 

Instead, he was met with a tiny woman crouched down on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest, head bent to bury her face in them. She had on a large dark coat, and he wondered if she had just gotten in when the shooting began.

A tad disappointed, but also distinctly relieved, at the lack of the man they were seeking, Frankie huffed, lowering his weapon and turning away. Luca had said that they were not to harm any civilians. 

He failed to see the blood from Vincenzo and Sal that was staining the woman’s hands, her face so properly hidden from him that he could not make out the splatter of red across one of her pale cheeks, the dark folds of her coat covering the crimson-slathered blade of a hunting knife laying by her feet.

Nor did he have time to process the greatness of the mistake he had made, as the second that he turned his back on the woman, she sprang up with near-paranormal, inhuman speed and silence, seized him from behind, and began to saw into his throat with her knife.

∗ ∗ ∗

Her hands were wet and sticky, the mixture of the Italian’s blood coating them almost entirely. It was mostly from the last two. The last one in particular, had made a considerable mess. 

Though to be fair, there was a good reason for that. 

She could feel blood sticking to her face and wetting her waistcoat and shirt. 

At least no one would ever be able to say that she was afraid to get her hands dirty. The coppery smell seemed to envelope her, familiar and metallic.

She flexed her fingers around the prize she had collected from the last one she’d killed. A little gift for Luca, should they manage to cross paths during this whole bloody affair.

He hadn’t seemed all that concerned that so many of his men had vanished. Too hyper-fixated on Tommy to think of anything else, she assumed. He would be regretting that soon enough.  

She heard a few horrified gasps from some of the tenants who saw what she had clenched in her hand as she passed by their doors, but for the most part, everyone remained silent, waiting with baited breath for the gangsters to leave.

Lucy paid them no mind as she moved to the stairs, taking them down towards the exit that led out onto the street. If Tommy had gone upstairs and then went out and down the fire escape, they should meet in approximately the same place. 

The sudden cacophony of shooting suddenly thundered from outside, the sound making her wince, fingers tightening around her knife, footsteps hastening down the stairs.  

∗ ∗ ∗

“Come on, me and you, Tommy,” Luca jeered, standing out in the middle of the street with his arms spread wide. “Come on.” His machine gun was empty, tossed haphazardly to the ground. He’d ordered Matteo to stand down. He waited with baited breath, watching hungrily as Shelby slowly emerged from his cover, stepping out, gun clutched in his right hand, footsteps loud as thunder as they slowly drew nearer. Luca felt the semblance of a smile emblazon itself upon his face as he stared down his enemy. This was it. 

This was what he had been waiting all this time for. 

He began to recite the prayer in his head, the one that he had always known would be the one he’d say just before putting a bullet in the face of the man who had stolen his father and brother from him. From his coat, he drew his gun. Shelby’s blue eyes stared at him intensely. He looked like a big cat or a wolf, prepared to pounce at any moment.

But Luca had shot wolves before. On a hunting trip with his father in the mountains in Italy.

He cocked the gun, eyes narrowing slightly, ready to move…

“Hey, Luca!” A voice suddenly shouted from his right. A voice that he recognized. And suddenly he could hear his mother whispering in his ear. 

“Wherever Thomas Shelby goes, the Red Demon is never far behind.”

She was walking towards him with purposeful, measured steps, black coat swirling around her legs, red curls dancing around her chin with every movement. She wore the cap of the Peaky Blinders atop her head, and when she turned her head just the right way, he could see the faint glint of the razors sewn into the brim. Blood was splattered across one of her cheeks, and there was something vicious and mad blazing in her green gaze. When she saw him looking at her, her face stretched into a wide grin. She held something dripping and grotesque up in her hand. 

“Is this yours?” she shouted, and threw it at him.

He stared, in open-mouthed horror, as Frankie’s head bounced and rolled across the pavement, settling at his feet face-up. Frankie’s eyes were open wide, staring up at him with his mouth slackened into a horrified O. As if begging for Luca to save him. 

He looked up, and the demon was standing there, grin widening, mad eyes electric with mirth.

A realization, violent and terrible, came crashing down upon him. 

She had been there the whole time, and they had not seen her. 

Where were the rest of his men? Probably splayed out in that apartment building, having suffered the same fate as poor Frankie. 

As poor Alessio, too. 

He had thought that it was those savages Shelby had hired from the mountains who had killed his cousin, but this suggested something else.

It had been her. Lucy Winters. The Red Demon. Thomas Shelby’s bitch, who had cleaved his cousin’s head from his shoulders.

His mother had been right. He had not listened to her warnings, but she had been right.

Everything, from Winters’s announcement of her presence to Luca’s earth shattering realization, happened within the span of about ten seconds. Behind him, Shelby had his arm raised, gun cocked and ready to fire at the back of his head. 

And then the police arrived. 

They began firing upon them almost immediately, rushing from their vans to swarm them Luca ducked. Shelby tried to fire at him a few times, but missed, and Luca cringed away against the onslaught of gunfire from the gangster and the police, turning heel and racing down the street with Matteo in tow. 

The police gave chase, but were easy to lose in the winding alleyways. The moment they were sure they’d lost them, he and Matteo leaned against the cool brick walls, panting. Luca bent over to clutch at his knees, staring at nothing as Matteo began to ramble off frantic questions that he did not really hear into his ear. 

Before arriving in Birmingham, Luca had made a list of potential problems and caveats that would need to be dealt with so that they could not impede his mission in enacting his vengeance on Tommy Shelby and his entire family.

The Jewish gang in London had been on the list. As had the Romani people with such close ties to Shelby that they were practically blood. And the people of Small Heath, who for some inconceivable reason, seemed to have developed some sort of fondness for Shelby and his gang. 

And now, Lucy Winters was at the top of that fucking list. 

∗ ∗ ∗

It took both her and Moss to pry away the three officers who had swarmed onto Tommy. Moss was furious, shouting at both Tommy and his men in equal measure. 

“There are three bodies that need cleaning up,” Tommy told him, still a little out of breath, reaching into his pocket and holding out a wad of bills.

“Nine,” Lucy corrected. They both looked at her with wide eyes. She shrugged. “I got six.”

Moss shook his head, cursing under his breath.

“Come on,” Tommy mumbled, indicating for her to follow him as Moss turned to bark more orders to the officers under his command. Why the fuck did they have to show up then? They’d had Luca. 

Neither of them said anything for most of the walk back to the Shelby’s house, Lucy digging around in her pocket for a handkerchief that she wiped her face and hands on. Tommy was sullen the whole walk, head down and lips set in a deep frown. 

“It’s not all bad,” Lucy tried to raise his spirits. “We didn’t get Luca, but we got a whole lot of his men. Enough to make a dent in his forces.”

He just grunted. She sighed, patting his arm.

Polly was waiting for them inside, a clove cigarette clutched between her fingers, lines of worry etched onto her face. There were several other finished black cigarettes already stubbed out in the ashtray. Clearly she had been smoking and pacing anxiously for a while. 

“You alright?” she asked them, taking a cautious step forward once they were inside. Tommy nodded, silently going to put his rifle away. Polly watched him go, then turned back to Lucy, eyes bugging a little out of her head at the sight of her bloodied shirt and waistcoat. “My God–”

“It’s not mine,” Lucy assured, waving her away. Tommy came back, collapsing in a chair, pulling a cigarette from his case. Lucy moved around to stand behind him, smoothing her fingers along his hair. “I need to go change. I’ll be right back.”

He nodded. Polly frowned. Lucy pecked the top of his head, squeezing his shoulder and darting upstairs to their room, stripping out of her bloodied clothes and into some fresh, clean ones, taking a detour to the washroom to make sure she’d gotten all of the blood off of her face and hands. 

By the time she came downstairs, she could hear the rumble of engines as the rest of the family pulled up outside. Charlie was playing in the sitting room, while they all gathered in the kitchen. 

She sat down in the chair in front of where Tommy stood, twitching with her rings and smoking, not saying much at all as he debriefed with the other family members. The adrenaline was finally starting to leave her system, leaving her to feel jittery. 

“Look, I didn’t get Luca, but I got three. All right? Lucy got six. That’s it. That’s what happened,” Tommy explained.

Johnny Dogs whistled. “Six, eh, Winters? You’re giving all of us a run for our money.”

She smiled slightly, still fiddling with her hands, shrugging bashfully. “I got lucky.”

There were footsteps behind them, as Charlie bounded into the doorway. Tommy scooped him up, hoisting him to rest on his hip. Soon, everyone was rising from their seats, Arthur insisting that she and Tommy come with them for a drink. She raised from her chair, shaking out her hands, giving little Charlie a soft smile and a gentle ruffle to his blonde hair. 

“You owe me lunch,” she mumbled into Tommy’s ear as they made for the door. He looked at her with a raised brow, head cocking while his lips quirked as he remembered their agreement from before the ambush. 

“Mm. I suppose I do, don’t I?”

She giggled, and placed a kiss to his cheek. 

∗ ∗ ∗

Tommy watched Lucy shield a yawn with her hand, squinting at the print on the paper she was reading. Dark circles had appeared under her eyes since they’d returned to the office, and he could recognize the telltale unsteadiness that so often settled in after a situation like the one they’d found themselves in earlier that day.

Shifting in his chair, he glanced over at the pictures on his desk, eyes settling on the ones of Grace. One was just of her by herself, a professional photo taken during her days working as an operative, and the other from not long before her death, baby Charlie settled in her lap. 

Tommy looked away, gaze focused up on the ceiling miserably. God; what she would have thought of them…

He stood suddenly, well aware that if he continued to just sit there and stew in his own thoughts, he would drown in them. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and head home?” he suggested, hand landing on Lucy’s shoulder. She looked up at him quizzically. 

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm. I won’t be long. I promise.”

She considered, then nodded. “Okay.” She must have been even more tired than he thought. He took the papers from her, tossing them over onto the desk while she went and got her coat. He followed her to the door, Lucy turning and giving him a quick kiss.

“I’ll see you soon.”

He nodded. “Less than an hour.” Really, all he needed to do was put everything away and lock up for the evening. She gave his arms a strong squeeze, and ducked out the door, mumbling a soft goodbye to Lizzie who was still at her desk.

Tommy busied himself tucking things away and tidying his desk, before going to the shelf of liquor that he kept, pulling out a cigarette and fumbling with a glass. He’d have one last drink, lock everything up, and go home to Lucy and Charlie. It would feel good to just lay in bed with Lucy on his chest, listening to her breathing while she slept, his fingers carding delicately through her soft red hair. 

The door opened, and Lizzie stepped in. He glanced back at her, then again to the decanters of alcohol. 

“Want a drink, Lizzie? I’ve had a hard day.”

He heard the door click shut behind her when she leaned her back against it. While he had been keeping his distance since the whole incident between her and May, he still tried to be kind and respectful towards her. She was part of the family, after all.

“I don’t drink whiskey or gin anymore, Tom,” Lizzie said after a long pause.

“Why not?” he asked, pouring a glass for himself.

And then she dropped seven little words that carried with them the promise of yanking his entire world completely off its axis:

“Because they say it harms the baby.”

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