#live steel combat
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𝙃𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙬𝙞𝙛𝙚'𝙨 𝙇𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩
Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader
Summary: Pregnancy definitely sucks but you take your complaints too far, and soon, you're left with the laborious task of making it up to Satoru
Warnings: Domestic Fluff, Petty!Satoru, Tantrums, God Complex (It's Satoru), Humor, Smut (+18) Minors DNI, Praise Kink, Make up sex, Pregnant sex, Office Sex, Touch starved!reader, DDLG, Daddy Kink, Corruption Kink, Eye Contact, Dirty Talk, Cervix fucking, Lactation kink, Dom/Sub undertones, Subspace, Overstimulation
♡ please excuse me, I'm ovulating
"Is there any way I could park closer? So that your journey might be a quicker one?" Despite his voice dripping with nothing but kindness, you find your eyes narrowing at the taxi driver and his close cropped, black hair.
"I may look fat but my limbs are in perfect working conditions, Sir, I assure you," Admittedly, a low blow. The driver reels back, muttering his profuse apologies which immediately softens your resolve.
It is wholeheartedly unfair. The driver could not anticipate the way in which his words would grate at your wavering kindness. He is essentially blameless and perhaps even considerate in his line of questioning. He didn't have any intentions of insulting you.
After all, It was not his fault that you were currently sporting a nasty bump because Satoru decided to inject you with his release until finally he succeeded and you were burdened with the weight of his spawned and this baby, you feel, is a heavy one. One that has your steel emotions melting into guilt, like the deserted tar under the bright summer sun.
"Just here, should be fine," The taxi driver had gotten an impressive tip to make up for your rudeness and you scooted your way out. Soon, you were on the pavement that led into the forest framed by an impressively maintained torii. The driver eyed the gateway solemnly as you shrugged your backpack on, subconsciously grateful for the sundress combatting the summer heat.
"Have a nice day!" You attempt to soften your voice, as soft as you can make it given your current condition.
Condition.
The thought - that word- has you flinching as you make your way up the mountain. The very reason for this journey playing off in your mind's eye with a freshness.
'Condition?' Satoru, had said when you let the word slip the previous evening. The taxi driver had not been the only one affected by your foul mood but last night you were particularly nasty. Gojo's spawn was on a mission to drain you of all your energy, leeching off your nutrients but expecting you to eat at every hour. The Little Monster was testing your patience and it wasn't even born yet.
'You're having my baby,' Gojo had said, 'Not suffering from a disease.' As you both prepared for bed, Gojo, exchanging his black blindfold for the fluffy pink sleep mask which he had invariably stolen from you, while you wobbled your heaviness into bed.
"Trust me, Satoru, when I say that you honestly could have fooled me.' You scoffed, "This baby is making me sick." It had been more and more difficult to disguise the true nature of pregnancy, especially while everyone around lived their lives so carefree and un-pregnant- but you still should not have said what you said. And Satoru was 100% justified in assuming a tantrum.
You were forced to go to bed, with an ice cold, Satoru, refusing to curl up beside you like he usually did. Instead of brushing up behind you, ready to allay that constant state of need that you were haunted by, Gojo stole his warmth away from you. You went to bed without the sensation of his cock grinding into your ass and his long slender fingers seeking to touch anything and everything until he riled himself up enough to fuck you to sleep. When you thought it couldn't possibly get any worse, Satoru had already disappeared in the morning. He had already gone off to Jujutsu Tech, vehemently ignoring any text message you sent.
And here you were, lumbering your way through the thicket of evergreens that seemed to be growing on top of each other. You would not be surprised if these trees ended up being cursed as well. They invariably seemed to swallow the horizon, doing a stellar job at concealing the beauty of the institution inside.
"Your father hates me," The tiny human incubating inside of you is your only bit of company, and so, you decide to entertain the Little Monster, the closer you get to Jujutsu High. "You're a little demon, but he is too." Your heavy breathing fills the quiet air, "But I still love him and his demonic ways so that really means that I love you too," Unknowingly, your hand had begun to cup the underside of your swollen belly and staying there for the duration of the walk, until the very first towers began to peek from within the evergreens and the sound of jovial laughter reaches your ears.
"Woah-" Itadori is the first person you see once you emerge from the thicket, huffing and puffing with the Wright of your guilt carrying you forward. "Are you... supposed to be here?"
"I'm pregnant, Yuuji, not handicapped-" You began, steadily approaching the temple steps where he and a silent Megumi sat idly. "Gojo, where is he?"
"In his office by now." Replied Itadori, "Hey… did you seriously walk up the mountain just to get some from Gojo-" his crass statement is cut short by Megumi's elbow buried in Yuuji's side and you silently thank the dark haired boy as you drift into the temple.
Despite it all, Itadori's statement may have held a sliver of truth. The walk up the mountain had been a perilous one, admittedly one of your less than thorough ideas, but it also got you the opportunity to see Jujutsu High after 6 difficult months of house arrest. Your innate need to teach and help young sorcerers grow and develop their talents was being made dormant, yet somehow, just being in this place, breathing its air, was revitalising you. You could even swear the Little Monster made a happy little kick against your abdomen. You begin to wonder with shocking excitement what cursed technique this baby would be born with - it's a thought that occupies your mind as you maneuver the relaxing halls of the temple.
The positive energy coursing through your bloodstream only doubles once his door reveals itself at the end of the hall. Your nerves are immediately electrified with a violent current as you pull back the door, enough to slip inside. You could not go 24 hours without Satoru annoying you, and that was apparent. If that made you weak, then so be it.
"Satoru." Your voice comes out quieter than expected as you pull the door shut and turn to face the man seated behind his desk. His seat is reclined towards an open window casting an enchanting breeze, enough to lightly ruffle his pale, white locks. Arms support the back of his head, and his legs are perched on the desk. You can not see his eyes behind his rimless blue tinted shades. Your arrival announces rouses him, and immediately, you can tell you've disturbed him from a nap. Perhaps he did not get much sleep last night either…
"Hmm," Is the only sound he is able to make in the stretched silence, readjusting his position, striving to appear disinterested, "Didn't know they allowed murderers into Jujutsu Tech-"
"'Toru, you've probably killed more people than me,'' You say with a small smile as you venture to close the distance between you too. "And how am I a murderer?"
"You forcing yourself up this mountain makes me think you're trying to kill my baby." You can tell that he is still vehemently angry at you but his head ticks slightly to the side as you make your way behind his desk, pushing his feet off before easing onto it so you can sit opposite him.
"I brought salami sticks and a chicken sandwich," You ease the backpack off your shoulders, ignoring Satoru's head lazily draped on his hand. "You didn't eat breakfast this morning and I know your skinny ass is dying of hunger. You may not look like you eat alot but you and our baby are trying to kill me-"
To that, he had obviously chosen to respond with a crude and petty, 'That'd be my baby, you're referring to. Last I checked, to you, it's a cancer.'
"Satoru, I don't know what you want me to say-"
"I've got a pretty good idea of what I don't want you to say."
Your gaze lowers to your lap as your legs swing above the ground. It is always difficult seeing someone as jovial as Gojo, assume such a cold exterior, especially when it's not in his inherent nature.
"I really wish I can say I didn't mean it, 'Toru but I'm fucking drained," You laugh darkly, "I'm fat and ugly and I can't exercise because this baby hates when I move in a way it doesn't like - even getting up here fucking sucked, but the thought of seeing you kinda helped. Not to mention that fucking housewife next door and her perky tits and her tiny waist, and her non-fat ass-"
"Hey," Throughout the course of your hormonal rant, Satoru has felt himself slide his chair closer to you, until your mnees were directly in front of him. His arms fence you in, while he sat on the edge of his seat, "I love your fat ass, please don't ever diss her again."
His words have you laughing despite the thunderous emotions that had overtaken you just a moment ago. That may have been one of Satoru's many superpowers- allaying the darkened clouds with unexpected sunshine.
"Not to mention my feet hurt constantly, I'm horny all the time and I just wanna feel normal in my own skin. But I neglected your happiness in my own self pity and that's wrong and I'm sorry."
'Please fuck me and never, ever be mad at me again,' is what you would have liked to tack on at the end of that apology but you already felt as if you got enough words out. Truthfully, you really were sitting with a well of need between your legs- the warmth between your stomach only compounding given Gojo's proximity, which only becomes worse as he rises from his seat and slots himself between your legs. You shiver at the feeling of just having him near you.
"Does 'horny all the time' include' right now?" Another violent shiver wracked through your spine as Satoru eases a finger underneath your chin, raising your hooded eyes to his concealed ones. All you can do is nod as your fingers curl around the edge of the desk while your breathing picks up its pace.
"And you're never going to be a mean brat ever again," you're utterly mesmerised by Satoru's pillowy, pink lips crafting every word, so much so that you're unaware of his other hand rubbing along your exposed thigh.
"I'm going to have to hear words, baby." He teases lightly,"I'm going to have to hear that you were wrong," You're not sure what it is about the sing-song voice that has you slipping deep into subspace- perhaps it's the slight condescension sprinkled in with the tone one would use to scold a child. It completely breaks you every time.
Your lips curl downward into an involuntary pout as you say "I'll never be a mean brat to you ever again, Satoru-" a gasp races through your throat as his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your clothed, needy cunt. He is rubbing lightly, almost diabolically slow. Your eyebrows curve into needy crescents as you strive to open your legs wider, hoping his fingers might venture deeper.
"I might forgive you," his broad shoulders are hunched so his lips can reach your ears, "If you stop calling me Satoru and say what you really wanna say,"
He was baiting you for his own rush of pleasure shooting all his blood straight to his hardened cock. Satoru's pants were straining as you realised he needed you to slip into subspace as much as you did. His hand was brushing lightly at the fabric against your clit, but that is as far as he was willing to go. Your breathing is erratic as you attempt to thrust your hips into his hand but your stomach stops you from achieving a lot.
"I need you to fuck me, Daddy," The words drenched with the neediness in your voice is borderline pornopgraphic and it rips a wavering groan from within Gojo's chest.
"You're such a needy little slut, aren't you?" Satoru says now swimming in domspace, while he removes his hand from between your legs to quickly rid you of your sweat-drenched sundress.
"I need you so bad," you admit with an aching whimper as the soft wind rushes over your sensitive nipples. The second he sees them, Gojo's hands are clamped around your pillowy; swollen breasts, squeezing and prodding like a virgin who's never seen tits before.
"Fuck, baby, look at what you do to me," He releases a hoarse laugh as he clamps his other hand around your wrist, forcing your palm around his hard cock straining his pants. "Look at what the fuck you do to me," The both of you release a chorus of moans into the air- you, because his fingers were playing a dangerous game with your leaking nipples and Satoru, because he cannot refrain from grinding into your hand.
His glasses fog as he bends his head to watch beads of milk grow on the tips of your nipple before sliding down your torso with every squeeze.
"When did this start happening?" he asks through clenched teeth before rushing to exclaim, "You're so fucking hot- Fuck!"
"Last night- I wanted to tell you but-" You're immediately silenced by Satoru's lips crashing onto yours while he crowds you, pushing you down onto your back while the sound of his belt buckle echoes in the room. His mouth is absolutely restless as his tongue forces its way inside; eager to push itself against your tongue until you both are kissing each other with a tangle of spit. Your hands immediately find his hair and you pull at the strands as Satoru pulls you to the edge of his desk, pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance.
"You're such a soaked little girl, baby," his voice still condescending and airy, but it riles you up further until you push your hips towards him. "Does Daddy get you this worked up?"
"Yes! Only Daddy can make me feel this way-Just- Please!" Your cries are slotted in the base of your throat as the head of his cock begins to stretch your tense and tight walls. Without thinking, Satoru eases himself deeper, his hips unable to move at a steady pace now that he feels how wet and ready you are for him.
"You're taking your Daddy's cock like a good little girl, baby," his words have you arching off his desk while your eyes fight to stay open. You don't close them because Satoru likes to look at you when he fucks you and so, you fight your way back, until your eyes are pouring into his behind those dazzling shades. It takes everything in him not to cum on the spot, and his cock twitches inside you as he begins to set the pace.
"Oh fuck- Just look at you, Princess." You were fucking magnificent - skin glistening with sweat with a belly swollen with his seed. The image alone affects him more than he initially thought it would. Satoru had strived to get you pregnant because he knew he wanted you to birth his legacy, but the sight of your body naturally shifting to incubate his seed scarmbles the very workings of his brain If you weren't careful, you were going to stay pregnant, every other term.
"You're doing such a good job, Princess. Do you know how fucking beautiful you look?" you are utterly deranged with need, feeling all your sensibilities slip out of you as you're fighting to take even more of him impossibly deeper. His shades hide the true nature of his hooded, fucked out eyes. He's not sure what it is about it, but your eyes on him, watching him pound his cock into your slippery, tight pussy, has him rutting into you with desperation. He loves holding your attention in your most depraved moments - watching you stare up at him like he's a God while he's corrupting every sliver of your cute disposition.
He's pounding against your cervix now and it has your moans bleeding into whorish screams. All the while, Satoru does not silence you. He does not clamp his hand around your mouth, instead he affirms quite the opposite. "If you keep squeezing my cock like that I'm going to make you take my cum." That sentence alone has you slipping into your orgasm. Your back arches off the table and Satoru leans over and latches his lips onto your breasts. He moans around your nipple, as his hand rubs your clit with immense rapidity, in tandem with his stuttering hips.
"I'm gonna fucking cum inside you, baby, Tell me you want me to cum inside you," his voice cracks into a desperate whimper, "P-please," Your limbs are shivering as Satoru fucks you quicker, the sensation bleeding into overstimulation as you watch him fall apart over you. He looks utterly gorgeous. The shades may hide his eyes, but his slacked jaw reveals how utterly destroyed he is, with a trail of spit and milk running down his chin. "Fucking tell me!"
"Please cum inside me, Daddy." You pant, looking at him dead in the eyes, "I need your cum inside me," his grip on the desk fumbles and his movements immediately melt into sloppy thrusts and heavy pants.
"Oh fuck- I'm cumming, baby. Fuck, M'gonna fucking breed you-" just as you're forced to endure another orgasm, Satoru's cum explodes inside of you, ripping groan from your hoarse throat.
Gojo is absolutely spent as he eases his cock out of you, rubbing light circles on your thighs, utterly transfixed with the sight of his milky cum slipping out of your cunt.
"I hope I get you pregnant with twins, next time,"
"Get the fuck off of me Satoru." You say feigning anger, which is attested by the smile threatening to blossom over your face. Despite your lightened mood, you still feel monumentally terrible for making him feel bad about your impending parenthood.
"I'm sorry I've been complaining about my house arrest."
"Maternity leave," He corrects with a sigh.
"Same difference," you roll your eyes before noticing his unimpressed and stoic visage. "Only kidding, only kidding."
Thx for reading ♡
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-`♡´- ANON ASK -`♡´-
Anon requested that the ask be posted after the fic.
Pairings: SImon Riley x GN!Reader
Warnings: Angst.
As the days passed by, your once perfect relationship with Simon began to fracture. It seemed as though the idyllic days you once shared were slipping away, replaced by a constant tension that hung heavy in the air.
The source of the arguments seems to stem from your "nagging," as Simon puts it. But to you, it's an expression of love and fear - a desperate attempt to hold onto something precious in a world where loss and danger lurk around every corner.
From the beginning, you both understood the risks in your line of work, but it's only recently that the reality of those risks has begun to weigh heavily on your heart.
You've voiced your fears to Simon, your desire to retire together and find solace in a life far removed from the dangers of combat. But each time you broach the subject, Simon's reaction is the same - cold, defensive, and laced with hurtful words that cut deep. It's a cycle that plays out time and time again: he pushes you away with his sharp words, only to come crawling back the next day, remorseful and apologetic.
In those moments of reconciliation, he speaks to you with tenderness and warmth, promising that he's always careful on missions and that this is the life he wants. He reassures you that perhaps, in a few years' time, he could think about settling down. And each time, you find yourself giving in, desperate to believe that his words hold truth.
But as the fear and dread of losing him creep back in, the same arguments resurface, and the cycle repeats itself endlessly, leaving you trapped in a loop of hope and despair.
The tension in your life reaches a boiling point when you're summoned to the briefing room, where Captain Price lays out the details of a harrowing mission. Your heart sinks as you realize the gravity of the task at hand - infiltrating the heart of Makarov's forces, your fluency in Russian making you the only person who could do it. It's a suicide mission, with slim chances of success and even slimmer chances of survival.
As Captain Price outlines the high-risk, high-reward nature of the operation, your mind races with conflicting emotions. On one hand, success could mean a significant blow to Makarov's forces, potentially saving countless lives and shifting the tide of the war. On the other hand, the thought of risking your life - and potentially throwing away any chance of a future with Simon - fills you with fear.
You weigh the options carefully, torn between duty and personal desire. The stakes couldn't be higher, and the choice before you feels like a cruel test of loyalty and sacrifice. As you leave the briefing room, the weight of the decision hangs heavy on your shoulders, uncertainty clouding your thoughts as you grapple with the choice before you.
You step into your shared apartment, the weight of the impending conversation heavy on your shoulders. Simon is seated on the couch, absorbed in the television. With a heavy sigh, you make your way over and take a seat next to him, steeling yourself for what's to come.
"We need to talk, Si,"
Simon sighs and reaches to turn off the TV, a resigned expression crossing his features. "Here we go again," he mutters under his breath.
Your heart sinks at his dismissive tone, but you push forward nonetheless. “Price gave me a solo mission,” you watch his reaction closely.
Simon quirks a brow but remains silent, prompting you to continue. “He wants me to infiltrate Makarov's forces,”
“Sounds risky,” Simon comments, his tone neutral as he leans back on the couch, crossing his arms. You take a deep breath, "It's a suicide mission," you confess, locking eyes with him, searching for any sign of understanding or concern.
Silence hangs in the air as you wait for his response, “When do you leave?” he asks, his response devoid of the emotion you had hoped for.
Does he even hear you? Does he even care?
“Did you hear what I said? It’s a suicide mission. Do you even care Simon?” you press, desperation creeping into your voice.
Simon releases a frustrated breath, irritation evident in his demeanor. “Of course, I fucking care, y/n. But like I've said a million times before, we chose this profession. We know the risks that come with our job. Any of our missions could easily turn into a suicide mission.”
Your heart sinks at his callous response, the weight of his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “And if I died on a mission, would you be okay with that? With living without me? With going on with life without me?!” you challenge, tears welling in your eyes.
“Seeing how you're always fucking nagging me, yeah, maybe I’d be okay with that!” Simon's harsh words cut through you like a knife, leaving you reeling in disbelief.
Your lip quivers, and you shake your head, unable to comprehend the cruelty of his words. “You're being mean. You don’t mean that Si, I know you don’t,” you protest, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I do. I mean every fucking word,” Simon retorts, his voice rising in anger. “Do you know how easy it would be to find someone else who will give me what I want? I can never get peace when you're around. We are done, y/n. Don't bother coming home after your mission.”
The finality of his words crushes you, leaving you speechless and broken. With tears streaming down your face, you cover your mouth with your hand, muffling the sobs that threaten to escape. Simon turns on his heel and storms out of the apartment, leaving you alone in the wake of his harsh words.
With a heavy heart, you rise from the couch and make your way to your room, your mind consumed by the weight of the decision ahead. As you gather the necessities for the mission, a wave of despair washes over you.
If Simon wasn't in your life, what else did you have to live for? There had been multiple missions you had turned down in the past, knowing they were nothing but one-way trips. But now, without Simon by your side, there was nothing holding you back.
Stepping into Price’s office, you steel yourself for the conversation ahead. You inform him of your decision to go through with the mission, his surprise is evident, but he and Laswell offer words of encouragement, instilling in you a sense of hope. With your skills as an infiltrator and your Russian background, they assure you that you stand a fighting chance. After all, who would suspect one of their own?
Despite the uncertainty and the weight of the task ahead, a glimmer of hope begins to flicker within you. Within a matter of hours, you find yourself on a plane headed to Russia, the gravity of your decision weighing heavily on your mind. Simon however remains oblivious to your departure, unaware of the path you've chosen.
Back at home, he returns that night with your favorite takeout and a bouquet of flowers, his heart heavy with remorse and determination. With each step, he replays his apology in his head, rehearsing the words he's been meaning to say. He knows he's messed up, and he's desperate to make things right. He wants to change, to be a better man for you.
Simon's mind swirls with thoughts of seeking therapy, of learning to control his temper and his sharp tongue. He knows he's hurt you deeply with his words, words he never truly meant. He loves you more than anything, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to prove it. But as he steps into the house, the atmosphere is heavy with silence. The air feels cold and unwelcoming.
“Y/n?” He calls out for you, his voice tinged with concern, but there's no response.
Worry gnaws at him as he wanders through the darkened rooms, searching for any sign of you. Finally, he enters the bedroom, and his heart sinks as he sees a note lying on the bed, illuminated by the faint light filtering in through the window. With trembling hands, he picks up the note, his heart pounding in his chest as he reads your words.
Simon,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a plane to Russia. I've made the decision to go through with it, despite the risks, and I wanted you to know why.
I've heard your words echoing in my mind, the ones about finding someone else who will give you what you want, about never getting peace when I'm around. And so, I've decided to honor your wishes. Once I finish this mission, I'll find my own place, and you won't have to deal with my constant nagging anymore. Your life will finally be at peace, just as you've always wanted.
I want you to know that I've always turned down these types of missions in the past. This isn't the first time Price has offered them to me. But if I had known sooner that you didn't care whether I went on them or not, I would have gone sooner. I'm sorry for making your life so miserable, for not realizing sooner that I was the problem.
I hope that you find peace now, Simon. I hope that you find someone who can give you what you want, someone who can make you happy. You deserve that much, at least.
Take care of yourself.
Yours always, Y/n
With each word, his heart sinks deeper, the weight of your words bearing down on him with crushing force. Tears blur his vision as he reads your farewell, your words cutting through him like a knife. The realization of the pain he's caused you hits him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air as guilt gnaws at his conscience.
When he reaches the part where you promise to honor his wish and stay out of his life after your mission, Simon's heart shatters into a million pieces. The thought of you willingly walking away from him, all because of his own hurtful words and actions, is almost too much to bear.
He crumples the letter in his trembling hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he struggles to come to terms with the magnitude of his mistakes. The weight of regret hangs heavy in the air as he realizes the depth of the love he's lost, the love he may never have the chance to regain if you don’t come back from the mission.
The suicide mission.
In that moment, he breaks down completely, the full weight of his actions crashing over him like a tidal wave. Seeing how much he's hurt you, how much he's pushed you away to point that you accepted the mission, shatters him to his core.
With each tear that falls, Simon's resolve crumbles, replaced by a deep and profound sense of regret. He wishes he could turn back time, take back the hurtful words he's spoken, and hold you close, promising to never let you go. But it's too late now, and all he can do is sit in silence, praying to a higher form to keep you safe, to let you come back to him alive.
The next day, Simon walked into Price’s office, his heart heavy with worry and anticipation. He needed to know more about your mission, to find any shred of information that could ease his growing anxiety.
Price informed Simon that you had landed in Russia in the early morning hours. However, he delivered the news that communication would be sparse for at least a month. They had scheduled calls planned for updates on the mission status, but they would have to wait until the designated time for you to radio in.
Simon listened intently, understanding the protocol, but inside, fear and dread gnawed at him. The thought of you out there, alone and potentially in danger, filled him with a sense of helplessness.
As the first month passed, Simon waited patiently in the room with Price, every passing minute feeling like an eternity. But as the hours stretched on, there was no sign of communication from you. No Morse code, no call, no comm. Just silence.
Panic began to set in as Simon grappled with the uncertainty of your situation. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the nagging worry that something had gone terribly wrong. But Price remained steadfast in his confidence, assuring Simon that these things happened often, that perhaps you hadn't found the right opportunity to relay a message.
Despite Price's reassurances, Simon couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that gripped him. With each passing day, his fear for your safety only grew stronger, overshadowing any hope he tried to hold onto. But he knew he had to stay strong, to keep faith that you would return safely from your mission.
Month after month passed, and still, there was no word from you. Simon waited patiently by the phone in the comms room center, his heart heavy with worry and uncertainty. He refused to give up on you, clinging to the hope that you would come back to him, despite Price declaring you M.I.A.
Even as Price tried to reason with him, pointing out that none of your mission objectives had been completed in the time you had been gone, Simon remained steadfast in his belief that you were still out there, somewhere, fighting to return to him.
Even as the years passed Simon couldn't bring himself to accept the possibility that you might truly be gone, vanished from his life and the world forever. The thought of living in a world without you was unbearable, and Simon couldn't bear to entertain it.
The last words he had spoken to you echoed in his mind, haunting him with their cruelty. How could he have been so callous, so blind to the pain he was causing you?
Was this fate's cruel work, forcing him to confront the consequences of his actions? Was this punishment for his harsh words, for pushing you away when he should have pulled you close? Was this what he truly wanted, to be left alone in a world without you?
But even in the depths of his despair, Simon clung to a sliver of hope, refusing to let go of the belief that you would come back to him. He would wait for you, for as long as it took, holding onto the hope that one day, you would return to him and his world would be whole again.
Anon Ask- simon x reader but they are both in the military and reader gets assigned on a suicide mission but has a choice to go or not. reader and simon fight and then they decide to go. feel free not to do this no pressure!!! but if you will dont post the ask until after to make it a little angsty surprise!
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Fighting while looking Fabulous --- The War Hats of the 17th Century.
Say you're living in 17th century Europe, perhaps England in the midst of the English Civil War. You're a participant in the war but you're not just any ordinary soldier. No, you are a gentleman and perhaps a noble. Therefore you can't just wear any ordinary helmet on your noggin.
As a gentleman of noble birth you want to go into deadly combat looking fabulous, and you're not gonna just wear a pikeman's pot like those grass eating lower class infantry.
In the 17th century this was a real problem, or a least it was perceived as a real problem to upper class gentleman of the age. One certainly wanted some form of armor to protect the head, yet at the same time one wanted to wear a fine fashionable hat. Style should not have to give way to head protection. So what do?
One early solution was the secrete, which was essentially just a steel skullcap which the user could wear under a hat. However the secrete offered very little protection compared to a regular helmet.
The other option was to wear a helmet that looked like a hat. Throughout Europe in the 17th century armorers produced a number of special helmets and armored war hats that were made to look like fashionable hats commonly worn at the time.
They would commonly be blackened and often covered with cloth or felt so that they would appear to be a real hat, at least at a distance. Such war hats also would have special attachments with which the hat could be decorated with plumes of feathers, flowers, cockades, and other decorations.
While the armored war hat is mostly associated with the Royalist Cavaliers of the English Civil War, they were used all over Europe in the 17th century. They generally fell out of favor by the end of the 17th century when firearms came to completely dominate the battlefield.
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kingdom come - i
king König x princess & assassin reader
2nd person, no y/n, she/her pronouns, afab reader, romance, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, kind of age gap because König has been king for a good chunk of time but it's not really much of a factor, fantasy/medieval setting, magic exists but it's the creepy kind ordinary people don't fuck with
3.5k words
tw: swearing and König gets a boner. what's new
[NEXT]
GUESS WHO'S BACK ON HER BULLSHIT HAHAAA IT'S MEEE STARTING A NEW SERIES/AU AGAINNNnnnnn. Don't fret, I'm still working on university au! I just started watching The Great (the tv show) and I was like hmm. I should get back to that one idea I had.
p.s. When I mention a "mask" on König, imagine a sort of phantom of the opera, Brahms kinda thing. He isn't always wearing the hood.
Outside, the bells are tolling. Back home, you’ve only ever heard church bells ringing to rally the troops. But here, in these foreign lands, they ring for a royal wedding.
You're wearing a truly massive dress shaped like a pastry. It's a work of art, to be sure, but it leaves you feeling restrained and vulnerable. You should be wearing armor into war—hard boiled leather and curtains of steel rings, not delicate lace and silken ribbons. You're walking into a battle: you would have liked to be able to bend forward further than thirty degrees.
You're at least glad you don't have to wear a veil—it would have been borderline unbearable if you had your vision restricted on top of everything else. It does mean, however, that you can see him standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for you.
A gigantic man with a soldier's physique, wearing a mask that covers more than half his face. Just the sight of him sends a a chill down your spine.
The officiant’s voice booms out over the assembly, but you don’t hear any of it. The sound washes over you, distant and echoing, as if your head is underwater. Your whole being is on alert as you tilt your face upwards to look at the only part of your soon-to-be-husband that you can see properly: his eyes.
They bore into you as if they're looking straight into your soul. As if they're revealing all of your secrets. For a moment, you feel disarmed, even though you can still feel the calming, solid presence of your trusty dagger against your thigh.
As the officiant finishes the wedding vows, he offers his hand to you, his touch shockingly gentle.
You steel your resolve and stare resolutely back at him as you place your hand in his, and the officials begin to bind them together with velvet cords. You remind yourself who you are, where you are, and what you must do.
You remind yourself that you have to kill him as they tie the final knot.
The woods are foreboding, home to a darkness that seems infinite and all-consuming. The heavy old trees that surround the palace grounds shut out most sunlight and all moonlight, and sometimes it feels as if the forest itself is a living, conscious thing brimming with a dangerous unknown. It's proven to be an effective line of defense in the past: citizens don’t dare to trespass on the royal grounds as it is, but an extra deterrent never hurt anybody.
Except perhaps enemy soldiers. But they learn their lesson quickly.
To you, however, the woods are comforting. You’ve spent many lonely nights amongst these trees, training until your body was sore all over. These trunks have withstood many a misplaced blow, these exposed roots have been your downfall many a time, and this mossy undergrowth has cushioned your bruises during many a tumble and fall.
Tonight, however, there is no training. No combat, no groans of pain, no thuds against wood or flesh. You are blanketed in quiet, something sorely needed as you contemplate the days to come.
This is it. The task you’ve trained for all your life is here. Every sore joint and pulled muscle, every tear-soaked pillowcase, every scolding in Father’s office has led to this. Sometimes it seemed as if the day would never come, as if years of reading, shooting, riding and sparring would be for naught. Though your breath rattles the leaves around you, you feel as if you’ve been holding your breath ever since Father broke the news. This is happening.
You leave in a few hours, as soon as the sun comes over the horizon. Your maids have already packed your luggage—you had to enlist their help after it became too difficult to pick what to bring and what not to bring. If all went well, you’d be back in this room in a few weeks. But what could you afford to bring? What did you need for your sanity? What minute details of an object could compromise your position?
Luckily, Calliope, your most trusted lady-in-waiting, was able to step in when she found you sitting on your rug, clutching your set of cloth dolls—the only toys you’d ever owned as a child that weren’t made with murder in mind—and suggest you take a breath of fresh air. You don’t know where you’d be without her, honestly. You may be your father’s pride and joy of a perfectly well-rounded monarch and killing machine, but you would never have gotten here without her by your side.
You sigh and lean your head against the thick limb you’re lying on. If you didn’t already know you’d wake up with a complaining spine that would then have to spend days riding a horse, you’d go to sleep right here, right now. The woods are your home, these trees your solace. You’ll miss it terribly, as the only place you can truly avoid all servants, generals, teachers, and parents.
Well. Parent.
But as with all things—Father’s rare good mood, your training days, peacetime—the sweet, silent embrace of the forest can’t last forever.
Reluctantly, you give the tree one last pat and climb down, making the trudge back to your room so you can at least attempt to catch a few winks of sleep.
It takes quite a few days of travel to get to your destination. You arrive in the empire next door's capital city saddle-sore and on edge. This was the snakes’ nest, the heart of the beast.
And yet…people are happy.
The mood in your hometown is far quieter and more grim—your country has been at war with this one for as long as you can remember, and yet the contrast could not be more vast. Back home, people walk directly from place to place, and don’t make eye contact with each other. Here, children play unsupervised, outdoor markets overflow with people, and windows are thrown wide open as neighbors chat.
You don’t know how to feel. The previous king here was a ruthless conqueror, building an empire by invading neighboring countries and forcing their monarchs to yield—or killing them when they were defiant. Your own land had only escaped being absorbed into the empire by employing rigorous military discipline and strict wartime measures. Yet here, in the heart of the empire, you would never be able to tell it was a nation at war.
And now you’re marrying the king’s son. The current king. The one they call König. So little is known about him that his entire existence is shrouded in rumor: that the hood he wears conceals a monstrous, disfigured face, that he plotted his father’s demise, that his first wife died not of childbirth, but was assassinated in quiet due to being unable to provide an heir.
You don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out if the rumors are true.
To your surprise, your reception by the people feels more curious than hostile. You’d expected a bit of resistance, or at least a few dirty looks, considering you're the princess of the country they've been at war with for years. But whatever König has told them has been far more charitable than you anticipated.
Your arrival at the palace is greeted by a flurry of activity. Your entourage scatters to put affairs in order, but Calliope and a small contingent of guards follows you into the main hall. Not that you need them—but you need to keep up appearances. No one outside your family’s most tight-knit circle knows you can throw a punch, much less have an assassin’s training.
You don’t feel in the least bit prepared to meet your fiancé—and target—face to face fresh off a days-long journey, but you’re ushered into the main hall anyway. It seems your task has already begun whether you like it or not.
“Ah, princess. Welcome to my humble home.” You hear him before you see him, his voice heavy with an accent. There’s something a bit charming about it, you think—before the sight of him shakes some sense back into you.
He’s huge. He towers over even his own palace guard, broad with muscle, and moves with a deadly raw power even in this nonthreatening setting.
When his father still ruled, before the current peacetime, stories of the empire’s prodigal heir on the frontlines served as frightening bedtime story and a terrifying cautionary tale for the nation’s soldiers. A beast in a hood who fought with the strength of ten men.
You stand your ground as he approaches you. The hood, then, is real—although the stories were so consistent about it that it was never really in question, was it? What the stories had left out were his eyes—striking and green, piercing into your soul as he bends to kiss the back of your hand. It’s an odd sensation that sends shivers racing up your spine.
“The pleasure is mine, your majesty,” you respond, a hint of apprehension in your tone. Of course you had been expecting some form of courtly courtesy, but for some reason you hadn’t expected him to be such a…gentleman. A part of you had been expecting some feral animal, needing to be put down.
"I'm sure you must be exhausted from your journey," he says. "I hope you will find your rooms to your liking." Something about his demeanor is almost...bored? As if greeting his future wife is just another task he's obligated to complete.
He doesn't join you for dinner that night, which is odd. The servants inform you that he's taking care of some urgent business. You hope that your dejection is taken as disappointment that you won't have an opportunity to get to know your fiancé. You are, but not the way people may think.
After all, getting to know your target is half the battle.
You're left to your own devices the next day. König, you're informed, won't be available. That urgent business from last night appears to be an ongoing situation.
Fine by you. You could use some time to prepare.
You spend the day wandering the palace, familiarizing yourself with the grounds and plotting an escape route. You're halted on your brisk survey when you stumble upon a...garden?
Unlike the perfectly manicured hedges outside the palace, or the groomed efficiency of the kitchen gardens, this place is small. Quiet. A little overgrown, but clearly taken care of. The grass is long and soft, dappled in sunshine. Flowers burst forward, crowded around trellises spiraling with vines.
Part of you feels like a trespasser in this private little sanctum, but another part of you is set at ease by the idle tranquility of this place. You pause, feeling a pang of homesickness. It reminds you of the forest: wild in its own way, but gentle and welcoming at the same time.
Something at the corner of your vision catches your eye. A bush bursting forward with round, dark little berries.
Nightshade. Deadly nightshade, in fact. What is this doing in this peaceful little garden? You move forward to examine them closer.
"You shouldn't be here."
You whirl around to find König standing behind you. You had been so absorbed by the garden that you hadn't detected his approach.
Your cheeks burn. You've only been here a day, and already you're letting your guard down. This won't do.
"My apologies, your majesty. I got....lost."
You hold your breath as he draws near. His expression is unreadable—not that you can see most of it, anyway. But when you meet his gaze, you can tell he's sizing you up.
"This is quite a long way to wander."
Shit, is he suspicious? Thinking fast, your brain supplies the best answer you can muster.
"Should a future queen not know the palace she is to live in?"
"Mmm. You make a fair point."
Before you can say or do anything further, he's standing right in front of you. "That's nightshade, you know." You can feel him watching you, assessing your reaction. "Not many can recognize it."
"I..." You can't very well tell him that you know what nightshade looks like because you're an expert in deadly poisons. "I had been wondering what they were."
"I see." He leans forward and plucks a berry off the bush, rolling it between his fingers. "Have you ever tasted one?"
Does he know? Is that a threat? You can't read his expression behind that goddamned mask of his. You stare at him, hoping you look dumbfounded instead of panicked.
"No? They're quite sweet, you know." He holds it out to you. "Care to try one?"
"Your Majesty, I—"
"Don't look so nervous." If you had ever thought he looked frightening before, there's something uncanny about the half-smile that he gives you now. "I didn't expect you to say yes." Before you can say or do anything, he pops the berry in his mouth.
You're too stunned to do anything but watch as he chews for a moment and swallows. One berry won't kill him, but you're more concerned about why he's doing this. Is he trying to intimidate you?
"This was my mother's garden." He gestures to the general surroundings. "I spent a lot of time here as a child. Peaceful, isn't it?"
You let out a tiny sigh of relief now that the conversation appears to be moving on. "Yes. Quite."
"It's always been a place to get away. The first time I ate a nightshade berry was right here, when I was six. I was violently sick for weeks." His tone is a little too light for someone describing being poisoned as a child, and it's unnerving.
"That's when I learned to be careful of things that are too sweet. A good lesson to learn, don't you think?" He walks towards you, and you brace yourself for anything.
He stops next to you, you facing one way and him the other. "Take care then, princess. I will see you tomorrow."
You stare resolutely ahead. "Yes."
And hopefully you won't see him for much longer after that.
Fuck. You forgot about this part.
You had been prepared for this, of course, but you only realize now that you hadn't been mentally prepared. It wasn't until Calliope was helping you undress that you remembered what usually happens between a man and a woman the night of the wedding.
You pace the room, stewing and plotting, getting increasingly antsy before the door swings open and the man himself comes strutting into the bedroom.
"You look like a cornered deer." You hear König shut the door behind him, but you don't turn around.
"I've never done this before." Mentally, you curse yourself for the quaver in your voice.
"Well. Tonight won't be your first."
"What?" You do turn at that, watching him carelessly shed layers all across the room between swigs of his drink.
"I have no interest in bedding you. We do have to sleep in the same room for appearances, though." He plucks a grape from a cluster sitting on a side table and throws it up in the air, catching it with his mouth.
You haven't been in his presence much in the past few days, but each time you have, something about your encounters with him have shaken you up and set you on edge. Somehow, he's kept you on your toes even with a limited presence. Your meeting in the garden was dizzying and confusing, the ceremony set you on high alert. And now, he's thrown you another curveball.
It feels almost too easy. He's just going to go to sleep in the same room as you? No fanfare? "You don't want to...consummate the marriage?"
"You sound upset." He cocks an eyebrow at you. "Were you hoping to?"
"No!" Your face feels hot as he gives you that lopsided half-smile again, more like a smirk this time.
"That's a shame. I prefer fucking willing participants, you see." He drapes himself over the elaborate chaise lounge opposite the bed.
"Are you usually this vulgar?" you retort.
"I see no reason for pretense. We're married, after all." Curiously, he hasn't taken his mask off. Does he sleep in it? Or is he only keeping it on because you're here?
You feel silly now, dressed in a flimsy little silken thing, wrapped up like a present for a brute who won't even touch you. Considerate of him, you suppose. Not that it will matter for very long.
"Sleep well then, hmm? You should be well rested for your first day as queen tomorrow." There's a dangerous gleam in his eye, but it disappears so quickly you wonder if you had imagined it.
"Yes," you say, sitting on the bed while not taking your eyes off of him. "Sleep well."
You give it a few hours, just to be safe. A few hours of laying awake staring at the ceiling. A few hours of watching as moonlight bathes the room in silver light. A few hours of watching him.
The deepening darkness casts sharp shadows across his face, making him seem even more inhuman. What do bloodthirsty emperors dream of? Dominating the weak? Slaughtering the innocent? Conquering women? You shudder. Best not to know.
It's well past midnight when you slowly, quietly get up and pull your dagger from its hidden holster. One downwards thrust, and you're going home. One quick motion, and all of this is over.
It's a little anticlimactic, you think. But this is for the best. For you. For your people. For your family.
Light as a feather, you straddle him, hovering over him just enough so that your weight doesn't wake him. You try not to think about how intimate this position is, and remind yourself that this is the best way to prevent him from getting up or struggling, should your first strike not end him immediately. Which it will, of course.
You take a deep breath as you position the blade right over his heart, calming the fluttering anxiety in your mind. The beginning of a new chapter of your life begins now.
You plunge the dagger downwards.
In an instant, König's eyes fly open. Before you can react at all, his hand has seized your wrist in an iron grip, the tip of your dagger a hair's length from his chest.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" He purrs. "A little assassin?"
You grit your teeth and attempt to overpower him: you're so, so close. But his strength is so overwhelming that you can't even get the tip of the dagger to make contact. Panic starts to set in. This isn't good. This is disastrous, actually. He was supposed to be asleep!
You attempt to pull away, to get away, to do anything, but it's no use. "You don't seem surprised," you spit.
"It's not every day your most bitter enemy offers you his daughter's hand in marriage as a truce," he replies, clear amusement in his voice. Is he enjoying this? "Of course I smelled a rat. You must think me a fool."
"No." Yeah, you kind of had.
"Lying ill suits you, princess." You cry out as he jams his fingers into the tendons in your wrist, forcing you to release the dagger. You watch, helplessly, as he picks it up with his other hand and turns it over, studying it in the moonlight.
"What a delicate little knife," he muses. In your hand, it's a sizeable weapon. But held in his fingers it looks small, harmless. To your dismay, he then proceeds to chuck it at the opposite wall, the blade sticking itself solidly in between two panels.
"You knew?" you ask, a tremor in your traitorous voice.
"Oh, I suspected. You had me disappointed for a while—I thought you would have made an attempt well before this." He lets out a deep chuckle that sends terror through you. "For a moment I even thought that you were as you presented: just some poor little lamb, a peace offering given up to the slaughter." His eyes narrow behind the mask. "I am glad to see that you have proven to be much more interesting than that."
"Interesting?" Out of all the reactions you would have expected him to have, this is not one of them. Fear, anger, even immediate violence. Not...interest.
"You have no idea," he says. Your eyes widen as he you feel his hand run up your thigh.
That's not the only thing you feel, though. He shifts a bit underneath you, and it's then that the earlier flush to your cheeks returns in full force. Is he...hard?!
"If you're going to kill me, then get on with it," you ground out through your teeth.
"Little one, if I had wanted you dead immediately, I would have already pinned you down and snapped your neck. No, you've given me a gift: a gift I intend to cherish." You shiver as he slides a hand up your thigh. "A challenge."
"Is this a game to you?" You're not sure if your breath is running ragged from fear or anger, now.
"I could end this at any time, you know." You gasp involuntarily as a hand closes around your throat. "But that would be no fun, now would it?"
"You are a fool, then." You stare at him defiantly, even as his grip constricts your breathing. "Because I will kill you."
His eyes dance with some mad glee. "That's what I like to hear."
Hiiiiiiiii besties. I've been chewing on the idea of a medieval royalty sort of au since before Shrike, and I came up with this premise like. At least a year or two ago, before I was even in the COD fandom. So I'm glad to finally be making some real headway on it! I have no idea how many parts this is going to have. I have a lot of plot planned for it, so we're just gonna have to see where the vibes take us!
I'd like to thank @danibee33 my angel as always. I bounced a lot of royal/medieval/king König ideas off of her, some of which I still may use, but I changed the plot drastically when I had an epiphany a week or two ago. Hope you like this one babe <3 Also, thank you @kneelingshadowsalome and @gremlingottoosilly for their historical/time period aus. Your fics gave me a real kick in the ass to finish this.
Also shoutout to Pedro Pascal fans? I stumbled upon some breathtakingly kinky fanfiction on this beloved hellsite featuring the Mandalorian, and thought: you know what? If people can proudly write and publish the nastiest, most shameless smut I've ever read, then I can push through whatever impostor syndrome, perfectionist embarrassment I have with my work and get it done.
As usual, please let me know your feedback! I'm trying out a bit of a different characterization for König (not that much different, he's still our beloved violent horny maniac), and I want to know what people think.
I'm also going to be using my taglist again. If you were tagged here and don't want to be tagged anymore, please let me know! And if you would like to be added to the taglist, drop a reply <3
@crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr
#alright lads place your bets now what do you think happened to his first wife#könig#konig#könig cod#konig cod#konig x reader#König x reader#konig x you#König x you#cod#cod mw2#call of duty#mw2#fic: kingdom come
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(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Pt. 2)
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Tw: canon-typical violence (Batman), emetophobia at one point
Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually
(Pt. 1)
(Masterlist/subscription post)
—
Danny sat in the back of one of the transport trucks currently on the way to Arkham, his hands in his lap.
So far, everything was going to plan.
About a quarter of the team had gotten themselves admitted into Arkham in the days leading up to the raid, carefully sneaking in supplies and weapons for both themselves and the rogues they were going to free.
Half of the team was on trucks, ready to storm the building with their fancy new tech. A couple others were keeping an eye out for the Bats, and the last one was holed up in a recently condemned building, ecto-modified sniper rifle in hand, ready to fire.
Danny’s hands were cold.
He hadn’t always run cold, from what he remembered. Even after he died—hell, even after he started developing his ice powers—he had always been warm.
Now, though, his body was freezing.
Maybe it was because of the ecto siphoning he and Derringer had done the day before.
He couldn’t make the ecto guns work without fueling them, after all, and the only ectoplasm he had access to was the stuff inside his body. So, he had Derringer hook him up to a GiW machine and filter the ecto out of his blood.
The process was excruciating.
Not only did he get light-headed from the loss of fluids, the machine also chilled his blood considerably during the filtering process, and when it was pumped back into his body, it was freezing. Derringer had to cover him with heating pads and thick blankets to get him to stop shaking.
Still, that had been a little over eighteen hours ago, so that probably wasn’t it.
Maybe it was just another side affect of his time with the GiW.
Overuse of his ghostly wail, he had realized earlier, was the reason that he had lost his voice permanently. Maybe he had accidentally used his ice too many times the same way, and now his body was irrevocably changed. Maybe warmth was just another tiny privilege he had taken for granted, that had now been lost forever.
Danny stared down at his hands.
Maybe his body had just given up entirely on keeping him warm, on pretending to be human.
“Kid, you alright? We’re almost there.”
Derringer’s voice snapped Danny out of his thoughts.
“Yeah,” Danny signed, “just tired. And cold.”
“We’ve got to get you a jacket, kid,” Derringer said, “it’s not even winter and I already have to worry about you freezing to death.”
“I died a long time ago, it’s fine.”
“No,” one of the other men in the truck drawled, “it means you’ve got to be extra careful. You’ve got a second chance at living, so you better not screw it up.”
“What did he say?”
“Danny thinks that because he’s died before, he doesn’t need to worry about freezing to death.”
The truck went quiet for a few moments. Most of the guys in there didn’t know he had died before. He didn’t exactly like to advertise the fact.
“I have a cousin who had a heart attack, and it only made his heart worse,” one of the guys near the front of the truck offered.
“See, kid?” Derringer said, “I’m right. As soon as this is over, you’re getting a jacket.”
Danny crossed his arms, slumping over in his seat with a huff.
A few moments later, a loud clang echoed through the truck. Danny jolted, almost falling out of his seat.
The door opened, the driver looking at them with boredom written all over his face.
“Alright, up and at em. It’s go time,” he mumbled, smacking the door loudly for emphasis. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can leave.”
They all stood, hopping out of the truck and making their way to the fence line.
Danny moved his hand to the bandolier on his chest, fingers brushing against the small ecto-bombs he had attached to it.
There were five of them, their bodies made of tempered glass and black steel, and they glowed a sickly green in the night. They were designed mainly for combat; he had a few larger ones meant to blow a hole in a wall in his backpack, which was securely zipped shut.
His hand then drifted to the holster on his left side, and the ecto-gun nestled securely within it.
Most of his parents’ inventions were far too big and bulky to be practical in any real combat setting, so he had downsized them considerably. The weapon he had was modeled after a standard glock pistol, matte black paint covering the GiW white of the gun’s body.
The gun should be able to fire around fifty shots a minute without overheating, which was more than enough for Danny. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to fire a single round tonight. However, for whatever reason, the words should and hopefully didn’t inspire much confidence in him.
Danny followed the group as they snuck up to the facility, Derringer by his side.
Originally, neither of them were going to go on the raid, but someone on the patient list had caught Danny’s eye, so he decided he would investigate in person. Derringer was just along for the ride because Mr. Cobblepot wasn’t willing to lose an asset as valuable as Danny.
Danny would make it up to the bodyguard later, he decided.
Entering Arkham was, all things considered, pretty easy. Mr. Cobblepot had connections to a few of the orderlies, and it was all too easy to convince them to “forget” a few steps in setting up the security system for the night.
However, since nothing can ever just be simple, they ran into an unexpected patrol of nightshift guards just a few minutes after all splitting up to find the rogues.
Danny and Derringer were able to take them down pretty quickly, but not before they sounded the alarms. And, according to a few guys on the comms, they weren’t the only ones to run into guards where they shouldn’t be.
“They must have changed their patrols,” Derringer huffed, spinning the pistol in his hands, “c’mon, let’s go see about freeing our good friend Victor Fries.”
Danny nodded, scampering after the man as he sprinted through the halls.
The inmates, who had woken up from the loud alarm’s continuous blaring, shouted at them from their cells. Danny’s pulse was loud in his ears, drowning everything out.
Distantly, he wondered if those guards were going to die. Maybe they were dead already.
He supposed that it didn’t really change much if they were.
Soon, they were at the cell. It was custom-built to hold Mr. Freeze, constantly kept at subzero temperatures to avoid killing him.
Derringer hefted his bag off of his back, pulling out the suit and freeze gun that Mr. Cobblepot had procured. As he did so, Danny took a few of the larger ecto-bombs and placed them on the joints of the door.
They carefully moved away, putting some distance between themselves and the door, and Danny detonated it.
The explosion was loud. It shook the entire building, the shockwave knocking Danny to the floor.
Danny brought his hand up to his safety goggles, yanking a small piece of metal shrapnel out of them and dropping it on the floor. He was dimly aware of more pieces sticking out of his kevlar suit. Derringer was similarly peppered with metal, luckily uninjured as well.
They had come from the body and mechanism of the bomb, he realized. He’d have to fix that later.
Mr. Freeze emerged from the cell a few moments later, a scowl on his face. Derringer quickly shoved the suit and freeze gun into his hands and he retreated back into the cell for a few moments, getting dressed.
“I could have died from that, you know,” he hissed. “Killed by some amateurs with shoddy explosives.”
“The Penguin sent us,” Derringer said, ignoring the man’s clear annoyance, “our getaway car is outside. If you’d come with us…”
Mr. Freeze nodded sternly.
“Hurry up, then.”
Derringer and Danny hurried out, Mr. Freeze right behind them. Then, at a certain hallway, Danny paused.
He had to check.
“Kid,” Derringer barked, “we have to go.”
Danny shook his head.
“You go,” he signed, hands trembling, “I have to check.”
“Oh, what’s the problem now?” Mr. Freeze asked, his frown more pronounced by the minute.
“Danny…” Derringer sighed, “Danny thinks his sister might be in here. He hasn’t seen her in years. It’s the whole reason he was a part of the Arkham raid, actually.”
Mr. Freeze paused for a moment.
“Well, lead the way, then,” he said, clearly regretting his words as soon as he said them. Danny just nodded, scurrying forward, the other two men close behind him.
They came to the right cell quickly. Danny looked in through the glass, and he felt a piece of himself shatter.
That was Jazz, his sister, sitting in a padded wall wearing a straightjacket and a muzzle.
She didn’t bother looking up at them as they arrived, not stirring even when Danny slammed his hands on the door to get her attention.
Shakily, he attached an ecto-bomb to the door, hoping with all his might that she wouldn’t get hurt.
The door blew open, and Danny rushed in.
Jazz’s head swiveled to look up at him, her eyes narrowed.
He slipped the goggles up and his bandanna down, exposing his face as he came to kneel beside her.
Slowly, her expression shifted to shock.
“Jazz,” he creaked, his broken vocal chords cracking painfully as he spoke, “it’s me.”
She looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Danny?”
He nodded, pulling her into a hug, careful not to let the shrapnel dig into her skin.
“I thought you were…”
“Very heartwarming,” Mr. Freeze snapped, “but now isn’t the time. We’ve got to go, now.”
Jazz nodded, leaping to her feet. Danny stood as well, slipping his mask and bandanna back on, and grabbing onto one of her arms for support.
They left the cell, Danny doing a double-take as he saw the frozen-over pathway that they had just come from. He looked to Mr. Freeze, tilting his head questioningly.
“There were guards,” he said flatly. “Now hurry up, we need to get out of here.”
Derringer grabbed the two of them, dragging them along as he sprinted through the hallways. They had to take a bit of a detour, coming out of the main entrance instead of the side one they had entered.
Unfortunately, there was an active gunfight going down.
Danny was roughly pulled behind a desk, just barely dodging a few rounds.
His hands shook as he pulled a small ecto-bomb from his bandolier, priming it and throwing it at a small grouping of night guards. They cried out as the pure ectoplasm collided with them, covering their bodies in burns.
The smell, while familiar to Danny, was still horrific.
They took a few shots off at the night guards, trying to take them down. Their group was efficient, but with the rate they were going at, it wasn’t going to be enough. Only adding to that, the gun Mr. Cobblepot had prepared for Mr. Freeze had broken after just a few uses, leaving them unable to create an ice wall.
Then, Danny heard the sound of a gun’s safety being turned off behind them, and his vision went white.
He grabbed onto Jazz and Derringer, making them intangible right as the night guard opened fire.
Waves of nausea hit him all at once and he doubled over, his vision swimming. Danny was only dimly aware of Jazz taking the guard down with a high kick right to the head, and Derringer pulling him into a protective hold.
Ignoring everything, he pulled the last of the large bombs from his bag, throwing it into the air, pulling everyone behind the desk.
The entire room went white.
Danny’s ears rung as he scrambled out from behind the reception desk, dragging Jazz with him.
Luckily, none of the hired hands on his team had gotten injured, but the guards…
Danny looked away, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth.
It was fine. He was fine. Everything would be okay.
The next few minutes were a blur. He knew that he had puked only a few seconds after they had left the building, and that Derringer had picked him up afterwards, carrying him to the truck with Mr. Freeze and Jazz in tow.
Danny’s entire body was wracked with tremors, an unbearable phantom pain passing through the still-healing surgical wounds in his head and torso like lightning. He dry-heaved, shivering uncontrollably.
They drove off soon after. Luckily, no one had been left behind. Someone, probably Derringer, helped Danny rinse out his mouth and got him a bottle of water to drink, wrapping him in his jacket.
As soon as the truck doors were opened within one of Mr. Cobblepot’s safehouses, Danny became aware of the sound of wailing.
Hopping out of the truck, most of his mind still far away, he saw a man being rolled out of the room on a stretcher. He was one of the people who had been on the other truck, Danny realized.
Beside him was a teenager, probably only a few years younger than Danny, who was screaming and crying uncontrollably. They wailed at Mr. Cobblepot, who only stood there with an uncomfortable expression on his face.
“Oh shit,” Derringer breathed. Danny pulled on his sleeve, tilting his head at him questioningly.
“The guy on the stretcher, that’s his sibling.”
Danny just stared, a hollow feeling deep in his chest.
Jazz, her arms now freed from the straightjacket, pulled him away from the scene. Danny let her.
—
#dcxdp#dc x dp#dp x dc#dpxdc#dp x dc crossover#dc x dp fic#vengeful danny#villain danny#btw Danny’s just cold because he has an iron deficiency. lmao#girl this is what happens when you don’t eat for two years. you get deficiencies. now stop angsting and eat your veggies#also my descriptions of the ecto filter come from donating blood plasma + platelets#Danny is Going Through It™️#btw I’m finishing this chapter at 3:03 am#just in case you thought I didn’t care about you all#btw the guy who’s injured’s sibling is a surprise tool that will help us later#also I was totally gonna kill Derringer at first. btw#but y’all avoided that with the poll. also it would have been a bit cheap imo
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Behind The Facades | Part III
An unrequited pining over a certain super soldier.
Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III (end)
Words: 1.9k++
Pairing: avenger!bucky x female!reader
Warnings: near assault, bickering, mini(i think?) grovelling, tiny fluff and of course what else than angst.
P/S: Thank you so much for your support from previous chapters! At first, I didn't plan to make this a mini series at all, but here we are. Anyway, enjoy!
Read my other works here: Masterlist
Y/N wished that she could live up to her own expectations. That she would enjoy every second of this date. But who was she kidding?
How was she supposed to be present in the moment and savour the wonderful dinner or relish the breath-taking scene of glimmering city lights through the windows at their table, when all she could ever think of was Bucky?
Bucky.
Bucky.
That god damn son of a bitch, Bucky.
She felt suffocated by both anger and pain. Completely distracted by the thought of him.
"I can't do this." Y/N abruptly stood on her feet as she confessed her truth. She paced and paced, despite the voice of Daniel calling out her name from behind.
She could barely hear him, or maybe she shuts it down on purpose because she can't afford having more thoughts in her spiralling mind.
She only realized that she was out when the sound of the hustle bustle of the city invades her hearing. She stood still for a while, wondering if she let her feet takes her away, where will she ended up then.
Before she could walk away any further, she felt a grip on her arms, pulling her to the alleyway besides the building. It was surprisingly dark and eerie even with the lively lights of the city leaking through the ends of it.
Considering he was an agent of SHIELD, he does have a quick reflex when he managed to grab both of her wrists and pinned her to the wall.
Honestly, she wasn't completely oblivious at Daniel's physical advances throughout the night; hands hovering over her ass when he lead the way, fingers grazing her thighs through the slit of her dress.
They were subtle but still relentless.
"Just where the fuck do you think you're going?" Daniel seethed in her ears, his impatient breaths huffed in between her neck.
"Oh, for fuck sake." She sighed with a slight annoyance in her undertone. She was really tired of everything at this point. Especially when this fool who thought he could throw her around like a ragdoll.
Y/N managed to twist her hands free from his grasps as her knee raised towards his defenseless crotch. However, the hit never happened, as a familiar black and gold metal hand wrapped tightly around Daniel's neck.
In a split second, Bucky had Daniel up against the opposite wall, head slamming into the hard crooked bricks of the building. Loud cluttering sound of the empty steel cans echoed down the alleyway, almost drowning Daniel's strained groans.
Although Y/N was not able to see Bucky's face, but she could imagine the cold grim in his eyes when the grit of his voice growled, "Touch my girl again and you'll see what Hydra had made of me."
She averted her eyes down to the dark and murky color of the ground when a strike of pain ached within her chest.
She hates it when he acknowledged Hydra's label on him.
A weapon. A monster.
It's imbrute and dehumanizing.
Her view didn't change its imagery until a pair of black combat boots entered the picture. She lifted her gaze just to spat at her saviour, "I could've handled him myself."
Bucky's eyes soften as a proud smile appeared on his lips, "I know, doll."
Very contrast to his gentle expression, Y/N's face was rigid and irritated. Ironically, they were imitating each other's default guise.
Y/N rolled her eyes before pushing him aside and started to walk away, leaving Bucky alone in the dark alleyway. Though her attempt was unsuccessful when Bucky managed to grab a hold on her wrist, "Wait, y/n."
She halted but refused to look back, "No. So, can you let go of my hand now?" her hands bundled into fists as she try to hold back her wrath.
Though the sidewalk was not crowded with people, in fact it was nearly empty, however she didn't want to make a scene.
"Please, hear me out." Bucky pleaded.
At least, she tried to keep it in.
Y/N yanked her hand from his, "Why the fuck should I listen to you, Bucky?!" she snapped, eyes flashing with fury.
Bucky was honestly not prepared for this, he went here without thinking of a plan to coax her. He ran to her with a sole purpose of telling her the truth, and Y/N yelling at him is not helping his nervous wreck, "Because..bec.."
Growing impatient to his hesitation, she fumed even more, "What?! Just what is it that you want from me Buck--"
And then all loud sounds of the roaring rage in her head suddenly fell into complete silence when she felt his lips on hers.
The sensory within her skin abruptly heighten, becoming sensitive to Bucky's contrasting touch on her cheeks; hot and cold in either side as he cupped her face in his palms.
His soft lips, his intoxicating scent, his desperate touch.
Everything was too overwhelming for her short-circuited brain to process an appropriate response; in fact any type of response.
So when she let her body go on auto-pilot she found herself leaning forward, craving for more of the delicious friction.
It was a short lived moment of deafening sound of her own beating heart thundering in joy and excitement before the noises of rationality came rushing back to her.
Y/N ripped herself away in complete shock and panic, "Wh--what" even she herself was lost for words.
What have she done?
She pushed Bucky harshly she shouted, "Why? Why did you--? Y-you have a girlfriend, Bucky! You have Gail!"
God, how could she kissed her friend's boyfriend?
"I can't believe you just kiss me knowing that." And she reeled into the pure anxiety.
Bucky's pleads sounded muffled as her mind spiralled in guilt and shame. He grabbed her by the side of her arms before briefly pulling her back into reality, "Listen to me, y/n"
Y/N ran her hands through her hair, gripping it in her fists as her mind turned into complete chaos, "No, god this is wrong." He could hear panic in her trembling voice.
Bucky snapped as he yelled, "y/n, we broke up!"
There was a pause in time and air. Her body frozen as his words seemed to infinitely repeated in her ears. Head slowly turning towards Bucky; finally giving him the attention he demanded.
She just blankly stared at his truthful eyes with her own pair, wide open.
"He's bluffing. He's just making excuses."
"Bullshit! You looked very much in love last time I saw you, which let me remind you, it was few hours ago!"
Bucky thought about it for awhile before he replied, "It's hard to explain everything now but she wanted to end it, for my sake." He paused. "...It's over."
He was not lying. Y/N knew that; she could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. He was telling the truth. But, it didn't make sense; why why why.
Gail was perfect for Bucky. He needs someone like her. He deserves that type of love that she gave; soft and tender.
"No no no. That can't be it. W-why the fuck are you here then? You gotta get to her Bucky! You're not suppose to here. Not with me. Go before it's too late--"
He is worthy of someone who's completely unbreakable, someone that can stay with him even at the darkest times, someone that won't see him as a weapon, but a human being.
Someone who will love him unconditionally.
Because, Bucky of all people, deserves to be loved.
"You don't mean that, y/n"
It hurts Bucky to see that Y/N thought she was unfit for a place in his heart, when she literally owns it. It pained him that she keeps putting up this facade that she unable to see her true self.
It burns her heart to let him go but that shows how far she was willing to sacrifice for Bucky, "I do. I mean it.." she can feel her tears pooling in her eyes, "You deserv--"
"Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself." Bucky couldn't understand she keeps pushing him away. If he truly deserve to love someone then why can't it be her?
"Lying?"
Y/N find it harder to breathe as her chest tightens. Did he see right through her? Her voice trembled as she struggled to let the words out, "I..I'm not lying."
Bucky almost scoffed in disbelief, "You think I didn't noticed it, y/n?"
All those masks she hides in. Behind the facades she wore so boldly, so willingly. Hurting herself over and over everytime she had to put up a brave face.
No.
He made her do that.
If he was honest from the beginning then things wouldn't turn out like this. She wouldn't suffer as she did. She never needed to.
"And fuck was I so stupid to turn a blind eye on you for the sake of keeping you." Bucky was breathless with anger. A rage towards himself; for his foolishness.
"Do you know why I get together with Gail?" Bucky felt as if his chest was burning, searing with flames, that if this goes any further then his heart will turn to ashes.
But Y/N deserve the truth even though he knows he need to admit his shameful doings, "Because she reminds me so much of you. Warm, gentle and so unconditionally kind. And I let myself fooled by the illusion of you that I saw in her."
"I'm a bad man y/n. I hurt her. And I hurt you. Fuck, I hurt everyone around me." His eyes stung to think how effortlessly he destroy every single person he love; as if he was designed to do so.
"I know that I deserve every single curse and scrutiny that come my way. I've always known that."
"But for once in my fucked up life," his voice betrayed him by revealing its' stuttering form, "...I also know that I am lucky to have the chance to love someone as unforgivingly enchanting as you."
There was a brief pause where the air was still and soundless; reserved for the painful sounds of their breath.
His raw emotions was laid out unfiltered in a form of streaming tears across his cheeks, "I won't ask for your love in return." He reached his hand to hers and held it dearly, "All I ask is for your forgiveness."
His eyes searched her soul, willing her to bare with him a little longer, "Because god I can't lose you. I can't."
Bucky felt like he was drowning; as he was 70 years ago at the Austrian Alps. The unbareable emotions rushed in like the frozen waters that filled his lungs.
Panic. Shame. Regret.
Y/N never thought she could come this far.
She thought she would able to lift the weight; and with the long record of success, she thought she wouldn't able to break.
But after all, she was just a human and there will always be a limit to where she will end up at.
What's the point of pretending when the person she loves is as miserable as her?
The tripedation of her only give false signals to Bucky; this is it, he was losing her.
But, there it was, the forgiving embrace he longed for. In her arms the world stopped still on its axis. He felt her body pressed in, soft and warm. This was the love he'd waited for, prayed for. Bucky's shaky hands roamed from the side of her waist before his arms crossed behind her, squeezing her closer, tighter.
How could she not forgive him? When he had pour all of him as he did.
There was no time, no wind, no sound. Just the heat of their body against each other. The melody of their heartbeats intertwining. Bucky's mind was at peace. So was hers.
No more more pretending.
No more putting on act.
She settled into the crook of his neck and whispered so soft and quiet that some won't be able to hear but Bucky did.
"I love you, too."
End.
<< Part II
Read my other works here: Masterlist
A/N: Thank you so much for your time to read my work. Feel free to express your thoughts in the comment/reblog! I love to hear from you~
Taglist: @ghostofwinter @angstysebfan @erinallene @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @paarthurnax59 @nomajdetective @kentokaze @dexter99 @nana1000night @prettyinpink350 @calwitch @unadulteratedbeardpeanut @kandis-mom @abitofblues @obsessivelycraftygothfandomwitch @its-daydreamer23 @hopelessromantic423 @rabbitrabbit12321 @lovely-geek @loonalockley @superforgottensoul @awkwardalie @peter-parkers-gf @opheliabarnes @blackhawkfanatic
#winterarmyyfics#behind the facades au#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky barnes au#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#avenger!bucky#bucky angst
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This love is difficult, but it’s real
Loving Adam was,,,, something.
Being Adam’s partner was something not many got to call themselves.
Up until recently Adam would hang around. Jumping from groupie to groupie. The ending of his two previous relationships led him to be like that.
It’s only been a couple years in which he’s cut all of his relationships with his groupies off.
In all honesty you didn’t mind the groupies, you understood the position he was in. How can you be a major rock star with two ex wives and NOT sleep around.
So him and his groupie gals had nothing to do with the hiccups in your relationship with him.
But as stated, he’s cut all ties with his old groupies. Sure, he still parties and drinks a lot, but it melts your heart to know he’s made room for you.
The two of you truly loved eachother. It was clear to see.
The head seraphim noticed it,
Winners noticed it,
And even lute caught on.
Not that he minded though, he’d be proud to show you off.
Because to him you were glorious, stunning extravagant, he’d even say your the most angelic there is in heaven.
Which is his fancy way of saying your his favorite
His favorite out of his two previous wives and gosh, he wouldn’t even begin to compare you to his groupies.
He liked you not only for your appearance but for your personality.
No really, he does!
A lot of the time men will say they like someone for their appearance just to get another ticket to bang town, but Adam, oh Adam really loves your personality.
You’re a party gal
You can stay up for hours on end, dance until the club closes and still have energy.
Your insane love for going to parties and his insane love for starting parties is what had you two drawn together.
But under all the dancing, and singing, and drinking, there was one thing you had that Adam didn’t.
An off switch.
You could party for three days straight then come home and be a perfect little wife for Adam.
Only Adam couldn’t stop.
Even when it came to important things he couldn’t seem to think straight.
He doesn’t really care about human souls despite the fact he nearly created them all,
It’s almost like he forgets he was once human too.
You can sympathize with all human souls, and maybe that’s what he liked about you.
Your compassion and kindness,
Yet,
He couldn’t even begin to form a single kind thought for any sinners down below.
This normally doesn’t get in between the two of you.
There’s just one special day, every year, in which many human souls are at hand, and Adam doesn’t even think to spare a thought.
The exterminations.
You hated them, you hated how your husband would go down and slaughter human souls.
He seemed to love it though.
Because of that, problems in your relationship started to bubble up.
.
“All im saying is that you don’t have to harm that many! Just cut your exorcist team in half then go down. That’s not so bad is it? Just half an exorcist team?” You pleaded with him.
There was an understanding that you couldn’t not make him go. No matter how much he loved you, he loved killing more.
You were pleading with him, whatever you could to help at least one sinner.
“Umm fuck no! I spend aaaalllll year training those bitches! I’m not just gonna make them sit out! That’s totally unfair to them.” Adam crossed his arms while arguing with you.
The two of you were in the kitchen, it was early. You brought up the topic of the exterminations after breakfast hoping he would be slightly relaxed.
The two of you were now standing in the kitchen, he leaned against the sink and you were sitting on the island in the kitchen.
“Well… maybe only let them use hand to hand combat, no weapons, that’s to harsh honey” you offered him another idea. You didn’t want to sound to desperate but even Adam knew you were on your last leg.
“Do you know how much angelic steel costs to produce babe? Plus, I let the girls get custom made weapons,” he started
He shifted his body to face you,
“I don’t see why you care that much, look at you! You’re living the fuckin’ life right now! Lounging around mansions, partying every night AND your with me. I don’t know why you pretend to care about sinners, it’s not like you’ll ever meet them!” Adam threw his arms up. This whole conversation seemed to be a joke to him.
The more he played around the more you got frustrated. He was making you feel like your ideas aren’t worthy and you won’t stand for it.
“Why aren’t you listening?!” You shouted, although it sounded like a strangled whine.
“Killing is wrong! No matter sinner or human. It’s wrong Adam. It’s hard for me to watch you go down this path.” You looked at him. Worry was apparent on your face, you just hoped Adam would notice how serious you were about this.
“ “watch me go down this path!” “ Adam said in a girly voice while holding up air quotes. Obviously mocking you.
“Like your one to talk about the right path. When I met you, you were just some girl who was all alone so all she could do was party in hopes of making friends.” The look he was giving you practically stabbed your heart. Maybe you pushed to hard on the topic of the sinners, regardless, there was no reason for him to talk to you like this.
Your mouth fell open and your eyes as well. You couldn’t even find words.
“I have a reputation to uphold ya’ know? Oh right! I guess you wouldn’t know. You’re just a winner babe, I couldn’t expect you to understand such commands from the divine.” He finished. There was a long pause after he spoke. Maybe he was thinking about what he had just said, or maybe he was waiting for you to say something.
Your mouth was now closed and your eyes now teary.
“Fuck you Adam, really, fuck right off” you said pushing yourself away from the island.
Voice wobbly and laced with anger. Like you had cried and shouted at the same time.
Adam just kinda stood there, he said what he said and he wasn’t going to deny that, but maybe it came out I tad bit more mean than he intended.
You grabbed your stuff and quickly walked to the porch.
You had to wiggle around the couches and the pillows to get to the porch.
Adam scrambled to follow you, still not a peep has come from his mouth.
You opened the doors to the porch and golden light dripped into the house. If you two weren’t fighting it would have been a lovely sight.
You walked out on to the porch itself, it was a third story porch so it was quite high.
Adam didn’t follow you out though,
Rather he watched from the doorway of the porch.
His brows were laced with worry despite just blowing up at you seconds ago.
You hop onto the railings of the porch and steady yourself on them before turning around to look at him.
“God forbid I try to save a life, even if it’s the life of a sinner” you spat. Words like venom. The tears you previously shed were still there but now they were burning with anger.
“You’d think the first man would care for mankind, what a first man you are, maybe Lilith and Eve were right for leaving you” you said.
What you said was mean, yes, but so was what he said. It was unfortunate how both you and Adam would be left on a sour note.
Adam just looked at you, face void of any emotion. A thousand thoughts going through his head.
With a gust of wind you used your wings to push yourself up and off the railings. You flew away from him and your shared house.
You didn’t know where you were flying to, all you knew is that you couldn’t be around him.
You loved him so much, and he loved you just as much.
But like every relationship, this one too has its ups and downs.
It really was a shame though, that this happens every year.
#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel fanfiction#hazbin hotel fanart#hazbin hotel oc#hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin husk#hazbin hotel mimzy#hazbin hotel charlie#hazbin hotel husk#hazbin alastor#hazbin art#hazbin lucifer#hazbin angel dust#hazbin vox#hazbin charlie#hazbin vaggie#hazbin adam#adam hazbin x reader#adam x reader#adam hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel adam#huskerdust#husk and angel dust#light angst#hazbin fandom#hazbin fanfic#fanfic
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What would you be if the Order were to fall?
Link to the demo: here
Orphaned at birth beneath the dim light of a new moon, your fate seems sealed.
In a stroke of luck, you are soon adopted by two Masters of the Bladeweavers' Order - an institution of elite warriors and weaponmasters as ancient as the very cities they are based in. When cataclysm strikes, the Order is left scattered and broken, and you are left aimless, without purpose in a hostile world.
In your search for it, what else will you find?
Bladeweaver is a text-based grimdark fantasy interactive fiction game developed in Twine, focusing on your customizable player character, The Bladeweaver, as they grow up and navigate their way through a crumbling world wreathed in esoteric magic, dark secrets and murky morals, loosely inspired by the late medieval/early Renaissance periods, with a heavy touch of fantasy/steampunk influence.
Grow from child to adult, learn unique skills and master a weapon of Empyrean steel, a unique metal with otherworldly properties. Make friends (or perhaps more?) and enemies along the way as societies rise and fall, as alliances strengthen and collapse, and loyalties are strained to their breaking point.
It won't be easy, but you might just soar. On wings of Empyrean.
Bladeweaver is a mature game with heavy themes and content, including but not limited to violence, strong language, possession, mental issues, drug use, kidnapping and abuse. Due to this, the game is only recommended for those over the age of 18.
Feel free to ask me questions about the game or characters if you want!
Customize your character; their gender, physical appearance and relationships with the cast of characters are yours to change. Even the weapon you wield is yours to choose, with a selection of 6 options available.
Grow from a young child into adulthood in the safety of Sola, a floating city enwreathed in ancient magic. Your skills as a warrior are yours to develop.
Embark on a crushing, dangerous voyage across the fictional continent of Phanol, a land of debts and daggers.
Romance one of four characters, and develop intimate platonic bonds with any or all of them. Alternatively, shrug them off completely.
Discover your true purpose as the past and present merge when cataclysm strikes.
You, variable pronouns - The Bladeweaver
Hours after you were born, your parents were slaughtered and, in a sequence of rare acts of kindness, you land in the care of two Bladeweavers: Callen Edros and Sonia Wierszy. The three of you make for an odd family of warriors, living in Sola, one of the twelve Risen Cities of the Gods. The relative peace you know will not last.
A blood-paved road lies ahead of you; a road you may choose to walk proudly, battling inner and outer demons alike.
Or, perhaps you might struggle, paving your own path in a world that will do its damndest to bestow you with the same fate as your long-forgotten forebears.
Will you lose yourself and the principles your adoptive parents instilled in you throughout your childhood? What else will you lose, or gain, on this road?
Main characters:
Callen Edros, he/him - The Lonely Wolf
Tall, bulky and surprisingly quick-footed, Callen is a Bladeweaver Master of the poleaxe, a lethally versatile weapon.
His presence and weapon of choice are contrasted by his cheery, jovial attitude. He's an excellent teacher, and focuses on mastering discipline and one's fundamentals over all else. He is afforded a good deal of fame in the Order, partly due to his noble background - something he rarely speaks of - and is quite popular, even for a Bladeweaver.
Many who know the man would never have a bad word to say about him, but those close with Callen know there's a deep, enduring sadness behind his laughter.
He is one of your two adoptive parents.
Sonia Wierszy, she/her - The Rising Hawk
Leanly muscled and opting for a brutal combat style, Sonia is a Bladeweaver Master of the falchion, a single-edged blade made for strong chops over quick cuts or stabs.
Loyal, stubborn, brash, and just arrogant enough for some to find it charming, Sonia will often sneer in the face of propriety despite her love for the finer things in life.
Some would even say that her just being as she is, a woman rising through the ranks of an institution rife with men, is a challenge to the Order. Sonia takes glee in pushing boundaries, in proving herself capable and beyond, and expects a similar ambition from those she knows. As a teacher she is exacting, employing unorthodox methods to help find your special skills as a fighter.
It's not difficult for some to wonder if Sonia's coarse exterior is simply a front, obscuring a deep-seated rage and fear, sparked long ago.
She is one of your two adoptive parents.
???, he/him - The Cargo
He will accompany you on your journey across the land.
Four romantic or platonic options to choose from:
Samuel Alban, he/him - The Boy Next Door
Tall and lean with curly blonde hair, deep blue eyes and a giddy smile, Sam moves to the same street as you with his father when you're both children, hailing from the disrant but powerful Abrian Empire.
He's endlessly good at making new friends and seems to never lose energy.
Sam comes to struggle with knowing exactly what he wants from life. Will you simply be a friend to him, or will you catch his eye in a deeper way?
Caitlin Clary, she/her - The Inventor
Tall, intimidating and muscular, with ginger hair and vulnerable green eyes, Caitlin is a fellow student at the Bladeweavers' Academy, but she takes a keen interest in engineering and gadgets. You meet her in your first year, as she struggles with bullying from the other students.
At odds with what her culture expects from her, and feeling isolated in a strange place with only her elder brother for company, Cait is shy and closed off when she comes to Sola. She might appreciate a source of comfort during the tumultuous time.
Lucas del Varro, he/him - The Prodigy
Quick-footed and average-height, the black-haired, grey eyed third child of the prestigious del Varro family transfers to your academy in your third year. He's instantly popular, but seems to shrug off any and all affection, although he's not actively hostile to it.
He seems to be singularly focused on bettering his own skills under the weight of his family's scrutiny, and only accepts your presence if you prove to be a sufficient challenge to him. Will you step up to the call, or even exceed his expectations?
Talia Maren, she/her - The Bastard
Curvy and considered a great beauty yet sharp beyond her years, tales of Talia's venom and scheming follow her when she arrives in the city. She is the legitimised bastard daughter of Lord Darion Maren, a major player in the politics of the nation of Telfrin.
She is known to be constantly at odds with her so-called family, who quite publicly disagree with her ailing father's choice to claim her as part of his lineage, making her, as his eldest, heir to his estate. He had sired the girl before meeting his wife, in secret.
With few allies in her own home, she seeks them elsewhere. Talia wishes to claw her way to the top of the social heirarchy, willing to step over anyone who gets in her way.
Are you capable of standing the brunt of her vicious veneer? She can't be all thorns like she's purported to be, can she?
Find out more about each option by clicking on the link in their title.
Current size of demo: 175k words
Genre: Grimdark fantasy
Last Update: 14/04/24 (Chapter 2 additions)
Discord server for game discussion and feedback: here
#bladeweaver if#interactive fiction#twine if#twine wip#twine game#twine story#if wip#medieval fantasy#intro post
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End of Service
For the rare mech pilots who reach the end of their service, it's standard protocol to remove all their memories of combat. The mental alterations caused by regular integration with their mech not only renders them basically incompatible with society but also gives them yearning.
Yearning for violence. To be held within a cradle of steel once more, eyes linked to a targeting system. To feel the injected dopamine of an enemy kill. It's an addiction. One they'll do anything for, eventually. Too many pilots sold out to the enemy, stole and slaughtered.
Killing their loved ones, their comrades, giving up their entire lives just to be part of a war machine one more time.
Erasing the memories doesn't make that yearning go away. It just removes any chance the pilot can reveal secret information.
And knowledge of how to pilot.
They're doomed to spend the rest of their life with a piece of themselves missing, one they no longer know. To yearn for a violence they don't recall, a desperation to be part of something greater. Many lose sight of their identity entirely, lost to that forgotten desire.
But they find each other still. And they make do. With blade and fist and drugs, aching needy touches of violence and lust, they do their best to reclaim what they lost.
They never find it, but they still try.
They can only find solace in those as broken as them.
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NUDIBUN (Water), ELVUNISH (Water/Grass) & LANCELLUSK (Water/Steel)
NUDIBUN (Nudibranch/Bunny) are small gastropod pokemon that inhabit small bodies of water. Similar to SHELLOS in Sinnoh, NUDIBUN has different forms depending on its location, with southern NUDIBUN being white and northern NUDIBUN being yellow, however, unlike SHELLOS, each NUDIBUN has its own evolution
NUDIBUN is based on Sea Bunnies (Jorunna Parva) a type of nudibranch that resembles a bunny
ELVUNISH (Elvish/Buny) is Southern NUDIBUN's evolution. S.NUDIBUN feeds only on live vegetation, and with time it has evolved to absorb the Clorophyl from plants and incorporate it to its own body, becoming part plant itself.
ELVUNISH are one with the flora from their homes, they can communicate with plants and act as their guardians, protecting them from outside forces, they have a large cape made of leaves that they use to camouflage amongs the trees, and they can use this leaves as blades for combat.
ELVUNISH is based on the Leaf Slug (Costasiella Usagi), mixed with an elf warrior and with its design leaning more to the Bunny aspect of the "Sea Bunny" rather than the mollusk
LANCELLUSK (Lancer/Lancelot/Mollusk) is Northern NUDIBUN evolution.
N. NUDIBUN's feed on soil and debree as their habitat doesnt have as much vegetation, but it is very rich in minerals and metals. With time, they have evolved to absorb this metals into their own bodies.
LANCELLUSK has covered its body in complex set of shells that resemble the armor of a knight. They are predators, hunting using their deadly spears that are strong enough to break even the armor of other LANCELLUSKs.
LANCELLUSK is based on the Assassin Snail (Anentome helena) mixed with knight, and with its design leaning more into the mollusk aspect of "Sean Bunnies" rather than the rabbit.
The idea behind ELVUNISH & LANCELLUSK is based on the medieval paintings of both Bunnies and Snails fighting with knights that can be foun on the margins of illuminated manuscripts, this illustration are called Drollery, and this particular theme of illustration is known as 'The world turned upside down" or "Topsy-Turvy"
ELVUNISH & LANCELLUSK are rivals, they dont often find each other, but if they do they will instantly attack each other, this is based on the usual behaviour of humans and elves in fantasy media and this particular illustration of a Rabbit fighting a Snail
#Pokemon#fakemon#fake pokemon#mollusk#sea slug#slug#snail#sea bunny#sea bunnies#water type#grass type#steel type#elf#knight#water pokemon#water fakemon#grass pokemon#grass fakemon#steel pokemon#steel fakemon#medieval art#illuminated manuscript#rabbit#bunny
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REX,
REX TREMENDAE MAJESTASIS,
QUI SALVANDOS SALVAS GRATIS,
SALVA ME, FONS PIETATIS.
The final piece [FOR NOW] of my Ace Combat Mucha set, ITS MOBIUS-1 WITH THE STEEL CHAIR. The opening scene of megalith lives rent free in my head.
ANYWAYS.
If you would like to get these as actual prints, I will be at CARRIERCON 2024, March 9th!
The convention is on the USS Hornet, artist alley IS IN THE AIRCRAFT HANGAR HOW COOL IS THAT.
#artists on tumblr#digital art#art#digital illustration#alphonse mucha#ace combat#planes#ace combat 4#shattered skies#f22#f22raptor#mobius#tfw everyone has the ribbon insignia#all hail plane jesus#im sorry yellow 13
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-> YOU'RE OUT OF TOUCH – I'VE BEEN OUTTA TIME
synopsis: you died six months ago, but you've come back to haunt johnny. not as a ghost, no – as some twisted version of you that johnny still loves. too bad you don't still love johnny, or remember him in any capacity.
word count: 4k
characters: john "soap" mactavish, resurrected! reader
trigger warnings: talk of canon-typical violence, temporal weirdness, hurt + damn near no comfort
notes: first soap fic.. hopefully i've written him well!! also i couldn't resist incorporating madness combat in this somehow lol it's taking over my life (you don't need to know anything about madcom to read this, don't worry). also tumblr user nevadancitizen using the amnesia trope again? it's more likely than you think.
Somewhere in Nevada, a battered body is denied death, so that it may be granted, en masse…
And six months ago, somewhere in Russia, you were killed in action.
It was a single shot through the skull – nice, clean. You didn’t suffer. Despite your killer more than likely being a terrorist (or working for one), they did you right. It was probably unintentional, but they still did you right.
Johnny couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, even to piss, for weeks after. He was completely numb to almost everything. The world passed by while he stood completely still, laying on his side in your shared bed, spooning a pillow that was rapidly losing your scent.
(He even tried spraying it with your perfume or cologne, but it didn’t work. It was too strong – it didn’t smell like when you wore it.)
Johnny thought all-too-often about what happened after death. He was ready to die, always has been, but he never really thought about what would happen if (or, more accurately, when) you died. He always cast those thoughts away, because he was done losing people. He was done with grief and screaming, pleading to God, and crying so hard he threw up.
But he eventually returned to his job. He eventually put you to rest. He prayed for the first time in damn near two decades that, if there was really an afterlife, that you were in Heaven.
(He just hoped that, whatever Heaven there was, it was good enough for you.)
But again, six months ago, somewhere in Nevada, a battered body was denied death, so that it may be granted, en masse.
It is a land without sun, without warmth unless you could find it in another body. It is a land without rules, without remorse, without regret.
It is a land of violence. It is a land that fits you well.
Despite being dead, you were sewed back together and cursed to live once more. Someone put a gun in your hands and told you, “Listen bozo, I don’t care where you’re from – just shoot!”
Of course, Johnny didn’t know this. How could he? He watched your casket be lowered into the ground. He knew it wasn’t empty – he had to confirm your identity in the morgue.
But he can’t help but feel his stomach drop when Kyle comes rushing into his office, pointing behind him and, in a panting breath, says your name.
Johnny immediately springs up from behind his desk and almost pushes past Kyle to get out the door. He turns down the hallway to the left, where he knows it leads to the hospital ward.
“No, Soap – Soap!” Kyle sprints after him, just barely catching his wrist. “Wrong way, man.”
Johnny stops and, in his stunned state, lets Kyle lead him down the hallway to the right, away from the medbay, away from where you were surely waiting for him, recovering.
Kyle leads him into an elevator, scans his keycard, and presses the button for -3. They’re both uncharacteristically quiet. It just faintly registers in Johnny’s mind that the floor -3 is below the parking garages, past where anyone typically goes.
(Past where anyone can hear screams ripped from tortured throats, really.)
When the elevator doors open, Soap’s greeted by a familiar sight. It’s a grey concrete hallway, with two soldiers on either side, guarding the way in. Doors line the hall, each one steel with a keypad to unlock it.
Gaz leads Soap down the hall and doesn’t stop for a while. Eventually, he stops in front of the last door and takes a deep, almost shuddering, breath.
Gaz inputs the code into the keypad and opens the door, nodding at the inside. “Come on.”
Soap, almost so quick he clips his shoulder on the doorframe, goes into the room. It overlooks an interrogation room, and it’s fit with a double-sided mirror, recording tech, everything.
Soap freezes when he looks into the interrogation room. It – it’s you, but… not you. You’re pacing, and Johnny can only stare. There’s a grey flush to your skin – no, your skin is actually grey – and bandages cover the back of your head, dirty and frayed, like you haven’t changed them in a while.
You’re angry, a far cry from the person Johnny knew you to be. Sure, you could be angry, and Johnny’s seen you angry, but this…
You’re panting as you pace, fists clenching and unclenching as your eyes dart around the room. Soft mutters and expletives leave your mouth as you look around, surely looking for a way to escape.
Johnny just keeps staring. You’re… alive? Yes, you’re not what Johnny remembers you to be, but you’re still alive.
“Fucking – goddamnit!” You bang your fist on the steel table, causing it to rattle. “I don’t have anything to tell you! You’re all cowards –” you turn to the double-sided mirror and point at it “– especially you, Sheriff! Don’t tell me you’re not back there!”
You immediately turn away, your hands coming to clutch at the sides of your head, your fingers digging into the bandages, almost ripping them. “I swear, when I get my hands on you…!”
“We don’t know what to do,” Kyle says softly. He looks over at Soap, his gaze obviously sad and sympathetic. “Do you want to try ‘n talk ‘em? Even if they’re feelin’ a tad… neurotic.”
Johnny can’t rip his gaze from you as you throw a steel chair at the wall, still cursing out someone named Sheriff and his lackeys. The chair bounces off the wall and one of the legs hits your shin, causing you to curse it out, too.
“Yes,” Johnny says quickly, decisively.
Soap shifts on his feet, oddly impatient, as he waits for Kyle to unlock the door to the interrogation room. As soon as he does, Johnny shoulders past him and into the room. He hears a faint click as Gaz closes it behind him.
You immediately whirl on Johnny, your eyes wide and your breath labored.
“You!” You point at Johnny like it’s meant to be some offensive gesture. “What do you want?”
You move closer, and Johnny catches sight of the dogtags hanging from your neck. You were buried with one, and he kept the other. He even gave you one of his own because, on that day, a part of him died with you. But… instead of two, you have four hanging from the metal chain.
You shove your finger in Johnny’s chest, your fingernail digging through the thin fabric of his fatigues. “Answer me!”
Soap immediately takes your wrist and cradles your hand to his chest. “Bonnie, please, calm down.”
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” you bark, ripping your hand away from him. “I just lost one of my team and you’re telling me to calm down?!”
“Your team?” Soap echoes.
“Deimos!” you snap. “You – you killed Deimos.”
You take a step back, your fists still clenched and your eyes still angry. “I saw your stupid fucking Engineer murder him. He was dead from the first five bullets, and you know he knew that! But oh, let’s just make sure he’s dead by unloading clip after clip into him.”
You heave a breath, almost growling. “Let’s desecrate his corpse. All because he’s a dissenter. Let’s make it oh-so-hard to bring him back.”
Johnny steps forward, just barely moving his foot, and you jump back like he took out a knife.
He breathes out your name, soft and unbelieving. “Are… is it really you?”
“Of course it’s me!” You turn and rest your hands on the steel table, obviously resisting the urge to bring your fists down against it. “Always has been, always will be. It’s always me.”
Johnny circles around the table and leans down a little, taking in your face. The grey makes you look dirty and unwashed, like you’ve got a layer of dirt on you that you couldn’t wash away.
You look up at him through your eyelashes. “I know you.”
Johnny’s heart leaps into his throat and, for a hopeful moment, thinks that you remember him, that this is all some sort of stupid trick, that you went MIA instead of being KIA, that this is really you. The you Johnny knows, the you Johnny loves. But his heart is crushed beneath your boot when you speak next.
“I know soldiers like you,” you say softly. “Soldiers, produced en masse, told to shoot first and die quietly. We’re both clones, you know? But there’s a difference in what we want.”
You stand up straight, glancing at the double-sided mirror before turning your eyes back to Soap. “You follow orders. When they say jump, you ask how high. But I…” you laugh beneath your breath. “I am fighting for change. Normality. You’re comfortable living in this… this chaos.”
“Bonnie, what are you on about?” Johnny reaches across the table, trying to take your hand. You snatch it away before he even comes close.
Gaz slides into the room, holding a tablet. You whip your head around and glare at him.
His eyebrows lift a little, and he raises the tablet, as if in a defensive manner. “Your tablet. It –”
You snatch it from Gaz’s hands before he can talk again. You set it down on the table and stare at it, waiting.
Johnny can just barely see the interface. The top of the screen reads COMBASIC .9(beta). It looks like some sort of chat room. A few messages pop up in quick succession.
FellowD9: GOTEM
FellowD9: YOU WERE RIGHT
FellowD9: HE WAS COMPLIANT
2BDamned: Neat
FellowD9: CHECK MY SECTOR
FellowD9: ANCHOR HIM NOW
[user:FellowD9 IS OFFLINE]
The messages seem to relax you, even if Johnny has no idea what they’re talking about. You bring a hand to your forehead and laugh breathlessly, then set to typing.
CrosshairF6: lol hey im still alive
CrosshairF6: aahw assholes gave me my tablet idk why
CrosshairF6: check my sector & get me back
2BDamned: Getting Deimos right now, I’ll get back to you
CrosshairF6: better do it right
CrosshairF6: saw his corpse, looks like he ran through traffic
[user:2BDamned IS OFFLINE]
Johnny watches as you tuck your tablet back in one of the inner pockets of your jacket, casting a suspicious glance at Gaz, like you expect him to take it back.
Gaz raises his hands and slips back out of the room, leaving you and Johnny.
“So.” You look at Johnny. “Why are you trying to act all buddy-buddy with me?”
“You’re… you were…” Johnny sighs, an overwhelming feeling settling in his chest. “Do you remember… dying?”
“Of course,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “2B brought me back.”
“2B?” Johnny echoes. “Like, the one you were talkin’ to? 2BDamned?”
“Yeah.” You move and lean back against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. “He’s all doctor-like, y’know? Brings us back when we need it.”
“And he’s… on your team?” Johnny asks. He feels a deep pang of… something in his chest when the thought of you actually being on another team, separate from him, settles in his mind.
You nod. “Yeah. 2B, Hank, Sanford, Deimos.” You tap the dog tags resting against your chest. “We’re a team. Some of us are on a subteam, but still. We’re a team.”
Johnny blinks hard, shaking the thought from his head. “Do you remember anything before you died?”
“Some, but… not a lot. Just blips of fighting, some soldiers, then Nevada.” You shrug. “2B says that happens sometimes.”
Johnny feels his tense shoulders relax, if only a little. “Any one specific soldier, bonnie?”
“No,” you say. You look away and fiddle with your dogtags. “But I’ve got the dogtag of someone named John.”
“John?” Johnny echoes, his heart picking up in his chest. “John ‘Soap’ MacTavish?”
“Yeah.” Your gaze fixes on him again, immediately suspicious. “How do you know that?”
“That’s me, bonnie.” Johnny laughs breathlessly, moving towards you. He makes sure to stay slow and cautious, just in case. “I’m Johnny. Your Johnny.”
You move along the wall, away from him, just slightly. You seem to bristle a little, and bring your shoulders up a bit. “You’re not mine. I don’t own anyone.”
“Not in the literal sense, bonnie,” Johnny laughs, resisting the urge to trail after you. “I’m yours, romantically.”
You bring yourself off the wall, taking a step back. It’s like you’re repulsed by the idea. “I’ve never been romantically involved with anyone. You think I’ve got time for that?”
It’s like Johnny’s been punched in the gut. Tears well in his eyes and he suddenly feels so fucking sick. His feet almost come out from under him as he stumbles to the door, shaking hands putting in the code before slipping out.
He could take the idea of you maybe not remembering him, sure. He could just re-introduce himself. He could take the idea of you forgetting the time you’ve spent together, because you’d remember, right? But the way you were disgusted by the idea of romance, the vitriol in your voice as you spoke…
Johnny doesn’t like the word ‘relapse’ because he thinks it holds too heavy of a connotation, but that’s the best way to describe what he did for the rest of the day, and into the early hours of tomorrow. He rotted in your shared bed, but instead of feeling numb, he felt his heart being wrenched by your hand, by your words.
He just laid there, looking at his sketchbook – a good one with thick paper. The one you’d gifted him for your six-month anniversary. It’s filled with drawings of you: candid ones, ones where he had you pose (even though you were embarrassed), ones of you and him, together, doing couple-y things.
He could only mourn what was lost, because you seemed to have absolutely no interest in recovering it.
A week passes before you’re able to be let out of your cell. You slowly lost the fire and brimstone that filled your heart as you realized that the 141 really did want to help you. You feel better now that you have a few people by your side, fresh bandages, and a renewed sense of comfort.
(But you forgave yourself for acting like that in the beginning because, in Nevada, no one is nice. Not without an ulterior motive, at least.)
You’re practically on a leash as Ghost leads you throughout the base. He doesn’t talk as he guides you through winding hallways and up an exhaustive amount of flights of stairs.
Eventually, he opens a door labeled ‘ROOF EXIT.’ He tilts his head towards the door.
“Someone waitin’ for you,” Ghost says gruffly. “And…”
He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a carton of cigarettes. Your cigarettes.
Ghost takes your hand and puts it in your palm. “Don’t set anything on fire.”
You close your fingers around it and nod. “Got it, boss.”
Ghost starts back down the stairs, leaving you and the open door to the roof. You move through it and look around.
Johnny’s sitting, cross-legged, on the concrete roof, facing away from you. It’s dark – obviously, it’s night. You look up and take in the stars, and…
“You have a moon,” you say softly.
Johnny looks back at you, a tentative smile on his face. Like he’s scared to be too hopeful. “Yeah. We do.”
You hum and look at Johnny.
“Do you…” Johnny glances at the floor, then back up at you. “Do you wanna sit with me, bonnie?”
You slowly move over to Johnny and sit by him. You keep a healthy distance, but you’re still closer than you’ve ever been to him before.
“Those fags for sharin’?” Johnny asks, a teasing smile on his face.
You look down at the carton of cigarettes in your hand. You grip them a little tighter, causing the thin carton to crumple a bit. “Sure. Don’t know if you’ll like them, though.”
“Nonsense, bonnie.” Johnny bumps his shoulder against yours. “Let’s give ‘em a go.”
You smile and take out two cigarettes. You hand one over to Johnny. They’re hand-rolled and don’t have a filter, so they look more like joints, but the overwhelming smell of raw tobacco quickly quells that thought.
“Got a light?” you ask.
“‘Course.” Johnny reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small lighter. He lights his own cigarette, then pulls it away with a sputtering cough.
“Steamin’ Jesus, what is that?” He asks in between coughs.
You laugh, hitting your knee as Johnny reels from the taste. “It’s good, yeah?”
“Hell no!” Johnny wipes tears from his eyes and looks over at you. Despite his coughing, a soft smile spreads across his face at the way you’re laughing – loud, unabashed. Just like before.
You swipe Johnny’s lighter from his hand and light your cigarette, the cherry basking your face in a soft, warm glow. “Welcome to Nevada.”
“Let’s see that thing.” Johnny reaches over and takes the carton from your hand.
He turns it over, looking at it. The carton is worn, like it’s been refilled many times. There’s no warning about nicotine being an addictive chemical, just a grey box with a simple brand: G01 Choice. There’s a name scribbled on the back – Deimos, in all capital letters.
“Deimos,” Johnny says aloud. “The man died and you stole his cigs?”
“He’s not dead.” You take the carton back and tuck it into your jacket pocket. “Not anymore. Well, he’s died lotsa times, so I guess he’s an... honorary corpse.”
“An honorary corpse,” Johnny echoes, looking down at the cigarette in his hand. He puts it out on the concrete. “Just like you, yeah?”
You take a drag off your cigarette and blow out the smoke in a single, smooth stream. “Just like me.”
A silence settles as you look up at the moon. You can feel Johnny’s eyes occasionally flitting to you, then back up at the night sky.
“Your dogtags.” Johnny points in your direction. “Whose are they?”
You look down and tug on the metal chain, causing them to clink together. “Mine, yours, and my team’s.”
“Your team?” Johnny asks softly. “You never told me about them.”
“Yeah.” You look over at him. “I’m part of an extraction team. My partners are Sanford and Deimos.”
A pain, almost so real he thought he was actually injured, runs through Johnny when you say partners. The logical side of his brain chides him a few moments later because you obviously meant it in a militaristic sense, not a romantic sense.
“Can I see them?” Johnny asks.
You nod and take off the chain, then hand them to Johnny. He looks at the dogtags – he recognizes his and yours as being standard military dogtags, but Sanford and Deimos’ are much more… odd.
Sanford’s reads SANFORD / MELEE + EXPLOSIVES / G02 (NEG) / RETURN TO FAMILY. Deimos’ reads DEIMOS / FIREARMS + TECH / G02 (POS) / NO FAMILY.
Johnny tilts the dogtags so that you can see them and runs a finger along the lettering. “What do these mean, bonnie?”
You move a bit closer and lean in. “The first lines are their names, obviously. The second is what they’re proficient in. The third is what generation clone they are, and their blood types – there are only two blood types for second generation clones. And the last one is what to do with their bodies if they can’t be revived.”
“Wait, bonnie.” Johnny laughs breathlessly. “Clones?”
“Yeah, clones.” You tilt your head a little to the side. “What, you don’t have cloning technology here?”
“Of course not!” Johnny laughs.
You laugh and bump your shoulder against his. “You people are so primitive.”
Johnny smiles back at you and it’s like nothing is wrong. You both go quiet as you stare at each other until you look away.
“I, uh…” you clear your throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry for being so… abrasive. Earlier, I mean.”
“It’s alright,” Johnny says, almost too quickly.
You scratch your cheek and glance over at Johnny, then away. “But it’s not, is it? I should’ve handled things better.”
“Someone you know died right before we talked.” Johnny reaches over and, cautiously, puts his hand over yours where it rests on your knee. “It’s expected that you don’t act like yourself.”
Your breath hitches, and Johnny squeezes your hand reassuringly in response.
“But that’s the thing,” you say. “I’ve seen so many awful things before. People getting shot, stabbed, beaten, Hank tearing people apart with his bare hands. But, Maker…”
You drag a hand down your face, rubbing your jaw. “Deimos is young. So young. He’s only twenty-seven, and he always has a smile like he’s just tied your shoelaces together and is waiting for you to trip. And he’s so smart, even if everyone calls him a bit stupid. Yeah, he’s got a slower reaction time, but that’s what me and Sanford are for, y’know? He…”
You blink hard, trying to will your tears away. A soft, frustrated groan leaves your mouth as you duck your head and put your cigarette to your lips. “Don’t look at me.”
Johnny starts to pull his hand away, but stops when you squeeze his hand. Instead, he squeezes your hand back, averting his gaze.
To Johnny, it again almost feels like nothing ever happened. Like there’s no Russia, no Nevada, nothing besides you and him on this roof, together. But he’s no fool. He knows things have changed – that Nevada has changed you.
You breathe out a shaky plume of cigarette smoke. “I just want to go back.”
“But you’re here now, bonnie,” Johnny says. He tries to ignore the crushing feeling in his chest, tries to keep his composure for you. “Aren’t you glad you’re back?”
“I don’t know this place.” You look over at Johnny, your eyes rimmed with unshed tears. “You keep saying that we’re together, that – that this is my home. But how can this be my home if I don’t remember a thing about it? How can you be my boyfriend if I don’t remember a thing about you?”
Johnny exhales sharply, like he’s just got the wind knocked out of him. “Bonnie, please don’t say that. Please.”
“I know violence, and I know bloodshed,” you say softly. “I know Nevada. This place, this world…” You gesture vaguely with your cigarette still in your hand. “It’s not mine.”
“But there is violence here, there is bloodshed here,” Johnny insists. “Here, we fought together.”
“But I don’t remember us being together, in any capacity!” you snap. You take a breath and try your best to soften your words. “All I remember from before is just flashes. I didn’t remember your face. I just had your dogtag and a weird, empty feeling.”
Johnny sighs and feels tears welling up in his eyes. He can’t tear his gaze away from you.
“You really expected me to trace the bullet and sift through fleeting memories when there was an entire agency playing Pinkertons knocking down our door?” you ask softly. “2B was bandaging my head ‘cause he just finished playing around in my brains and Sanford was shoving a gun in my hands. They pointed me in a direction and told me to shoot. I didn’t have the time to remember you.
“I’m sorry, but I just didn’t.” You squeeze his hand before letting it go.
Johnny immediately scrambles to catch your hand in both of his, holding on desperately. “No, bonnie, please.”
A few tears slip down Johnny’s cheeks as he looks at you. Your face is a mirror of his own, just in greyscale. Your cheeks are stained with tears and your eyes are just beginning to get a bit puffy.
“If you know you’re gonna be leaving again, then just let me hold your hand,” Johnny says softly, his voice wavering. “Just for a few more minutes.”
You nod and, when you blink, a tear rolls down your already-wet cheek. “Okay.”
Johnny slowly moves so that you’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder to him. He hesitates before resting his head on your shoulder. You smell just like how he remembers, albeit tinged with the acrid tang of G01 Choice cigarette smoke. You’re just as beautiful as the day he lost you.
“Okay.”
#riptide writes 🌊#call of duty 🪖#call of duty x reader#call of duty x you#cod x reader#cod x you#modern warfare 2 x reader#mw2 x reader#mw2 x you#soap x reader#john soap mactavish x reader#john mactavish x reader#soap mactavish x reader#johnny mactavish x reader#johnny soap mctavish x reader#john mactavish#john soap mactavish#soap call of duty#soap cod#soap mw2#cod soap#madness combat
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📰 | part three: capulet.
info: Saviour!Reader x Carl Grimes, no pronouns used in this particular issue, no use of (y/n), enemies to lovers, violence, slight graphic description of blood.
summary: You return to Alexandria solo for some supplies, but Rick decides to protest. After a minor altercation, you make things even with Carl.
previous | next
Another part!! This one includes a little bit of violence, but nothing uncommon to TWD universe. Next chapter will be similar, it finally getting a bit more exciting.
Roughly a week later, and you’re back.
The metal gates open with a loud screech, you hold yourself with poise facing the citizens of Alexandria, metal bat swinging gently at your side.
Word spreads quickly, and as you’re speaking with the man appointed with keeping guard, a small crowd begins to form. Everybody appears to be slightly on edge, especially after last weeks debacle where their guns were confiscated.
Eventually, Rick approaches, squinting to combat the midday sun.
“Where’s Negan?” He asks, holding a hand up to his eyes. A little behind him is Carl and Michonne.
You look behind you, over your shoulder, then back at the older man. “Not here, obviously.”
It’s snarky, immature, but tone that suits you best.
Fact is, you’d come here alone. No Negan, no Simon, no Dwight. It was a solo mission. However, ‘mission’ was a bit of an overstatement, seeing as you simply needed a few medical supplies in particular you were unable to get from the Hilltop. Antihistamines, to be exact. Not that big of a deal.
“I’m sure one of your little goons can show me to your medical facilities,” You say, giving a half-hearted gesture towards the small crowd of people watching. “Got some shit to grab.”
But Rick only shakes his head, “I don’t answer to you. We don’t answer to you.”
It makes you furrow your brows, slowly approaching, alike to a predator stalking it’s prey. Anybody at the Sanctuary knew that talking back wasn’t an option, and you were more than happy to teach these people a lesson.
“Oh, but you do,” You lean in as you speak, using body language to intimidate despite your visibly small presence, “See, you answer to Negan. Then there’s me, and then there’s the rest of the Saviours. You, your people, are at the very bottom of this food-chain.”
Rick doesn’t let up, tilting his head ever so slightly with your speech, challenging your authority in a way that didn’t happen very often anymore. “I don’t think so. No Negan, no supplies. That was the deal.”
Then he begins to walk away, causing you to rush a few steps forward to close the gap. “Hey, asshole!” You shout at him, blocking the path, “That’s not your choice to make. I’m giving you instructions, so you listen. You got a problem with that?”
The open defiance is causing you to loose your temper, more so when Rick only takes a step closer to you, looking down as if you were nothing; insignificant. Barely a leader.
“Y’know, an inability to follow basic goddamn instructions is what got your friend killed,” And there you go, running your mouth. But it works, you can feel the power beginning to slip back into your hands. “So you can either ignore me, and learn that lesson again, or do as you’re told so that their worthless lives didn’t completely achieve nothi—“
You don’t get to finish, as before you know it, you’re on the ground. There’s a stinging pain in your cheek, and you gag around a mouthful of spit, mucus and blood. It lands on the concrete with a wet smack, a tiny white pearl sitting amongst the maroon slime.
It’s a little jarring, to be honest. Rick looks surprised, himself, like he hadn’t intended to lash out. To punch a Saviour. Then Michonne is talking to him, but you aren’t listening, too focused on the fact that oh my god, he punched you.
When Michonne takes a step forward, you actually flinch, steeling your heels against the floor (when had you stood up again) and preparing for altercation. But she doesn’t move any closer, and you’re mentally scrambling to piece together this situation, to retrieve the power you’d just lost.
You clench your jaw, speaking with an unusual amount of composure for someone dripping blood from their teeth. “Now, I’ll be taking what I came here for.”
A few steps down the road, and you get an idea, gesturing off towards Carl, who stands there shocked at everything that’s just occurred. “And I’ll be taking the boy.”
Michonne steps forward to protest, “No, I can go. Please, just leave him—“
“Don’t care!” You shout, not even bothering to look backwards as you disembark down the streets of Alexandria, in the vague direction of where you presume their medical facilities to be. Much to your pleasure, there’s the telltale sound of footsteps behind you: Carl following.
Eventually, you make it to the small building, what seems to be a house transformed into a makeshift doctors quarters. It’s pristine, white-picket fence matches that of the neighbourhood.
You let yourself in, Carl following behind you. The first order of business: clean your face. There’s a slight throbbing feeling where the tooth had become dislodged, blood sticking around the edges of your cheeks and pooling underneath your tongue.
There’s a small sink where you lean over, spitting the liquid into it, splattering all over the porcelain bowl.
“Will you tell Negan?” Carl suddenly speaks up, from the other side of the room. So far, you hadn’t heard anything from him, and couldn’t particularly judge his reaction to that event. But he doesn’t sound angry, if anything a little subdued, nervous.
You choose to ignore him, already moving across the room, throwing open cabinets, “You ever get hay fever?”
If you were looking, you’d see the annoyance that crossed Carl’s face at being brushed off like this, but he answers nonetheless, “No.”
Clicking your tongue, you continue the search, flipping bottles and packets of different medications, trying to seek out something familiar. His lacklustre reply fades into background noise.
Eventually you figure out that there’s some sort of system, alphabetical, which aids in the mission of locating the antihistamines. You grab a few packets, stuffing them into the little cross-body bag you’d brought along. This should work perfectly.
“This place is stocked to the teeth,” You comment, closing the cabinet and instead scouring the rest of the room, “Raid a pharmacy or something?”
This casual conversation feels out of place, putting Carl on edge. He can’t understand how you work, how you think. What exactly is wrong with you. Why aren’t you angry? Yelling at him, or frustrated with what just happened. He just presumed everything you say has an ulterior motive.
“Uh.. yeah, a while back.” He answers with a shrug, deciding to be honest, but vague. That, and he didn’t particularly want to think about that, as it had lead to the death of one of their people. All this medical equipment, with no doctor to administer it.
But you don’t respond, despite being the one to ask the question. It’s becoming evident that you don’t necessary know how to carry a conversation like this. You will speak whatever’s on your mind, express the thought, and then be done with it. Move onto the next thing. Getting any sort of information out of you will be difficult.
It’s lucky that Carl was determined.
“Are you going to tell Negan?” He asks again, still standing on the opposite side of the room, “About what my dad did?”
This time, you give some semblance of recognition, in the form of a vague shrug. Now, you’re standing in front of that basin again, mouth open and staring into a mirror to try and find which tooth had been chipped. Feels like one near the back.
For some reason, Carl takes your silence as permission to speak.
“He shouldn’t of done that,” He continues, looking out the window facing the street, “Sometimes… he just doesn’t think, and makes stupid choices. It must be tunnel vision or something.”
Finally, you turn to Carl, blood still smeared on your fingers and bottom lip from where you’d been prodding around at your mouth.
“What happens when people have braces, now?” You ask, completely off topic, “There are barely any doctors, let alone dentists. Can you even get braces off by yourself?”
Carl feels completely confused, unable to follow this strange string of ideas and questions. He’s unsure if he should be preparing for backlash from Negan, or you, and this isn’t doing anything to help.
“Are you concussed, or something?” He finally asks, the tiniest bit of frustration and annoyance dripping into his tone, making the question sound less genuine and more sarcastic.
This is something you could work with. A tone you were familiar with, an emotion you knew how to handle.
“No, asshole. It was a basic question, why can’t you understand?” You spit, eyes narrowing at Carl, a complete 180 from your previously nonchalant behaviour, “You may actually be stupider than you look.”
This works to rile Carl up, becoming irritated with this entire situation, “Why did you even bring me here? It’s not like you actually needed my help.”
You roll your eyes, washing the blood and spit from your hands. “I just wanted to scare Rick, that’s all. Make him think that maybe I’m torturing you, or something.”
“So, you are angry with him?” Carl asks, feeling like he was finally getting somewhere with this conversation. But you don’t answer, now focused on cleaning the blood from where the skin of your cheek had split, a place that would likely start bruising within a few minuets.
Carl wasn’t an idiot. He remembered earlier, when Negan had attempted to get Rick to cut his hand off, as a show of submission. He knew what would happen, he wasn’t stupid. The only way to control Rick was through him, his son. If Negan found out about this, he’d be the one to get hurt.
He was a little bit scared.
Then, you’re actually looking at Carl. Well, through the mirror, watching as he stands a few feet behind you, leaning against the wall. But it’s the first time you’ve really looked at him this whole time.
“Rick ever hit you?” You’re asking him, and Carl is shocked by the moment of civility. That critical, observational look in your gaze, like you’re actively trying to decipher any reaction.
“No, no,” Carl answers quickly, not wanting you to get the wrong idea, “No, my dad… he’d never do anything to hurt me. He’s not that type of person.”
You seem satisfied enough with this answer, pursing your lips and applying a band-aid over the little scrape. Though you say nothing, Carl accepts this as a rare moment of genuine concern for a peer. If he’d even consider you a peer… technically you held a lot more power than he did, which is maybe why the idea of you looking out for him was surprisingly comfortable.
After drying off your hands, you finally spin around to face Carl, leaning back on the porcelain basin.
“I’m not telling Negan that Rick punched me.” You say, both face and tone unfeeling, not giving away any sort of emotion or indication to what you’re truely thinking.
Then you approach Carl, and despite the unheated conversation, it’s the way you usually move. Slow, stalking. “However, I’ve gotta tell him something. So.. he can think that you punched me.”
Carl feels his throat tighten, shocked at the decision you’d somehow come to. “How is that any better?” He asks, trying not to flinch away as you come closer, your feet now almost touching.
“Negan won’t punish a kid for.. well, being a kid,” You reason with a shrug, “But he will punish Rick for acting like a child. And we both know exactly what he would do.”
It doesn’t take a genius to understand the insinuation. You are just as aware that Negan views Carl as a pawn, something used to control Rick and keep him in line. Whatever Rick does wrong, Carl would have to face the brunt of the punishment.
But before he can speak, you’re talking again.
“To make this believable, I will have to hit you.”
“What?” Carl does flinch back at this point, eyeing you like you’ve suddenly grown a second head.
“Okay, listen,” You interject, not wanting him to immediately clam up and scurry away, “Nobody would believe that I didn’t land anything on you. Especially if you knocked one of my teeth out. So, work with me here.”
It sounds absolutely insane. But, at the same time… it sounds pretty reasonable. It could be much worse, Carl decides, if the whole cutting off his arm thing was anything to go by.
So, he agrees.
“Fine.”
A grin spreads on your face, taking a small step backwards. You shift your stance slightly, preparing to make your mark on the boy. And, deep down, maybe you take a little satisfaction in being able to do this.
“Palm or fist?” You have the decency of asking him.
“Palm.” Carl answer’s immediately.
So, you do just that. It’s one swift slap across his cheekbone, the one not hidden by the bandage. It echoes through the empty room, leaving a stinging sensation on your open palm, and likely a worse one on his face.
“Jesus Christ,” He swears, holding a hand up to his cheek, cradling the red mark you’d just placed there, “That felt worse than a punch.”
You give him a firm pat on the shoulder, “You’ll be fine. It’s good to learn how to take a firm slap from a girl, you should get used to it.”
And with that, you’re collecting your bag once more, content with the fruits of your little mission. Carl is almost shocked at how easily you move on, and he’s sure that there is something deeper to your strange behaviour.
Not that it matters right now.
He hangs back a little, watching you leave the building before searching for an ice pack for his sore face.
Despite the fact that you’d hit him, Carl can’t help but feel a little better about the whole situation. In the end, you’d only done it to evade any sort of larger punishment. To avoid getting Carl seriously hurt. Which felt good to know, that you were capable of some form of rational thinking.
Hopefully next time he could continue to decipher whatever was going on in your head.
a/n: LOL this took me a few days! i hope you like it, i’m definitely happy that things are getting a little more interesting now. let me know what you think!!!
#carl grimes x reader#carl grimes#the walking dead x reader#the walking dead#the walking dead x you#carl grimes x you#twd x reader#twd x you#rick grimes
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I can’t wait to see Ezran’s reaction to Callum wanting to free Runaan, and then Runaan himself. We all know that he’s a kind, wise kid. He strives for peace, sees the best in people, prefers diplomacy over combat and applies respect and compassion to everyone he meets. He'd rather show mercy than take prisoners. He wants to avoid his father's mistakes of pursuing hatred and escalating conflict. His power is literally enhanced communication. Compared to the much more ruthless Prince Callum "Stab, stab, bye-bye, bad guy!" of Katolis, he seems pretty 'pure of heart'.
But he has anger inside him. He resents the pain and injustice he's experienced and holds grudges, like Harrow before him. He admits to his people that he is learning to forgive and move forward alongside them. And it isn’t easy.
"We are angry! I am angry. I have been hurt. ...We all want peace and we all want love, but violence tests us. In a twisted way, it converts us to its cause. Because pain and loss feel so terrible inside, you want to hate, you want to hurt someone else."
Callum would kill to save his loved ones, but not to avenge them. One of the first things he does in the show is condemn the self-perpetuating cycle of revenge as irrational, unhelpful and needlessly destructive. He forgives Rayla and Soren. He jumps on board with liberating Runaan, his father's killer, because it's what Rayla wants, even though she's actually willing to put it aside for now. When she steals Runaan's bow he used to commit the crime, he exhibits no hard feelings.
But when Ezran finds the arrow Runaan fired to inform the Dragon Queen of Harrow's death, he breaks it out of rage and spite.
So when he discovers that his dear brother is trying to free the man who murdered their father and stole his childhood, to allow him to experience life and be with his loved ones when Harrow can't? He's not gonna like it.
This arc seems wonderfully plausible in Season Six becaues this franchise adores its parallels and foil dynamics, and Claudia's most likely motivation in Season Six is "The heroes killed my dad and I'm going to make it everyone's problem!" It's telling that his speech about the cycle of pain, bitterness and vengeance I quoted is layered over Claudia fighting in the name of her own murdered father.
The beautiful symbolism of Ezran having his crown forged from the steel of Harrow’s sword... on one hand, he's destroyed a weapon because he never wants to use it. He's choosing a narrative of love over a narrative of violent strength. But on the other hand, he carries the weight of his murdered father's weapon, which did spill blood and take lives, with him all the time as a symbol of his identity, specifically his identity as a powerful authority figure and Harrow’s successor. You see how that’s a little troubling, right? In a show so concerned with generational trauma and history repeating? Ezran? Are you okay?
#he is NOT and i want to see him be messy about it#tdp ezran#king ezran#the dragon prince#tdp#tdp meta
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Because I Love You
Note: No one asked for this but here it is anyways, please read the content list as this one! Be safe, I have other fics if this one isn’t for you.
Content: 3.8k words, 18+, NSFW, Leon x Reader, CNC with enthusiastic consent, knife play, boot kink, glove kink, pain play, primal play, edge play/ breath play, home invasion roleplay, degradation, humiliation, manipulation kink, oral (m receiving), they/them reader, ooc Leon (I think, even how I normally characterize him, but oooooh I just want him to hurt me)
Leon gets home from a difficult mission and gives in to reader’s request to use them for stress relief... but maybe they underestimated how much stress he was carrying.
It was pretty late at night. You were lounging on the couch in a pair of Leon’s boxers, a bottle of lazily sipped wine on the floor beside you, flicking through the channels. Leon was on one of those long work trips he couldn’t call you for. Anxiety knotted into a pit in your stomach. You worried about him. You didn’t know what he did for work, but you knew it was dangerous. You saw the dark, weary look in his eyes and the scars that danced across his body. He always came home so... tense. Like he was filled with a frustration he couldn’t release, an abundance of adrenaline with no way to burn it. The last time he came home like that, you practically begged him to use you as release. He refused. He didn’t want to “hurt” you.
You thought about that answer while you sipped the wine again. It helped to ease that anxious knot in your stomach. You drank more when he was away. You had trouble sleeping otherwise.
He definitely could hurt you, you thought. God, he was strong enough. He knew enough about the human body to know exactly how. He was pretty adept with that knife of his too. He worked it into your nights together on occasion since the last time got such... rewarding results from you. You closed your eyes as you remembered it... the glint of silver steel, the sharp pain of it tracing a thin line into your shouder, the threat of it against your throat...
You reached your hand down to your heat when your phone rang out. You picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Is that offer still on the table?” Leon’s voice emanated over the speaker. It sounded... tired, yes, but there was something else under it. A danger that dripped from his words like black honey.
“Uh, depends which one?” You sat up, bringing the bottle to your lips for another sip.
“The one where I use you.”
A thrill ran straight to your core. You tried to cover up your loss of words with a drink of wine, leaving him on the cusp of tension. One more sip, for bravery, and then you gave an affirmative.
“What kind of wine are you drinking?”
“What?” You looked around the dark living room, your eyes still not adjusted from staring at the TV. “How did you know...?”
A chill took you then as a sharp, cold wind whipped through the house. Your eyes drifted over to the front door. It sat open.
How did you not hear him unlock the door?
You stared at it frozen in place. The door seemed to swing shut on it’s own. He wanted you to know he’d gotten in unnoticed. How long had he been watching you?
You were dimly aware of the line going dead. The high pitched whine barely heard over the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your chest.
Your instincts brought you back into sharp focus at the sound of combat boots on hardwood floors. He was approaching you fast. Then he materialized, long strides making quick work of the living room. The flickering of the light revealed little more than what was bare skin. His arms, his face - harshly shadowed by the raw TV light.
Then the TV went black, and the room plunged into empty darkness. The sound of his boots were silenced.
You held your breath.
A sharp noise from the movie. The room lights up. Leon is just a few feet away, moving as silently as a ghost. His intense expression is made sinister by the harsh light his sharp features.
Your brain screamed danger as fight or flight kicked in. Self preservation is making decisions for you and your hand tightens around the wine bottle. It’s lofted above your head and then released, sailing right towards him.
The motherfucker catches it. Mid-air. He never breaks his stride, his eyes never leave yours; the best defense option you had barely even an inconvenience that takes him no effort to deflect. He leaves it on a side table as he advances towards you.
Fear flows through you like an animal caught in a trap. The heat between your legs quickly follows.
The TV goes black. The room goes dark.
You turn to run but you barely make it a few steps. You don't even hear him coming. I mean, he's wearing big ass combat boots, why can't you hear him behind you?! His hand grabs your elbow and you let out a surprised shriek, cut short when your momentum is redirected into the wall. Your back hits it hard enough to make you whimper.
"Shit," Leon hisses. "Are you-"
"It was hot," you tell him quickly, shutting him up.
Then he's on you again, kissing your neck. One hand holds your jaw in a rough grip and you recognize the feeling of his leather gloves. You try to turn your head but he holds you fast. Demanding. His mouth descends on your pulse, then the thin skin of your throat, then the soft curve beneath your ear. You whimper. Your hips rock towards him already needy for him. He licks down your neck leaving a warm trail that quickly goes cold in the night air. Then he's biting the muscle above your collar bone, hard enough to make you wince. Your hand comes up to his head and you try to push him off.
He doesn't even budge. Your other hand comes up to the broad of his chest and you try to use the wall as leverage. You might as well be doing nothing at all.
"Leon," you whimper. He releases his teeth from your neck with a chuckle that curls fear inside you. He likes seeing you helpless.
His hands take your wrists, leading them above your head. You try to squirm out of his grasp. Partly because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of pinning you. Partly out of the fear of what he could do if you can’t push him away, his entire aura shifted to something more angry and dangerous than usual.
"Don't pretend like you don't like it," he says into the angle of your jaw. He leaves soft kisses there while he effortlessly pins your arms above your head. He holds them there with one hand.
The other gropes and squeezes it’s way down your body. Your chest, your side, your waist. He grabs a hold of your hips, thumb perfectly lining up with the dune of your hipbone. He pulls your hips towards him harshly enough to draw a noise from your lips. He works his knee between your thighs, then pushes them open. You swallows any protests with a kiss. His knee presses against your sensitive cunt and you whimper against his lips in response.
“Ohh, what happened to all the struggling?” Leon mocks you, punctuating his words by squeezing your wrists hard enough to bruise. His hand comes up under your t-shirt and you shiver against the sensation of his gloves on your bare skin. You melt. Fucking putty in his hands.
You open your mouth to speak, but he grinds his knee into you, and the only sound you can make is a desperate whine. He makes a satisfied hum, doing it again, obviously reveling in the power he has over you.
You try to meet his gaze. You want to say something smart or mean, but the look in his eyes levels you. Already obscured by darkness, something else hides in his expression. A genuine anger in his eyes that made you nervous.
Warmth burns in you as you realize you might be playing with real fire. You take in the sight of him. Broad chest in tactical gear- the knife holster a hopeful promise of things to come- his knee pressed against you still. His strong arms cornering this little section of the world off to just the two of you. Your eyes travel back to his and you can’t help but smile mischievously. Then you turn your head and bite into his arm, grinding your hips down against him at the same time.
You expect him to hiss an insult. To degrade you. To threaten to punish you for being such a difficult little slut, always pushing the limits. He just goes still. His muscles flex as if he’s containing something. Silent.
Methodically, his hands moved down your limbs to your head with surgical precision. The nervousness builds in you. His fingers practically envelop your skull. With one harsh movement, he’s pushed you down onto your knees. He undoes his belt and pulls himself free, his beautiful cock glistening with pre-cum. One gloved hand presses hard into your jaw. Harder. His thumb pressing against the muscles there until you open your mouth for him. The head of his cock comes to rest against your lips.
The taste of salt and Leon’s soap is too tempting to resist. He was usually such a giver, and when you went down on him, he always liked it slow. You lick up the length of his cock and he shivers in response. He drops his hands to your shoulders and you watch his forearms flex in pleasure. Your tongue swirls around his soft tip, and then you take him into your mouth soft and sweet.
Except... this time he doesn’t respond with shaking breaths and high pitched whimpers. Not even an utterance of your name. Insecurity flashes through you - you were sure this is how he usually liked it. Were you not doing well enough for him? You cast your eyes upwards for guidance, barely able to see him in the dark.
“You really think that’s going to cut it?” His voice is cold and hard. Then his hands are on the back of your head, pushing you down onto his cock so fast and deep you almost gag. You pull away to drag a sharp breath into your lungs, abdomen muscles flexing.
“You want to be fucked like a slut, you’re going to have to earn it.” He pulls you back down onto him.
Suppressing the urge to gag brings tears to your eyes, and it isn’t long until they’re falling down your cheek, mingling with the saliva making a mess of your mouth and chin. Wet, choking noises echo into the empty hall. When you start to slow, whimpering from the effort, he’s quick to pick up the slack. He thrusts his hips forward, pinning your head between him and the wall. You choke and gag around him, struggling to adjust around the brutal pace he sets, fucking your throat like you're nothing to him but a toy. Your hands come up to his hips, but he wrenches them away with a furious grunt.
He pulls out suddenly, thick strands of saliva dripping off his cock. His breathing is hard and sweat rolls down the lines of his ab muscles. Your shoulders slump and you try to catch your breath. You’re absolutely spent. How humiliating that he didn’t even have to touch you to keep you wet for him, a vague sense of disgust emanating through your core.
“Was that good enough?” you weakly ask, but you might as well be begging him to fuck you for the look in your eyes. You don’t even bother to wipe the spit from your chin or the tears from your cheeks. You hope the sight gets under his skin so he can fuck you just as rough as he did your throat.
“I don’t buy it,” he says. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion and frustration.
“What?”
“I just don’t buy that you want me to fuck you.”
You’re about to ask what you can possibly do more to prove it when something hard presses against your warmth, pushing your soaked boxers against you. You look down do see Leon presenting his boot. Steel toed and tightly tied, the mere sight of them would be enough to get you to blush. But this?
You look up at him, but all he does is look back at you, expectantly. Your can feel the heat creeping up your neck as you adjust to straddle his boot. You keep hoping he’ll just end your suffering by mocking you for even considering it, but it never comes. The cold, hard leather against you sends a wave of electricity through your body. Your hips are moving on their own. Your body desperate for anything it can get, chasing it’s high no matter how humiliating. You turn your face away from him, unable to stand him looking at you like this. Grinding against his boot...
“There they are. My desperate little bitch,” his voice has the first touch of warmth it’s had all night. It’s enough to spurn you on, the heat coiling in your abdomen. You pick up the pace against your will, your body chasing ecstasy like an uncaged animal. And Leon just watches you, expression never changing, never reaching down to touch you. God, were you really going to cum on his boot while he looked at you like that?
He kneeled down to one knee, doing his best not to disturb your work. His strong hands take hold of your hips and push you harder against his boot, dragging your hips up and down. You moan, tears collecting in your eyes again. You can’t believe you’re enjoying this. Even - no, especially because it hurt. You were getting closer, your moans coming faster.
“Beg for it,” Leon orders.
“Please let me cum, Leon, please.”
“Tsk. Not that,” he pulls his boot away like he's disgusted and you whimper in protest. Then, as if you were light as a feather, he’s tossing you to the side. You catch yourself on your elbows and feel them scrape against the hardwood. Your hips grind against the air as they searched for any friction at all that would send you over the edge. They found nothing.
“You’re pathetic.” He sounds bored as he stands to his full height above you.
You watch a gloved hand pull the knife from it’s sheath at his chest. It captures his full attention, glinting in the light of the TV behind him. When he speaks, it's almost to the room.
“Isn’t this your favourite part? Where you try and fail to escape?”
You don’t move. He flips the knife in the air, catching it by the tip of the blade, and then again to catch it by the handle. He admires it as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Start crawling,” he suggests.
You push yourself onto tired, shaking limbs and try to get up. They give out on you. You pull yourself forward on your elbows instead. You hear the floorboard creek beneath his weight. The another. Then another. You feel small crawling beneath him, listening to the gentle whirl of the blade as he tosses it in the air. The floorboard creaked again, then again.
You turned to look at him. You were almost overwhelmed at how he towered above you. His broad shoulders blocking out the light in the hallway. One hand busy toying with the knife, the other pulling his pants further down his hips. He was clearly taking his time.
“You ever wonder why you like to fight so much?” You watch boot follow boot in lazy strides until they were at either side of your ribcage, standing above you.
“Should I let you get away again?” he asks, but then he’s dropping to his knees, pinning you beneath him. Fear takes hold of your vocal chords and you make a desperate noise, pushing at his legs. “Will you just give in already?”
He readjusts, turning your body to face him. Your heart is hammering in your chest. One gloved hand finds your neck, squeezing tightly, his palm pressing against your throat just hard enough to hurt. You feel lightheaded. Then weightless. Panic starts rising in you while it still has time to, Leon pushing you to your limits. Your vision starts to go dark around the edges. You bring a hand up, tapping his arm three times - your safe signal.
He releases and you gasp for air. He lets you catch your breath, and for a minute you’re almost angry. But the growing wet between your legs betrays you to yourself, forcing you to admit you liked being pushed to the edge. An exhilarated smile picks up the corners of your mouth and Leon, intently waiting for you to lead, just watches.
“More,” is all you need to say, and he’s on you again. Hand lighter on your throat, he brandishes the knife to catch your eye. It makes contact with your skin and you fight to control a shiver.
It curls around your shoulder, then down your collar bone. The curved point leaving a thin, red cut beneath the bone. You gasp, back arching into the sting. He withdraws.
“If you keep fucking squirming, I’m going to hurt you for real.” It’s as much a warning as it is a threat, and the dark rasp of his voice sends a chill down your spine.
When you go still again, he continues. The knife crosses your chest, taking it’s time tracing each and every one of your ribs. He draws a bead of blood there, before lifting the blade again. You moan, squeezing your thighs together to keep from moving your hips. The anticipation almost too much for you. But the movement catches his eye. He sheaths the knife, and then he’s prying your thighs apart so hard you feel the ache in your hips. You try to shimmy away, but his hands hold your thighs fast against him.
“Fucking, hold still,” he grunts, squeezing his hands around the squish of your thighs hard enough that you make a noise. "What part of stop squirming do you not get?"
Your hand comes up to his hips, trying to hold them at a distance, but it doesn’t help. He pulls you closer to him and you feel his cock hard and leaking over your boxers. Fuck, you almost come undone all over again. Feeling him pressed against you like this... his cock easily reaching your belly button, reminding you how deep inside you he could be.
“Leon, please,” you whimper.
“Please what?” He asks. You feel the cold blade against the tender, exposed part of your thigh.
“Please fuck me.”
He grunts, a noise that commits to nothing. He pulls the fabric of your boxers off your body and slips the knife beneath it. He cuts the thin fabric off of you in a show of strength and skill that intimidates you.
He leans over you slowly, his hips pressed flush against yours, his cock pressed against where you want it most. A gloved hand comes up to your face then, holding your jaw hard as he turns your face away from his. The knife's beautiful surface approaches your cheek. Your breath picks up, fear coursing through you. He says nothing, and it makes it all the more terrifying. Your instincts freeze every muscle in your body.
“You asked for this,” he reminds you, tracing the curve of your cheek. You bite your lip.
He sheaths the knife, and you realize then that he's still entirely dressed, his pants only pulled down enough to fuck you. He shifts his hips, lining up with your needy hole. You’re already moaning for him.
“Begging me to use you like this, begging me to hurt you like this.” He pushes into you, your cunt struggling to adjust to his size. He only makes it a couple inches. He pulls out of you, then thrusts again, moaning as he does. This time when he pushes into you, he completely fills you. You both release an almost victorious sigh.
“Always fucking struggling. Can never just make it easy,” he growls, that angry look in his eye. His jaw flexes. Your cunt tenses around him.
He thrusts into you again, and again, so hard it feels like he could fuck you in half. He dips his face into your neck, moaning.
"You want me to force you onto my cock." His voice tightened with effort, but never lost that black-honey edge. "Can't say no to you. Do this because I love you."
You reach up and cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric. His words shouldn't thrill you, but they did. Your eyes flutter closed. Your body shook beneath him.
“So fucked up,” Leon’s hips start to pick up their pace. You wrap your legs around him, encouraging him, pulling him deeper into you. You find yourself moaning his own words back at him; so fucked up, so fucked up.
Fuck, he felt so good. The two of you dissolved into senseless babbling, saying whatever it took to push each other closer to the edge. A meaningless cloud of fuck and just like that and you begged for this until neither of you could form words at all. Your pace became erratic, moaning into each other’s necks, limbs tightening around each other as you both approached your highs.
“Fuck, fuck, m’so-” you barely manage, panting and moaning through your words. Your thighs tighten around him and he groans in response.
And then you’re coming undone together. His hips driving his cock as deep as they can with the primal need to fuck his cum deeper inside you. You take it, greedily, breathlessly as your own climax rocks through your body like an earthquake.
He rests his forehead against your chest while he pulls out of you, then collapses onto the hardwood floor of the hallway beside you. He turns you onto your side and buries his head against your back, forearms tight against your chest while he hugs you close to him.
“I didn’t think,” you take a deep breath, trying not to pant through your sentence, “that when I asked you to use me after your work trips, that it’d be like that.”
“Bad?” He asks, his voice uncharacteristically small.
“No, no,” you rush to recover the situation. You lace your fingers with his, “Of course not.”
He says nothing. You turn to look at him, and there’s that distant, angry look on his face.
“Are you okay...?”
“I wish I could tell you about it,” he says. You hum as acknowledgement, wishing you could say anything, but feeling like nothing was the right thing to say. Instead you just let him hold you for awhile.
“Time to shower?” you offer eventually.
You feel his muscles flex beneath you. Tension suddenly crackles in the air. His hand is on your hip. He uses his body weight to push you over, his full frame pinning you in place, still-hard cock slipping between your thighs.
“No. I’m not fucking done with you yet.”
#leon kennedy smut#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x you#leon kennedy fanfic#leon kennedy cnc#Slasher!Leon#Resident Evil smut#resident evil fanfic#re4r Leon#knife kink#i'm done tagging#I don't know what else to say about this man I want Leon to hate fuck me idk#as always! comments and reblogs are welcome and encouraging!
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I LOVE MATCHMAKING AN ALREADY TOGETHER COUPLE it’s soooo cute, especially when it’s kids… they just want their silly oblivious adult to be happy (they don’t know he already is). Kon getting to see Tim mentoring a bunch of kids. Reminiscing about their yj days. Tim shocking them by just how many heroes he’s familiar with who respect him. CUTE!!!
YEAH!!! bc like, tim is just by nature an intensely private guy. he hasnt mentioned that hes happily married bc why would he. it isnt relevant hes just here to train these guys in nonpowered combat and gadgetry and such and to mentor them on missions at their skill level, etc. his personal life is on a need to know basis by default. (incidentally, he's also a great listener because he's such a steel trap. he's got like 5 different angles on whatever teenage drama is going on in their lives. he will not be intervening unless as a last resort. why would he.) he's very personable and good with them (yeah he's awkward yeah he puts his foot in his mouth now and then yeah he goes how do you do fellow kids. but like. hes a people person and they love him) but he just doesnt really talk about himself much.
and YEAH kon loves to see it <3 i also really love to think about kon mentoring a lil baby telekinetic in how to use and exercise their powers. hes teaching them to crochet and then knit and slowly expanding the number of moving pieces they can control at once. some of tim's kids are at least a little jealous because supernova is soooo cool but also like theyre Fiercely defensive of tim. thats THEIR scrungly but hypercompetent weird guy. HES REALLY COOL TOO OKAY. ignore that he just said "get pwned" after defeating 4 of them at once at a spar. he didnt say that. they dont know what you mean.
but YEAH overall its just cute :> good vibes. a romcom but like theyre already married. the comedy is the kids discovering that they are in fact already married. they confront tim one day like tim. we KNOW you have a crush on mr. kon-el!!! and tim's like. completely flabbergasted. you think i What??? and theyre like. WE CAN TELL, TIM. YOURE NOT SLICK. and tim just stares at them for a minute
and then he calls kon over (just says "hey, kon, can you c'mere for a second?" and supernova just shows up?!?! like hes just listening for tim's voice calling for him all the time????!?!?) and goes "okay. can you guys please repeat your conclusions to kon for me?"
and theyre like. tim are you asking us to tell him you have a crush on him for you. thats kind of pathetic tim we're seventeen
and kon's just like. wait. wait wait wait. turns to tim with a 1000 megawatt grin. SUNSHINE... YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON ME? AWWWW.
tim: yeah i mean i think it's slightly more serious than that, given that i, oh, i don't know, married you two years ago?
kon: AWW.... hehe!!!
the kids: YOU WHAT?!?!?!?!?
tim: now! i know for a fact i've told you all to do your due diligence on research, background checking, and investigation before jumping to conclusions, so this makes for a great case study and a fantastic learning opportunity--
#answers#Anonymous#mentorverse au#<- i keep rambling about it so i guess i should have a tag huh#timkon
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