#I would take a bullet for that man tbh | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeyinde · 1 year

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past and pending | John Price x f!Reader

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."

(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)

warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth

notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)

Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral.

It starts in Madrid.

(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)

Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers.

The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.

You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic.

A family. Children.

It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat.

You've never seen your Captain look like this.

He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader.

When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close.

("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")

John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance.

This—

This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't.

The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache.

(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)

"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.

You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—

Silly little girl with a crush.

You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself.

(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)

It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke.

"Let's get these steamin' bastards."

If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end.

Well, that isn't entirely true.

It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch.

(Maybe more than a little, really.)

Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch.

Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too.

(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)

The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless.

It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on.

Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain.

But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy.

He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head.

A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.

"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him—

The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."

Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response.

The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue.

You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response.

It, of course, is not good.

It's very bad.

Dangerous, even.

The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.

You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different.

(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.

And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)

The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue.

It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?

And now—

Now:

Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there.

Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour.

You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it.

You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting."

"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane.

(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)

You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?"

Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love."

Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend.

You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—

"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat.

The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning.

But—

You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod.

He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle.

It's not the way you'd hold a cigar.

Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability.

Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable.

He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns.

You know because, now, you're always watching him.

A silly little girl with a crush.

It began in Reykjavik.

A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—

"You alright?"

Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face.

It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…

Too late. Too—

And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you.

"S-sir—"

He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over.

"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—

"Eyes, ears are everywhere."

It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.

Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered.

"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."

There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race.

And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same.

You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—

A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door.

It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison.

His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you.

("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")

In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it.

"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test.

Still—

"I will be." A lie.

"Go on." He calls it.

You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."

And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed.

"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."

"Why did we need to wait?"

His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy."

"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent."

"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."

"But—"

"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."

His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be.

It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.

Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—

Cacoethes.

"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"

He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling.

"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."

He turns his head, brows drawn together.

(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)

Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"

"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."

A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there.

(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—

Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo—

Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.

A lie. Yes.

He calls it. Yeah?

No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.

A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.

He relents.

You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—

His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.

—too late.)

"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow."

"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir."

There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."

"Amazing."

The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust.

"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."

Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—

"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir."

"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"

"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn.

"John."

Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—

"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—

Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."

Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.

(Lo—

Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)

"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting.

You don't know where it starts.

The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear.

"Gotta stop this, love."

The first thought: he knows.

The second: he knows.

There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad.

But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back.

"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "

His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose.

John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke.

You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you.

Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear.

His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them.

"Then show me."

His groan tastes of tobacco and ash.

It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't.

Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back.

You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong.

But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.

You want it. Need it.

Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda.

Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company.

Mornings met by the coffee maker.

No tea, it seems.

They have tea, sir.

Not the good kind.

You're just picky.

Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British.

Only that?

He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it.

But he is.

Always.

Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission.

Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean.

It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear.

John is—

Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it?

They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence.

This feels inevitable.

And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer?

Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.

And now—

Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever.

A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—

Price only has eyes for you.

"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"

And you—

("I'll follow you—")

"Anywhere, John."

His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be.

It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out.

It's none of that. It's—

His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot.

He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him.

And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation.

But he is.

You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant.

Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts.

"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"

It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard.

Now—

Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch.

"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting.

"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time.

"Are you—"

You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John.

You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering.

"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."

Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it.

He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."

"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier."

Fuck —

He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core.

His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean.

You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white.

His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony.

Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—

You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core.

"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"

"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard.

His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—

"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"

Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought.

"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"

His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips.

You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear.

It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"

Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine.

His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you.

He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums.

He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—

Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling.

His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss.

Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion.

"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."

You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."

You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin.

It's—

Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling.

Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours.

Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain.

Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes.

All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—

That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit.

John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm.

There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue.

Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn.

Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut.

Still. Still—

His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid.

It's always like that with him, you find.

His warmth bleeds into your palm.

Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers.

You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in.

He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—

"You don't know what you do to me, love."

Don't hope—

"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn.

His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue.

Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it.

Scotch. Hickory. Smoke.

A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now.

"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."

You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end.

"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know."

"Cheeky—"

—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.

—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots

—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"

—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.

—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.

"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"

#john price #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price #captain john price x reader #cod mw2 #cod #cod mw #cod mw2 fic #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #he's daddy asf #captain john price x you #cod price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x you

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arreuyas · 8 months

Text

HOW MUCH? | Toji X Male! Reader

*⁠.⁠✧ In which he was paid to kill you but you offer him to get fucked instead.

warnings: sub!toji, degradation, edging, spanking/slapping, choking, bratty toji, cursing, toji is a bit out of character tbh, zenin bc he doesn't have megumi and his wife here.

wordcount: 1.8k

—

TOJI ZENIN, the sorcerer killer, doesn't do any extra work for free. But it's not against his rules to accept a request from a client who is a sorcerer. He doesn't question his client's motives or what they are after all, what matters it the good ol' money.

That's why, when he had a gun aimed at your head and you smirked instead of trying to doge or counter-attack like most sorcerers would do, he raised an eyebrow until the words left your lips: “How much for getting laid by me? I'll pay double of what you're going to get.”

Of course, betraying his clients is one thing that he doesn't do. So yes, he did shoot you, pissed off that those were your last words— or were supposed to be, since the bullet didn't get through your head at all. His eyes widened when you appeared in front of him, hands in your pockets and eyes of someone who wasn't planning to fight him.

“C'mon, don't be like that~” you smiled, your sneaky hand going to his waist and bringing him closer. At this point Toji was so dumbfounded that he took some time to understand what was happening. It was the first time his target flirted with him so blatantly, after all. “How about three times the price, then? Three times the amount and you let me fuck you once.”

Three times the price of your head... it was big money, and it certainly catched his interest. It's not like Toji minded sleeping with men after all, the problem was betraying his client. “And an extra so you can kill whoever it was who asked for my head.”

Alright, that was enough to convince a money-hungry like Toji. He lowered his gun, still a but uncertain about the deal but fuck it, he would think about the consequences later. You smirked with that reaction from the non-sorcerer.

That's how you two ended up in a hotel room, Toji sitting down on your lap, straddling with that big ass of his. You already had a prominent bulge on your pants as the Zenin rubbing his covered rear and dick against your thigh, letting out some grunts between his heavy breaths from time to time.

Fucking humiliating. It was what Toji thought. He was literally acting like a whore— moving himself on top of you for some money. Well, at least the money was way higher than what a whore would get, but still...

“Damnit, stop fucking teasing me.” He protested when you started pinching his exposed nipples, another grunt coming from him as his body trembled. That bulky man wasn't used to having anyone touching him like that, he usually was the one who held the reins in bed.

“What, can't handle a bit of teasing, sorcerer killer?” You chuckled, rubbing the wet spot on his boxers, the pre-cum leaking out his tip already.

“Can't you just fuck me already–” You stopped his words with a rough spank on his ass, making him shut up with a groan. One of his hands instinctively moving to hold your shoulder.

“Shut up, slut.” You hissed, taking him off your lap and throwing him in bed. Then you unbuckled your belt, glaring down at him. “Take off your pants and spread your legs for me.”

Toji was about to complain but instead he rolled his eyes and obliged the command, getting himself naked. Yet, he didn't spread his legs, receiving a sigh from you. You got on top of the bed, your hand moving to his neck before he could react and gripping tightly on it, chocking him just slightly.

“When I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?” You gripped tighter on his neck but Toji kept glaring at you, a hand on your wrist threatening to break your arm. “Unless you want to forget about the money and fight me instead. And believe me when I tell you I'm going to make you fight while being naked.”

He let go with a groan, and you let his neck free again— a reddish mark of your digits on the skin of his neck and you liked it. When you looked down, Toji's dick was twitching and more precum was leaking from it, then you chuckled with a raised eyebrow. “Oh? Someone likes getting choked and degraded? Such a whore.”

You grabbed a lube from the bedside table, pouring the liquid on your fingers and some on Toji's rear, then watching it go down to the entrance of his ass, his naughty hole blinking. You didn't wait much though, there was no reason to be gentle with him— and you knew that Toji would prefer that way, too. So you immediately inserted two fingers inside, already moving them to loosen him up. Toji grunted, biting his lower lip with his eyebrows furrowed before you added a third finger.

The Zenin had such a nice body, it almost looked like a sin— as if he was begging to be fucked. After all, what's the use of having such thick thighs and such a sexy ass if not for fucking them? You glanced down at him while playing with his hole, fingering him and teasing his prostate, your other hand stroking your cock slowly.

“Enough of foreplay. Spread your hole for me.” You said, watching him click his tongue in annoyance but still doing as you told. You held one of his legs on top of your shoulder. “And stop rolling your eyes or clicking your tongue every time I tell you to do something, it's getting me soft.”

Toji scoffed.

“Ha. Then maybe you're not a real man if a roll of eyes is enough to—” He couldn't finish his sentence as you thrusted your cock inside, invading his hole in one swift move. He gasped, his hands letting go from his ass to grab a handful of the sheets as he glared at you like he wanted to kill you.

You smirked down at him with a mocking gaze. “What were you saying about real man again? I don't think I heard you.” You teased, pulling your cock halfway out before slamming it back inside, the Zenin letting out a grunt. You moved your free hand to pinch his nipple, pulling on it.

“You bastard...” He muttered as you stopped your hips for a moment, leaning down to his chest. Your tongue licked and sucked his right nipple then your teeth sunk down for a bite, Toji flinched and groaned from pain mixed with pleasure. “The hell are you doing–”

“Taming you.” You cut him off with a sadistic smile. Toji wanted to make that smile of yours disappear because he was starting to like it more than he should. “From now on, every single time you complain or call me anything that isn't master you're going to be punished.”

You chuckled, pulling your cock out almost completely and slamming it back in, moving in slow thrusts. “Understand?”

You spanked his ass again, a silent warning for him to answer. The non-sorcerer groaned, biting his lip in both annoyance and pleasure. “Yes...” He took a second to continue: “...Master.”

“See? It's not that hard to stop being such a brat.” You said, starting to fasten the pace of your thrusts. Who the hell are you calling a brat? Toji wanted to shout, but didn't. Your veiny, fat cock was filling his insides and the tip pressing against his prostate was making Toji flinch every time you aimed at that spot. He was starting to actually moan too, instead of only letting out those grunts and heavy breaths of his.

The moment you grabbed his dick and starting stroking it he whimpered, one of his hands grabbing the sheets as the other was behind him, grasping the pillow. He felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge as you moved back and forth, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Faster— Ugh, I'm close...”

But then you stopped moving your hips, pressing your thumb against the tip of his cock. The Zenin's eyes immediately moved to you, his eyebrows furrowing in annoyance and confusion. “What are you doing? I said I'm close to cumming.”

“I heard what you said,” you chuckled, slamming your cock inside one more time then stopping. “You're going to beg for if you want to cum. Or else we're staying like this for the rest of the evening.”

“Beg? Me? Ha. In your dreams–” Slap! Toji's eyes widened when he felt the hit against his cheek, his teeth gritting in anger as he glared at you, his mouth already opening to protest when you raised your hand again, now spanking his ass instead. “Fuck, cut it out!”

“Beg.” You repeated, your thumb making small circles on the tip of his hard cock, smearing the precum as his body squirmed under your touch. Toji knew he was at his breaking point and being unable to orgasm didn't hurt yet, but it was certainly uncomfortable.

“Damnit... Please, let me cum.” He muttered, glancing away with a frown. You raised an eyebrow with a chuckle, shaking your head in response. Another spank on his ass, Toji letting out a low moan.

“Beg like you mean it, non-sorcerer.” You said in a seductive whisper, your tongue sticking out from your lips to lick his neck up to his jaw.

“Please!” He said, thrusting his hips up against your touch, searching for his high only to be stopped by your hands keeping him still. The Zenin was physically stronger than you, and he knew that. But maybe because he was too horny he couldn't react very well or even think about fighting back and dominate you instead.

“Not enough.” You said, threatening to pull your dick out from him but his legs instinctively wrapped around your waist, pulling you back inside. You hummed in amusement, not expecting that from him. “So?”

“Please...” he repeated, then added: “Master. Keep fucking my guts until I cum.” You noticed how Toji couldn't keep glaring at you. He was embarrassed, and you found that cute. It was so unlike Toji to act so submissive like that from the little bit of time you talked with him.

“You still have a lot to learn... but for now I'll let it pass.” It was weird how you talked as if this wouldn't be the first and last time you two slept together. But Toji didn't have much time to react, as you finally started moving again, your cock inside him and your hand moving tightly and fast around his shaft.

“Fuck! Yes– Harder!” He moaned out loud and it only took a few more thrusts and strokes for him to shoot his cum, his back arching and his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his legs trembled around you. His seed dirtied his abdomen and his hole clenched against your cock tightly, almost not letting you move.

It was such a sexy sight. You also didn't endure much after that, cumming right after him. Your load being pumped deep inside the Zenin as you let out a grunt, biting your lower lip with a smirk.

After some seconds and when the ecstasy broke down, Toji switched back to his cold mode almost immediately, looking at you. “About the money– What–” His eyes widened when you thrusted against him again, a involuntary whimper leaving his lips. You were still hard.

“Oh? I don't remember saying we were done. How much for a round two?”

—

#toji fushiguro #toji zenin #toji x reader #toji smut #jjk toji #toji x you #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk imagines #toji fushiguro x reader #smut #jjk #toji x male reader #male reader

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calummss · 9 months

Text

Do You Get Déjà Vu | Thomas Shelby

masterlist

summary: thomas doesn’t come to pick up his daughter. you decide to take her home only to find a man of a table with a bullet in his chest and a lot of deja vu

pairing: fem! reader x thomas shelby

words: 1.6k

a/n: just fluff and comedy tbh… not my usual angst i promise also, this takes place in 1919 because season 1 tommy has my heart. helena is around 9/10 years :)

How you disliked summer. Sweat pearls dripping simply sitting and breathing. Delicate fabric sticking to you like a bee and its honey. It was simply too hot for a woman to be wearing layers of modest clothing but here you were, sitting in front of your desk; no countertop in sight, too many different documents sprawled across the surface, each waiting on your eyes and conscious to scan it and then evaluate whatever category it fell into.

‘Miss Verys?’ Katie’s voice pulled you out of your slump, yet your heart skipped a beat when you saw her come closer with an arm full of newer papers that acquired your attention.

‘Please tell me you are joking…’

‘I fear not, Miss,’ she pressed her lips together as she placed them onto the right corner, the surface area with less than ten documents. ‘But these are all for the week.’ She smiled.

‘Finally some good fucking news,’ you huffed, ‘Sorry,’ you tilted your head when you realised Katie was taken aback by your choice of words.

‘Also I don’t wish to add more to your plate but Helena is still present. It seems Mr. Shelby has yet to pick her up. Do you want me to stay and wait with her?’

‘Katie you are truly an angel, really, I am so grateful but you are being paid to work on from eight to three, I couldn’t let you do that. Legally and from my heart.’ You curled your lips, fingers rubbing against the sheet of paper you were waiting to flip. ‘Just tell Helena to pack her things and to come to my office. Since I will be busy reading through all of these I might end up staying for quite a while.’

‘Of course. And thank you, Miss Verys, have a good day.’

‘You too.’

Katie left and you were stuck in front of an ocean of paper. If you had known that directing a school was so strenuous you might’ve thought about inaugurating a school twice. But it was a lovely institute. A school for girls with the most brightest and innovative minds, no runner up to men but competition with finest ideas.

Momentarily Helena came through the door and patiently stood at the door frame, her bag in her grip.

‘Hello Helena,’ you smiled at her. ‘Your father is not here yet?’

‘No.’

‘That’s okay, just wait here with me. I have much work and since we’re the only ones here I thought company would be nice, no? Sit,’ you pointed to the chair, Helena still standing at the entrance barely having moved.

Helena hummed in response.

‘So,’ you grabbed one of your quills to start signing documents that needed your signature. ‘What do you like to do when you’re not at school or doing homework? I am pretty sure you like horse riding?’

‘I do.’

‘Something else perhaps?’

‘Recently we bought a family car,’ Helena had sat down in the chair, laying her bag beside her as she relaxed into the seat. ‘When we got it we drove through the countryside…it was so thrilling. The wind on my face felt different to when I am riding. Daddy looked so happy too. I like cars.’

‘My my, what a riveting experience.’ You glanced at her from your work. ‘I remember my first time in a car. Felt exactly like how you described it.’

Helena beamed back you, her bright blue eyes gleaming with excitement, ‘My uncle Finn liked the car ride at first too but we had to stop because he got sick,’

‘And did you?’

‘No, I felt great. I love cars.’

‘I too think cars are the greatest innovation since the marvellous idea to roast and ferment cocoa beans to make chocolate.’ You let out a lighthearted laugh, infecting Helena with the same giggle.

‘I like chocolate.’

‘You do?’ Your lips curled. ‘Do you want one? I might have a bit stashed somewhere between all this energy-consuming work,’

‘I’ve only had it twice,’ Helena began another story, ‘It is very expensive and my father says it is bad for your teeth and that you mustn’t eat too much of it. He said that when he was visiting London he met a man outside of the sweet shop who became so round, simply for eating a lot of chocolate.’

‘Well best you have only one piece then,’ you put a piece into your mouth before giving her her piece. ‘This is my favourite. Got it from Cornwall. They make the best sweets.’

Taking the piece you handed her, she started eating it, her eyes in awe.

‘What about your father, Helena?’

‘What about him?’

‘What does he do for work?’ You asked, amusingly raising your eyebrows before taking the second heap of documents before you.

Helena hesitated. ‘I don’t think I can say.’

‘Why not?’

‘Family business…’

‘Family business?’ You looked up, Helena nodding her head in response. ‘I’m just curious that’s all. When you speak of him, you speak endearingly. You seem to have a very good relationship.’

‘We do.’ She ate the last bite, looking around the room. ‘If he wasn’t my father he would be my best friend.’

‘How sweet.’

With an easy lead conversation, time passed quicker than expected. But an hour later and Mr. Shelby still hadn’t come to pick up Helena.

With minutes passing you realised that Mr. Shelby wouldn’t show up anytime soon. It was also way past closing time so you had to start locking up the building. You thought it best to walk Helena home to see if anyone was there and if not you’d take her back to yours so she would have a safe place to stay until anyone got in touch.

‘Hello?’ You knocked against the door, the hard wooden door aching your knuckles as you repeatedly hit against it. ‘This is Miss Verys from Small Heath Institute for Girls. I have your daughter Helena with me as she has not been picked up yet.’ Your breath ricocheted off the door.

Seconds later you could hear the lock turning and were greeted by an older woman, her hair all over the place as her dark eyes burned into yours. Feeling as if she were about to take a jape at you, you quickly jumped back into your sentence. ‘I’m so sorry to intrude but I grew worried when Helena still hadn’t been picked up yet. I hope that all is well.’

Your eyes left her frame, seeing figures surrounding a table where there seemed to be a man laying down upon, quick huffs and puffs echoing from behind.

‘Arthur, shut up and just get this out of me.’

‘Drink this, Tommy. It’ll help with the pain.’

The unravelling scene before you had your full attention, completely forgetting the woman at the door.

‘I—oh no don’t do that!’ You raised your voice, pushing past her, now standing in the living room with three men staring at you. ‘I’m sorry to intrude but I was a nurse at the front and seeing you just stick your fingers inside his wound just rang my bells.’

The man on the table had blue eyes that protruded from the dim light within the room, his chest covered in dry and fresh blood, sweat dampening his skin and clothes. You overheard that his name was Thomas Shelby, Helena’s father.

You stepped closer and examined his wound. A bullet wound. Minimal surface damage and easily removed.

‘If someone could get me some bandages, an unopened bottle of alcohol and some tweezers with a bowl of warm water.’

‘I’ll get it.’ Helena walked past you to what seemed to be the kitchen.

‘The cheap one, Hallie,’ the light haired one yelled after her, his toothpick sitting between his lips. ‘If you open that rum from the Caribbean, I swear to you that I won’t give you any more sweets.’

‘You give her sweets?’ Thomas lifted his head.

‘Sometimes.’

‘Mr. Shelby if you could just relax for a short time longer. I will get that bullet out of you as swiftly as possible.’

Further taking in his naked chest you noticed his tattoo. Similar to sun rays just above his right chest. You had seen this tattoo before…

‘Mr. Shelby, can I ask you something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you perhaps have a scar on your lower back? On your right just above your glutes?’

‘How do you know that?’ He stared up at you, holding your gaze as Helena came back with the supplies you needed.

‘Given it was a back injury you were transported to the tent on your stomach,’ you grabbed the alcohol to clean the wound, a hiss escaping him as you grabbed the tweezers, ready to pull out the metal embedded in his flesh. ‘I was the nurse that treated you. I was covered in ugly drapes and bloods, can’t say you could recognise me,’

Thomas winced as the ends of the tweezers dug around to grab the piece of metal, a small smirk on his lips. ‘You don’t say eh?’

‘I’m sure you’ll be having a déjà vu when I pull it out,’ you grabbed it and pulled it out, a loud growl escaping his lips as air pushed past his lips.

‘Thank you again.’

‘No problem, Mr. Shelby.’ You disposed of the bullet in a dish Arthur held out to you. ‘Next time Helena is not picked up I’ll bring her home and bring my first aid kit with me.’

‘That’s actually not a bad idea,’ he pulled himself up, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it. ‘Small Heath is starting you feel like a battlefield,’

‘Then I’ll be your nurse ready to care you to health.’

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cybiirz · 6 months

Text

ೃ⁀➷ SMITTEN

Athlete!Wriothesley x Gn!Reader

Sypnosis : You and Wriothesley had been going out for quite some time. He was quite passionate about his sport and you would support him all the way. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do his best to try to convince you to come see him play!

WC : 451

Warnings : Slightly suggestive, college setting, kind of idiots in love, Wriothesley is practically infatuated w/ you <3

Inspired from @catcze ‘s drabbles! Go check them out as they post such great Wriothesley imagines as well <3

“Wriothesley, I've told you too many times already! I do not need you up in my personal space and talking about wedding plans,” You began practically scolding the boy who tailed behind you along with air quotes you were throwing up. Pulling your locker open, you shoved the books from last period in and reached to grab the ones for next.

Your locker door then tilted inwards, and accompanied with it was the face of your boyfriend. “Come onnn (name). Am I not allowed to plan a wedding for the one person I love most in this world,” Wriothesley whined to you, a small pout evident on his lips.

You looked at him, raising your eyebrows. He simply gave you a smirk in return to which you scoffed and slammed the door shut, making the latter jump. You walked off, scanning over the book that had some spare notes inside.

“(Nameee). Alright fine, if I can’t make wedding plans with you, then at least allow me to take you out on a date,” He offered before stopping in front of you, causing you to pause as well. You raised an eyebrow at his proposal.

“Oh? And where would this fine date take place?” You asked with a sarcastic tone. He bent down to your height before pulling a rose out of his back pocket of the uniform.

“Well, (name) (last name). Would you so graciously accept my offer to bring you to my football game tonight?” He questioned you before holding the rose up to your face. You hummed, as if thinking about it.

“Anddd, would there be any after game activities that we could partake in?” You replied, almost jokingly but he could tell you were also secretly serious. He brought his forehead to yours and whispered.

“How about a lovely meal at whatever restaurant you want, a walk on the beach and then any dessert you so desire? And….anything you want to do once we get back home…maybe in bed?” There was a wide grin on his face, so you couldn’t help but smile back.

“Mm, I’m convinced. Now go practice, if you lose this game then those little activities certainly won’t be happening,” You mumbled quietly. He immediately kissed you deeply before placing the rose in your hair and tucking a spare strand behind it. He parted from you, his hand holding your cheek as hs stared at you with hearts practically swimming in his eyes.

“Then I’ll be sure to win…And I better see you in my shirt,” He replied, but then his friends came up behind him and began hollering at him for being smitten with you. Your friends suddenly appeared behind you and began cooing at the pair of you. You simply rolled your eyes and laughed as Wriothesley denied all accusations.

But once you caught his eye again, just that one look confirmed that this man would be willing to take a bullet for you.

A/N : The fact the only genshin man I’ve ever written for is this guy. But I am so inlove w/ this trope it’s unbelievable. I’m so sorry that I haven’t been posting but I will do my best! Thinking of doing a Christmas event tbh bc I wasn’t rlly feeling Halloween this year. But I’m SOOO excited for Christmas!!! Anyways feel free to leave requests!

#genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin x you #i love wriothesley #wriothesley x gender neutral reader #wriothesley x y/n #wriothesley fluff #wriothesley x you #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley #genshin x y/n #genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin fluff #genshin imagines

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kokoa-la · 10 months

Text

Prompt from @help-i-need-a-cool-username

Danny was tired of his neighbor’s bullshit. Above his head rested the well known crime lord of crime alley, Red Hood. Now, Danny used to be a vigilante, he gets it, truly, but that did not mean he forgave the other for the sheer amount of wake up calls he’s gotten. He knew he was a light sleeper, has been ever since the portal opened and since the portal was shut down by yours truly, but the amount of noise was still unacceptable. Did the guy not know he lived right below him? He knew that the building was in a rough patch, but it wasn’t deserted. He wasn’t the only one here ya’ know. By now the halfa had had enough. He had a class at 9 am tomorrow in literal physics. He needed sleep if he didn’t want to pass out in the lecture that he 100% needed for the midterms in 2 weeks. He would have gone up and complained in person if he wasn’t, you know, on the run. So he sat in his bed, grabbed earbuds, played one of his sad playlists and tried his best to sleep.

That was it, Danny was going to actually kill the Red Hood. Here Danny is, minding his own business, writing a paper for the English class he had to take for extra credits, and in storms 5 men kicking down his door with all sorts of weapons. They were in all black with hoods and bandanas covering the bottom half of their faces.

“Where’s Red Hood? We know he lives here!”

The half had had enough. Here he was, on page 2 of a 5 page paper, while on 9 shots of espresso and 3 energy drinks to make up for the lack of sleep he got last night because of the same very guy this gang is looking for. He was going to strangle this man, hands down, screw the GIW.

“I’m literally a college student trying to live off of a minimum wage salary, if all of us could be crime lords and afford an apartment without a day job, we’d all do it.”

“Where is the Red Hood?!”

The guy in the middle had yelled before pointing a gun right at Danny’s head. He sighed before standing and putting his hands above his head.

“I don’t know. He’s not here, and I don’t even think he lives in the building.”

He didn’t know why he was covering for his neighbor's ass, but he already had one foot in, so why not the rest of him?

“Don’t bullshit me! We know he lives here!”

“Are you sure it was this building, and not the one across the alley?”

Dany inched closer as the main guy looked over at the goon next to him and started arguing. By the time they looked up, Danny was right in front of the gun, merely inches away from the barrel now pointed at his chest.

“Boo.”

His eyes glowed a vibrant neon green before the lights turned off leaving the apartment in pitch black.

Red Hood cursed as he realized how careless he’d been. One of his men had informed him that they received a warning from one of their informants. Apparently, there was a new gang on the rise with the sole purpose of taking him down. Somehow they’d followed him to his apartment one night and were staging an attack right now. Luckily, it didn’t seem like they knew his civilian identity, but he didn’t know that for sure. Plus, if they broke in and he wasn’t there, he didn’t want to know what they’d do to the others inhabiting the complex.

It took him about two minutes to get there using his bike. He scaled the side of the building and got in through his window only to find his apartment exactly as he left it. Had his men lied to him? Or had the gang just not arrived yet?

Well, that’s what he thought before he heard gunshots below his feet. He scrambled down the stairs and ran to the apartment below him, taking out his gun and slowly walking towards the door. It was dead silent. It seemed that the last noise to leave the place was that one stray bullet, since then not a sound.

Hood cursed under his breath before turning the corner and moving the broken door out the way. Inside was a pile of 5 men in all black knocked unconscious with a man sitting on top of them criss crossed holding a bat with a green sticker on it in one hand while the other typed on the open laptop sitting in his lap. The vigilante didn’t even move. He lowered his gun to the floor and just stared at the scene at hand. Eventually the man looked up at him with ashy blue eyes and a tired look about them. He sighed before closing the laptop and resting his chin on the small end of the bat.

“Dude, it’s 3 am. Can you please tell your enemies to stick to acceptable invasion hours?”

Hood didn’t even know what to say. He just stood there at the door, even clocked his head sideways in confusion. The other sighed.

“I have a class at 7 am tomorrow and this paper is due like yesterday, so can you just, I don’t know? Schedule this shit? Or at least make sure they have the right apartment. I didn’t complain about the noise before, but this is ridiculous.”

Yeah, Jason couldn’t believe his eyes or ears right now. Was this man serious? He cleared his throat before finally speaking.

“Right… sorry about that? I guess? I’ll take them off your hands. No promises about the schedule though. I can’t exactly control when people try to kill me.”

He stepped forward only for the other to raise the bat at him threateningly. He still sat on the 5 men, and still was pretty far away from Hood, so why he raised the bat he didn’t know.

“Do you want them in your house or not?”

“I want you to stay right there and pay for the bullet holes in my walls.”

“You just said-”

“Oh, I know, but you agreed so readily I’m testing the waters.”

What the fuck was up with this guy, seriously.

“You know I have a gun right? I could shoot you”

“Well so did they, and look where that ended them. Gunless and knocked out.”

Touche, Jason wanted to say, but didn’t. One of the men on the ground started to move and groan, his neighbor, without breaking eye contact with him, spun the bat in his hand and hit the man dead center on the head, knocking him out once more.

Was Jason attracted to this? Maybe.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dc x dp au #danny phantom #danny fenton #jason todd #danny just wanted to finish his homework #jason todd didnt know he was gay #danny proceeded to accidentally become hoods guard dog cus hood refused to move away from danger twink #jason leaves fruit baskets #jason repairs his walls dw #danny tried to sue - jason said no #danny is a glorified glow stick #the fenton anti-creep stick shows itself once again

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rizzkisworld · 3 months

Note

how about boynextdoor receiving flowers from their so for the first time?? i ABSOLUTELY love your writing by the way!!

Omg ty!! I know this took so long and I'm so sorry!!

To set the scene, this is meant to be when you're on your valentines day date or whatever btw

◇Sungho◇

Honestly didn't expect it

He's so happy though

Takes it instantly no hesitation

Funny thing is... he also got you flowers

He overall is pretty normal about it

Shocked at first, but very thankful

Wouldn't mind if you bought him more flowers in the future

◇Riwoo◇

Gets shy immediately

Doesn't know what to do

But he loves it that's for sure

He's like "For me?"

And you're like "Of course!!"

He no longer can contain his smile

Lowkey giggles to himself and hopes you don't notice

But you do

◇Jaehyun◇

Very dramatic at first

Acts like it's the most amazing thing in the world

Then he gets extremely shy about it

"Is this how you feel when I spoil you?"

"I get it now."

Definitely wouldn't mind more flowers from you

And he doesn't hide it at all

◇Taesan◇

Shocked, shy, extra shy, did I mention shy?

He gets so quiet tbh

He just stares at the flowers trying to take it all in

"Do you not like it?" You would ask

Then reality hits him

"It's just... I don't know what to say."

He's used to being all romantic and giving gifts like this to you

So receiving it really surprised him

He loves it though (keep it up and he'll have to buy you the greatest gift known to man)

◇Leehan◇

A prince deserves his flowers what can I say

Amused at first until he realizes that you're serious serious

Then he melts right then in there

Takes the flowers and gives you the prettiest smile

Get ready to drown in kisses when you guys are alone

Make out session even

It's not even about the flowers anymore he just loves you

◇Woonhak◇

He's very loud and proud about how thankful he is

All smiles for the rest of the day

Takes like 100(more than that) photos of the flowers

He's going to cherish these for the rest of his life

Would take a bullet for these flowers just because you gave them to him

So they're 10 million times more special

Expect lots of affection btw

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mono-dot-jpeg · 6 months

Text

tank moment - mauga

summary; title slightly irrelevant, i wanted to be funny. iykyk

genre/extra tags; headcanons/bullet fic, i talk about mauga hcs i thought of on the fly, reader is implied to be a support character, reader is also part of talon group, fluff, i only know the bare minimum about him and that's all i need baby, is this platonic or romantic idk

[gender neutral reader] [canon typical violence mentioned]

a/n; im back on my overwatch era. it never really ended but, i want to write about him, mauga, the beloved. typing this on my phone and finishing on my computer if anything seems wonky shhh dont tell me i'll relive that mistake for days

also this is a somewhat lightly reseached- aka not fully accurate/detailed work. i briefly mention samoan culture and if it offends or if it's a mistake, please tell me and i will erase those parts asap.

[support me and buy a kofi]

🗣 ALRIGHT SO ‼️

i've been watching and playing with/against mauga since the trial to play him came out and god i love him

but he's kind of easy to counter (im an ana main, nade is fucking broken but that's just anti heal things) and his ult is annoying

anyways

every tank needs their heal bot to keep em up

you just happen to be mauga's heal bot KDJSJSJ

(baptiste is too probably but not really)

he's a really smug guy

no one really knows that bc he sounds so upbeat and nice

but he loves to tease you, poke at you bc he knows that you will answer to him most of the time and entertain him in conversation

you and him are probably in your world even when you're both in talon tbh

he does his own thing and you just happen to join in

(he totally baits you to join his plans and you both know it)

he's a chaotic and cunning man and you're his enabler

(sounds like me and my bestie tbh)

"a hero would sacrifice you to save the world but a villain would sacrifice the world to save you" type beat

he's lowkey possessive but we dont talk about that

jk we do talk abt it

he's your scary guard dog privileges

like that man is tall tall ‼️‼️

idk why but i dont really imagine him being like an openly sweet person

he keeps it private even with how loud he is

anyways

you know how he's on a yacht for his origin story and there's like a bunch of people who got destroyed by him?

yeah he would totally do that shit for u if you asked.

he would give you the best home but

"thanks for the new place and all but did you have to kill someone for it?"

"i mean come on! this place is nice! let's enjoy it!"

he's very "i'll do the dirty work, just sit back and look pretty." and then you're like, "yeah i could. but i won't."

dps support vibes for you ✨️

but also he's charging in most of the time so, there's not much time to dps support KDHDJDJJD

he's like the kool aid man bursting in through the walls /j

cough

back to the hcs here...

he's so tall and big, he would totally let you hang off his back like nunu and wilump (from league, yeah i play league dont remind me totally gonna write for heartsteel soon tm)

also he's literally the greatest heated blanket (ahead of roadhog)

he's so stronk and wowowowow im so gay i love him

when you're surrounded by some enemies, he's charging in, slamming the ground and carrying you with ease as he keeps you safe while destroying any enemies who even tried to touch you

ugh

despite his lack of pda, he's a very actions over words.

he's so silly

chivalry isn't dead when he breaks into a jewelry store for u 😍😍

if you ever have those crazy thoughts about crime, he's totally gonna enable you and let you reign havoc on god knows what.

love language is actions and gift giving. enough said.

when he gives you a hug, he's so fucking warm omg

i said it before and i'll say it again, he's the best heated blanket, literal furnace

bad for the people who sweat easily though (ahem me lowkey)

one the off-days where it's just a day off and relaxing, he's taking care of you well !!

when you're on talon missions, since he can't run around as easily unless he gets the okay but you do keep him company until then

he likes to protect but he loves destroying people

he knows you're able to care for yourself, so he can go crazy whenever, and he loves that.

he also loves watching you get mad or angrily passionate

"yes go, la'u ma’asoama!" (my rock/stone, get it? bc his name means mountain)

he is a really good hype man. even if you're the one in the wrong.

god I WISH I LOOKED UP MORE ABOUT HIM ARGBHYKFJ

soon (tm)

someday i'll write more.

#overwatch x reader #overwatch 2 x reader #overwatch mauga #mauga x reader #overwatch mauga x reader #overwatch #overwatch 2 #overwatch fluff #overwatch headcanons

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themetalhiro · 7 months

Note

So as an artist I have a simple question, how does one develop their own style? Like, I get the whole concept of it takes time and what you like but, I don’t learn from that, I want to know your experience, and how you developed it, I feel like that would help me understand better than a bullet list on some web page tbh

Ohhh man! Unfortunately this isn’t a simple question at ALL hahah - I could tell you how I did it?? I guess? Though it wasn’t an intentional thing.

I had a very aggressive anime(style) phase from like 10-14, and then fell for Bryan Lee O’Malleys style in Scott Pilgrim, as well as the style of @/krookedglasses and kind of borrowed from those two and people like them. And over the years my art just started to look like this! Sorry I can’t be of much help

#there really isn’t anything more to it than time and copying what you like #sorry if this isn’t what you wanna hear #chatter

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triflesandparsnips · 6 months

Text

Lot of takes going around the internets about certain "deaths" in the ofmd season finale, so, uh-- guess it's time for me to try and lose some followers on tumblr dot com with

Some Thoughts on Why I Am Not Particularly Bothered or Concerned about Izzy's Apparent "Death"

Laying the groundwork first...

1. Narratively speaking, Izzy's been a dead man walking since the start of the season. Babe shot himself and got a rebirth-- but he still definitely intended to die. Every minute he was still around was borrowed time.

Did he have to die? Maybe not. I know I could've written a version of the show where he didn't. But then that would be my show-- not theirs. I can't know exactly what themes, bugbears, bête noires, catharsis, or artistic Vibes are driving that writers' room, and until the credits run on the finale of the third season, none of the rest of us can either.

2. Izzy spent the season being in a liminal state-- and there's nothing in the story saying that he can't continue doing that. Izzy spent the season having one foot in one space, one hoof in the other, and himself halfway through the door, a chimera of mirrored things right up to his "death": pirate and ship, hard and soft, old ways and new, etc etc. But "the gravy basket" is a weird little liminal space between life and death, a place that both Ed and Buttons have found (and returned from) before. We don't know where Izzy "is" right now-- he could be there.

(tbh, I wonder how much poor feeling we'd be having about all this if we'd gotten a final tag of a blue-washed Izzy staring down at a bowl of soup while helplessly saying "but this isn't gravy, what the fu--")

3. I think there is an unfortunate belief that "it's not real unless you see the body" is a universal -- or perhaps inarguable -- "fact" of storytelling. But it's not. It's just a bit of narrative shorthand that got popular, and now we're too ready to fall into the trap of believing the inverse is true too-- that if there is a body, then there must therefore have been a "real" death.

This season has spent quite a lot of narrative time and effort telling us that its story is using a different model, with different shorthands; specifically, that magic is real, that there is at least some kind of existence after death, and that the dead can be resurrected.

And that brings me to the meat of why I'm not particularly bothered or concerned about what, at this stage of the story, could still very well be just a minor setback--

4. This whole show, and particularly this season, is a fairy tale. It's a story that works with fairy tale logic and tropes, and it's in conversation with other fairy tales too, ones that the OFMD audience is likely to know well enough to spot their narrative beats in action. So "Pinocchio" gets mentioned a lot? Cool-- the audience applies what is commonly known of that story to this one ("a real boy", the mirror-opposite being a puppet with no nose, etc), and finds some Cool Shit. Then they're primed to keep looking for fairy tales, even unnamed ones, in case there's another little nugget of reward-dopamine for finding a connection.

So the fact that we saw a mermaid? Suddenly, I personally am noticing "Little Mermaid" motifs all over the place. That Ed was in a "sleep like death" -- after fucking around with a spinning wheel -- until his prince came to wake him? Well fuck, man, that's Blackbeard playing "Sleeping Beauty" for us all.

And bringing it all back to a "dead" Izzy Hands... when I add up a "dead" body surrounded by a bunch of laborers mourning the person who nominally kept their living space nice AND who was wanted dead by an authority figure for the crime of being the "better" version of what that figure wanted to be...

...well fuck, idk about the rest of you, but to me that all adds up to Izzy's story being Snow fucking White. Waiting for someone to come pull the bullet poisoned apple from his body so he can live again.

5. This is a second season. Of three. And Izzy Hands is the writer's favorite chewtoy, so there is lots of time, space, and incentive to bring him back. If there's a third season, we have a pile of ways he could be brought back over the course of hours of literal viewing time and possibly months of in-narrative time. That's ages.

And the solutions don't have to be difficult! For instance, we still have canonical hallucinations from Stede-- that's one route. Or fuck it, we could have Izzy's (very solid-looking) ghost be the embodiment of their being haunted by the Sea, that would work too.

And even barring all that-- his grave is right there with our heroes. The ship is out there hunting down his murderer. Even if you're happy he's dead... bad news, friend. He's all over the third season landscape. (uh oh, it's GNU Izzy Hands)

But those are just a few options that leave his body rotting but his character still alive. I happen to think we could all dream a little bigger, darlings. For instance:

A. You cannot tell me that these writers, on this show, with these actors, would not absolutely go all in on a zombie-esque hand thrusting out of the dirt mere hours after burial. Look me in the eyes and tell me Con O'Neill wouldn't pull off an entire digging-out scene only to end with himself panting beside the hole, looking around, hearing Ed and Stede being weird in their haunted hut, and wearily say, "Are you fucking kidding me."

B. Don't like zombies? Want to stay closer to the Snow White vibe AND introduce a love interest for him? One hyphenated word: body-snatcher. Gotta dig those bodies up fresh for the Definitely Historically Accurate anatomists of the time! But oh, says this New Guy, this corpse is-- wow, it's weird that they buried him with a rose and really amazing makeup and a truly extraordinary number of whittled whales, plus what's with that horsey leg grave marker, this guy must've been fucking fascinating, man, I wish I could've met him-- --at which point Izzy's hand shoots out and chokes the guy half to death and the lads come tumbling out of the house and ta da, mission accomplished, Izzy resurrected in 5 minutes or less with his horsey leg conveniently beside him and an entire season for himself and everyone else to Deal With It, amazing, fantastic, no notes from me.

C. Come to think of it, there is genuinely a non-zero chance that the crew just. Fucked up the burial. I mean... even though I was just arguing why we shouldn't see it as Law, we didn't actually see the body. We saw a grave. What did they bury him in? Was it a box? Was it some canvas? Did they definitely pick up the right one when it was time to bury him? Or did they maybe carefully make him an ahistorical safety coffin just in case a cat demon came to bother him and his corpse wanted to make a fuss about it, y'know, very common, could happen to anyone, and Frenchie just so happens to have Blackbeard's old collar bell right here--

6. Here's the bottom line, imo: The only thing that would keep Izzy really actually dead and completely removed from the story is a lack of narrative time and space-- and we have plenty of both. Stories are like Lego. If you've got enough time and you're willing to play with pieces from a whole lotta different sets, it's not hard to put the same elements together in different ways to get new, exciting configurations. It's why I'm actually rubbish at predicting exact details of stuff-- there are a lot of ways something could go, there are infinite doors out of problems the narrative seems to throw at us, and no two people will come up with the same thing because we're all different.

That, to me, is one of the big ways I personally enjoy and engage with stories. And it's why I genuinely can't be fussed about Izzy's death, not when we're only two-thirds through the story as a whole; observing someone setup and then try and execute a complicated narrative trick is my jam.

But my way of engaging with all this is by no means the best or only way. How we all interact with art, and what speaks to us, is extremely personal. If how this season and Izzy's death went just didn't work for you, that's okay. I'm sorry it wasn't the story you wanted it to be. That blows.

I just know I can't say yet that it didn't work for me. I won't know until I can take in the entire picture, just as I can't judge a finished Lego set by the one piece I step on midway through construction. I can see different ways Izzy's death/rebirth could absolutely work, but will the writer manage it? I dunno.

But I'm willing to wait and see if the stupid puppet can pull it off.

#will it be the content or the length that causes the unfollows?#WHO CAN SAY #but every day is Unfollowing Amnesty Day #farewell and be free #our flag means death #our flag means death s2 spoilers #our flag means death seasons 3 rampant speculation #izzy hands #engaging with stories #and curating your own experience #(but for real - I had to stop myself at just the few possibilities I gave for a resurrection)#(real talk if you ask me for more I can just-- come up with more)#(it's my party trick)#(for very certain kinds of very nerdy parties)

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blingblong55 · 9 months

Note

HOLY SHIT

INTERACTION WITH FERAL GRIM AND GENERAL SHEPARD WHEN?!

But seriously!! Think of the potiental!!!

Gen Shepard goes down to see who this "Grim" is and why Graves and his shadows are so fucking terrified, only to find none of the 141 or KorTac on base. So, he looks where anyone would look after not seeing a member of either teams in the halls, the kitchen/breakroom. What does he find? A dark room with two glowing eyes staring at him from the darkest corner. Old white man is spookyed, but turns on the light. He finds grim, legs on the ceiling and hands on the wall staring at him, and when I say General Shepard shits enough bricks to build a goddamn mansion when grim start growling you bet I fucking mean it!

He tries (and fails) to not look scared because he's a military General in the greatest nation God dammit!

Gen Shepard yells at grim to "get the fuck down and stop acting like a damn freak!" To which they do, like a damn demon from any of the conjuring movies mind you, and lunges at General Shepard once on the ground.

Cue chase scene of grim barking and making feral noises while running after General Shepard on all fours, this was of course recorded as he was screaming like a little bitch

Now if anyone reports grim to him, he just let's them be and waits for the flashbacks he got by simply heading their name to stop.

Lesson? Don't fuck with grim if the 141 or KorTac don't like you

Also grim has taken 3 bullets directly to the chest and only got more enraged, when asked how they felt, they responded with "my chest feels wonky, like my lungs are 2 water balloons and my heart is beating to some pop song. Otherwise fine!"

A/N: I read wonky as wanky 😭😭

I totally agree with this though Grim would literally haunt the dreams of General Shephard, like the shit he saw as a soldier is not as bad as that chase.

"Sir, Grim bit another soldier-"

"I don't want to hear it," he responded, Was he tired of the bullshit? yes, he always was but it's better to leave you and bite another soldier than to bite him. I mean he is old after all so let's just let him enjoy his last years on Earth. (Not really he deserves hell tbh)

He still has horrible nightmares about you, it's like those black and white films that are like 'scary' but he actually gets mini heart attacks at times.

You are now the reason his kids want to take him to a therapist and put him on meds.

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dejwrites · 1 year

Text

❪ ♡ ❫ ─── ( synopsis ) ugly duckling zeke yeager return to campus looking better than ever and he’s back dealing with his biggest academic rival that want what he has.

♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — reader discretion is advised: female reader, female anatomy described, her/she pronouns, written with black reader in mind, college au, teacher assistant!zeke, grad student!reader, mean girl!reader, profanity, cumeating, mentions of alcohol drinking, academic rivals trope, zeke and his freakin’ daddy issues, hand job, spit usage, slight exhibitionism, they kinda do it at a party but it’s after the party, corruption kink (on both ends), tbh reader and zeke should just be happy and make out already, if i am 1 out of maybe 30 zeke simps i am okay with that, mentions of other aot characters, is this kinda self indulgent? yes, the marley men just have some flavor to them to me, entry for @poohbea 'once upon a collab' event, art credit

ANOTHER YEAR OF GRAD SCHOOL MEANT ANOTHER YEAR BEING AT THE TOP OF YOUR DEPARTMENT. You were in competition with yourself in academics, fashion, popularity, social status—you name it. You went from student body president during undergrad to the grad student that everyone could lean on when they needed something. That was until he returned to campus. The eldest son of infamous doctor Grisha Yeager—Zeke Yeager. He not only knocked you to number two in your department, but he also snatched your teacher assistant position right from you. Eventually, taking away that excellent bullet point on your resume.

You felt frustrated that the opportunity even got snatched from your hands in the first place. Of course, the guy with the infamous doctor would get the position before you. You had to figure out how you could get back on top. You could torment him as you did during undergrad. No, that wouldn’t work. The way he was looking now—he wouldn’t fall for your tactic of inviting him out to drink and causing him to miss an exam. Maybe, cause a scandal within his family. His family does always seem to stay in the tabloids. No, that wouldn’t work. Their PR agent would have that buried before you could convince your professor to give you the teacher assistant position.

“Are you going to this party tonight? Please don’t tell me you’re spending your Friday at home again,” Your friend asked as she tapped her manicured fingers on your kitchen top. “Everyone is going to be at this party, you know?”

“Why would I want to be around drunk strangers? How does that benefit me at all?” You asked while letting your finger trace alongside the rim of your wine glass.

Your friend was here to convince you to come to this party just by her attire. You were sure she would be zooming to this party immediately after her poor attempt to get you to come out. You always told her not to let you rain on her parade. Go out and have fun; just be safe.

“What if I told you Eren Yeager is hosting it, and it’s at his family’s lovely home?” Your friend leaned over, smiling at you.

“I’m not interested in Eren Yeager. Do I look like one of those sophomores that easily let his man bun distract them on how much of a manwhore he is,” You sipped from your glass before you heard your friend drag out a sigh.

“If one brother is going to be there, obviously the other will be.” Your friend rolls her eyes at your obviously, not-smart thinking. “Perfect opportunity to talk to him to let you have the teacher assistant position. After all, it’s not like he will need it anyway. I’m sure daddy has a job lined up for both of his sons.”

“I highly doubt he’ll be there. Doesn’t even seem like his scene,” You added.

“You think he trusts his younger brother to throw a party in one of their family properties alone?”

You thought about it for a second. Hypothetically, this could be a perfect opportunity to convince him to step down from the position. Give him a couple of cups of alcohol and get to batting your eyelashes—this could work.

“Fine, let me change into something else,” You finished your glass of wine before your friend could let out a squeal of excitement.

You went into your room to freshen up and get changed. When you stepped out, your friend had some devious grin as her eyes flickered up and down to look at your outfit. “Let’s hope the outfit works in your favor.” She says as she places the wine glasses you guys used in the sink.

“Hope so.” The dress you wore wasn’t too fancy, but it was something that could have anyone doing a double look. You glanced in the full-body mirror in your living room—slowly leaning forward to apply a coat of clear lip gloss.

The ride to the party was filled with rules; you and your friend always went over. If you were leaving with a guy, let the other know. If you hit your alcohol limit—it’s time to go. Don’t leave without the other without confirmation that you were; that was common sense. As you dawned closer to one of the biggest houses in the gated community, it seemed you could hear the music as you got closer and closer. When you entered the party, it was crowded, from people dancing in the living room to people littering the steps sitting, and talking. Your friend had seen one of her usual semester flings and instantly shot right towards them after letting you know that if you were ready to go—just find her.

Now you were alone in a sea of people hoping you could clichely bump into the older Yeager sibling. You pushed your way through to find him yourself. Hoping he wasn’t indulging in flirting with someone

You tried your hardest to avoid anybody that knew you. Each of them gets in the way of why you were here in the first place. You spent the past thirty minutes pretending to be interested in conversations until you eventually entered the kitchen to see the person you were searching for. There he stood up, scrunching up his face at the taste of the mixed drink his younger brother had made.

“It’s not that bad,” Eren said as he sipped from the red solo cup.

“It’s horrible, but when does alcohol ever taste good?” Zeke questioned as he placed his empty solo cup on the counter.

“Exactly! Everyone is going to love this Yeager juice,” His brother responded before he poured more of the drink into two cups and made his way out of the kitchen.

Zeke was all alone, sipping alcohol in the kitchen and chatting with his friends. You didn’t even know you caught yourself staring at him and how his biceps flexed in the tight black shirt he wore. Did he get hotter from the last time you saw him? His little internship in France surely must have done wonders for him. Wait, you weren’t here to drool over his attractiveness—focus.

As you inched further to get something to drink, Zeke's eyes landed on you, and you watched his lips curve into a smirk before he met you near the counter you were near. You were glancing at all the alcohol choices they offered, pretending that you weren’t here for something else.

“It’s funny that this will be where we bump into each other again.” Zeke interrupted your pretend task of searching for alcohol of your choosing.

“Couldn’t turn down a Yeager party,” You shrug your shoulders while collecting a bottle and pouring some into the cup. “It was the talk of the campus. Everyone is here.”

“Would have thought you’ll ditch to do some project or something.” Zeke leaned against the counter that was next to you. His head tilts like an innocent puppy attempting to challenge its owner.

“You know me, any project or paper I must do is most likely done already. Come on; we didn’t play hot potato for the top of the class spot for nothing.” You sipped from your cup, peeking up at him.

“Still the same overachiever, I see.” Zeke poured him some of the drink Eren had made. “Same girl that tormented me.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To apologize; we’ve matured now. I’ve matured now.” You placed your hand on your heart and gave him a sweet smile before that smile disappeared after hearing his snickers.

“You’re funny; what do you want?” Zeke took another sip of his drink and poured more into his cup once more now that it was empty.

Your lips gasp upon pretending to be offended. “I can’t just see how you been?”

“When did you ever care?” Zeke backfired. “Before, during, or after you were the biggest manipulator during undergrad?

“Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a horrible person to you, Zeke.” You gave him a pout. “So please let me have that T.A. position you have.”

The sound of his laughter caused your eye to twitch in annoyance. His eyes form tears as he hunches over to laugh. “You’re hilarious. I knew you wanted something, and the answer is no. For once, you couldn’t beat me or use some conniving way to beat me. Enjoy the rest of the party, Y/N.” He clinks his red solo cup with yours and talks to his friend Pieck who is searching the fridge for something.

You inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly. Your nails dig into the palm of your hand before you turn to fill your cup up. You had to think of another way, but you needed to drink for now. You ventured around the property two times, searching for your friend. You had no luck but found yourself in the living room talking to your friend Reiner. You remember being lab partners with him; he was such a sweetheart. He didn’t know how to do the labs, but he was charming. You felt someone staring at you as you laughed at one of his jokes, you felt someone staring at you. To your shock, Zeke's eyes were staring at you as some random girl was talking his head off. You turned around after playfully rolling your eyes at him.

Hours went by, and people headed home to sleep off the alcohol they consumed or head to the next party. Your friend had gone home with their semester fling after confirming with you that it was okay. You decided to stay back to continue to pester Zeke. He hasn't budged at all with giving you the teacher assistant position—and you weren’t giving up that easily. As you help, throw away the red solo cups that decorated the expensive marble counters. Zeke was collecting the empty alcohol bottles to toss in the recycle bin. The two of you silently cleaned up the kitchen as you could hear Eren and his friends drunkenly messing around in the living room. Zeke knew they weren’t doing any type of cleaning as they told him they were doing.

“You know…” Zeke broke the silence between the two of you.

“You’re going to let me have the T.A. position?” You interjected as you tossed another cup in the trash.

“No, but I find your eagerness—quite attractive,” He chuckles, dropping a whiskey bottle in the bin. He walks closely towards you, and you meet him halfway, dragging the black trash back with you.

Just as you met in the middle of the kitchen where the counter was, he stared at you with his gray-colored eyes trying to read you. He wasn’t sure if you had changed or not since undergrad. “It’s quite comical that you even parted your lips to ask me after the hell you put me through during undergrad.” He grabs the empty red solo cup off the counter and grabs the black trash bag you had.

Being sure to let his fingertips brush against your hand as he takes the bag. He threw the cup in the trash before speaking again, “You were a horrible person. Kinda need you to beg a little more,” he reached by you to grab another liquor bottle.

“I apologized so many times. I don’t understand why you need the position so much.” You snatch the alcohol bottle out of his hand and place it on the counter. His need to ensure the kitchen was clean before his parents returned to their luxury trip distracted you from your goal. “Your daddy will help you find the perfect job when you graduate.”

You watched as Zeke’s jaw clenched in annoyance, hearing your words. Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion before your lips curve into a smirk. This was your opening. “Oh, that struck a nerve, huh?” Your head tilts as you watch those eyes darken.

You’ve seen that look countless times during undergrad, especially when you caused him to miss a final exam which helped you to have the highest GPA in your department.

“That’s not true. I work very hard for the positions I have.” He glanced at you, and now it was him with a devious smirk on his face. “Just like the T.A. position that you want.”

“You leave for an internship in France for the summer and come back with some balls; that’s what’s fuckin’ comical, actually.” You suck your teeth before stepping back and hopping on the counter.

You were growing frustrated with not getting what you wanted after years of getting what you wanted—which you didn’t have an infamous surname and an academic medical school building named after your father to do so. It was a bit insulting to you that he was dangling this position in front of you.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already. It’s only one in the morning. You’ve tormented me longer than this.” Zeke went back to cleaning up. “I’m starting to think you may just want to be in my company or something. I must advise you; others wouldn’t mind being in my company and not being a pain in my ass.” He tossed a bag of opened chips in the trash.

“And yet, you’ve declined them all night just to let me pester you.” You muttered under your breath.

“And yet you spent this whole night pestering me, ignoring all the advances thrown at you. You really think Reiner cares about your fuckin’ marketing project?” Zeke backfired as he leaned against the counter opposite where you were sitting. He rubs at the thick blonde beard on his face in a mockingly thinking manner. “Starting to think you may like me.”

“I would rather gouge my eyeballs out and take the least-rated Professor in our university than ever admit any attraction to you, Zeke Yeager.” You shrugged your shoulders at him, but you also noticed that he had stepped closer once again, not being afraid to invade your space.

You just were trying to figure out if you thought this was a good idea. The sexual tension was there. It was obviously there—you two wouldn’t be going back and forth like an intense tennis game if it wasn’t. You grabbed Zeke’s belt, tugging him closer to fill the gap between your thighs.

“You’re still that ugly duckling in undergrad that I enjoyed sabotaging to be on top.” You attempted to push him, but his hand caught yours before eventually letting his lips crash upon yours.

The taste of hard whiskey and Eren’s horrible mixed Yeager juice lingers on your tongue as you’re eagerly tracing it to get a taste of all the liquor Zeke consumed during the night. The scent of a freshly opened pack of cigarettes and a woodsy-scented cologne crawls up your nostrils to cause you to be even more intoxicated. Your grasp on his shirt as if he was going to blow up was a bit funny, considering you were insulting him all night. You wanted more; you needed more. The kiss broke apart, and you tried to utter another degrading thing. The short break from tasting each other allowed Zeke to remove his glasses and place them next to you on the counter—before his lips were back on yours. Shoving his tongue down your throat in a heated makeout session because he would rather have that than hear your nagging about him being undeserving of a position he has already.

Your hand untangled from the cotton threads of his shirt to travel down to his pants to rub his hardened cock. The bulge was so noticeable you would have thought he was a virgin that just discovered an exclusive OnlyFans account. Zeke breaks the kiss again, his plush lips pecking soft subtle kisses on yours as if he didn’t want the kiss to end. Now those gray hues of his were softened—they didn’t look at you as if he hated your guts. But for pure hunger for you.

“Want to go upstairs?” Zeke asked; he didn’t budge from towering over you as you were on the counter. He could hear the loud laughter of his younger brother and his friends playing another round of Never Have I Ever.

You rubbed your lips together before shaking your head. “What’s the fun in that?” You questioned as your hands fiddled to undo his belt. “It’s a bit more exciting when you’re about to get caught by your brother, isn’t it?”

You never saw Zeke’s face turn red so quickly. His cheeks are stained a crimson color as you’re unbuttoning his pants. He watches as you bring your hand up to your mouth to spit it and soon dig into his boxers to massage the tip of his cock. You didn’t want to fully bring his cock out just in case someone walked in, so you brought him closer using the heel of your foot, and your hand slowly guided up and down his shaft. His head fell back in complete bliss as he was poorly attempting not to utter a moan.

“If you think this is going to….” His body shutters when he feels the pad of your thumb brush against his plump mushroom-shaped tip. “—going to get me to step down from the teacher assistant position, you’re highly mistaken.” He finishes.

You leaned up to place a kiss on the corner of his lips. “At this point, is it really about the damn T.A. position?” You questioned as you continued to palm his cock. This time your hand is pushing his pants down just a bit to give yourself some more room.

If anyone was to walk in, they could assume that the two of you were just making out—but really, Zeke was desperately thrusting forward for more friction as your hand squeezed around his cock. Broken groans trembled out of Zeke as he prompted his hand on the cabinet just a few inches from your head to hold himself up. “Shit, I’m going to cum.” He utters as your hand slides up and down his cock.

“I’m going to stop that from happening,” Your teeth bite your lower lip as your hand palms at his thick cock.

“Mhmm, okay.” Zeke leans in to kiss you again, but you’re quick to lean back teasingly. Continuing the urge to make sure he cums and becomes a bowl of putty right in front of you.

You’ve adored seeing Zeke get tugged from the temporary bliss of passion. You could sense the heat from his skin and all the color rush to his face. Thick ropes of cum came out so quickly before you could spit out some witty comment. Your hand motions slowed to ensure that he experienced every emotion that came from the fact that you had him in the palm of your hand. Zeke’s chest heaved upward as he tried to regain his composure. His eyes watched as you removed your hands from his box just in time to hear footsteps behind Zeke. Eren walked into the kitchen to grab something from the fridge.

“I didn’t know anyone else was here,” Eren said as he opened the bottle of water in his hand. His eyes were shot red from the weed he smoked, and he went through the many stages of cottonmouth.

The droplet of Zeke’s cum imprinted your fingertips, and you brought your fingers to your mouth to lick up the mess he made in your hand. He let out a shaky sigh before quickly fixing his bottoms to answer his brother.

“She was just leaving,” He sighed.

Eren’s thick brows raised at the sight he was seeing before he let out a laugh at his brother's words, “Sure, just be sure to wear protection. Our father finds out you knocked someone up—say goodbye to your cut of his will.” He gives a sly wave to you before he leaves the kitchen again.

“I’m going to go get cleaned up, and when I return, I would love for you not to be here.” He admits as he steps back from the space in between your thighs.

“Okay,” You didn’t bother to argue as you gave him an innocent smile. “No goodbye kiss,” Your teeth nibbled at your lower lip as you glanced up at him through your lashes.

“You’re a pain in my ass.” You heard Zeke utter.

But he didn’t argue against your wishes; his large hands cupped your face so gently that you could only grasp his waist, not wanting to let go. When he finally pulled away, he let his eyes linger on you just a bit longer before escaping the kitchen.

He would always be your ugly duckling that you enjoyed bothering—but this time, he wasn’t afraid to bother you right back.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀thanks for reading, reblogs & comments are highly appreciated.

❪ ♡ ❫ ─── TAGS: @tyga-lily @maydayaisha @eiflawriting @stunnababyyabyyy @shamelesshoefairy @violxtbxbyy @kenpachis-woman @euhmae25 @mostlyclearbeans @emotionalfatbword @bella-fl1z @levisecretgfblog @cherrypussprincess @zcmbi @4522-08 @sprkled @magxnoria @lisia-primary @ramenaddicted @tashniko @charminstasia @cluelessb19 @maxi8898 @hyunsannie @awkatsukis @cashae @indiecursor @melaninmight @blessedfatui @hopelhss @trueformsukuna @kentcs

#zeke yeager x reader #zeke yeager smut #aot x smut #aot x reader #black reader #anime x reader #anime smut #aot x black reader #attack on titan smut #aot smut #x black reader

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drkmgs · 8 months

Text

Promise, I'll be back part 3

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Summary: Part 3 of Homecoming and Promise, I'll be back.

Tbh, I wanted to write it longer but with the limited time I have, because of work... this would do for now....

When one of the survived officers showed up on Jenna's doorstep to hand your final letter, she completely broke down. Only with the help of her mother was she able to stand up and settle down on the couch. Her mother engulfed her into an embrace to comfort her mourning child.

"You don't have to read it now, but one day, you would like to know what Y/N's last words are for you. Once you read it, you will feel better and move on. Continue to live for you and for Y/N. I'm sure that's what they'll ever want." Jenna held onto the letter very tight and silently sob against her mom's shoulder.

In the following months, Jenna purposely fully booked her schedule. It has nothing to do with a certain letter, waiting for her to rip open and read it. She knew she would eventually have to open it. She knew as soon as she opened it, that would be your final goodbye to her. That she would never see you again. She would have to accept that you are gone and would never come back to her.

One day, she paces in her trailer, nibbling on her thumb, and keeps glancing at the letter that was poking out of her bag. This is the hardest decision-making that she'd ever had.

Finally, she took the letter and ripped it open.

Hello my love,

I'm sorry. I couldn't keep the promise. I only had an hour to write you this letter. I had so much in my head that I wanted to write down for you to read, and now that I'm actually doing it, I can't remember any of it.

Just remember I love you, and I always will. I'll be waiting for you. Keep achieving your goals for me and you.

yours only,

Y/N Ashford.

That's it. After several months, she accepted that you were gone. The following days are filled with grief and moving on. Fans have noticed her change of mood, and a lot of reporters have asked about you, but she managed to avoid all the questions. Because of that, a lot of people thought Jenna was just going through a breakup.

Jenna was busy filming her next movie when someone in the set let out a loud gasp, which ruined the take. Jenna watched the staff who ruined the take show something on her phone, and then everyone started to take out their phones. Jenna was confused. She only got enlightened when one of the staff showed their phone.

It's a live broadcast from looks like an abandoned building, and two people in military uniform are tied up almost slouching down with black cloths covering their heads. Two men standing behind them with guns. It's clear that they were or are being tortured. Then, a man with a skul mask appeared in front of the camera, talking in a different language, which translates to:

"Give us 10 billion US dollars, and these american soldiers are going home alive."

Then, the two men took off the black fabric from the soldiers. Jenna gasped and almost everyone at the studio, too. Captain Y/N Ashford and their sergeant are being tortured for money by this group of people.

Jenna's tears are pouring nonstop, and she's also shaking. The man with the skul mask kept talking in a different language when suddenly a bullet striked him in the head and dropped on the floor. There were bullets fired from all the directions, and the live stream ended.

The studio fell in silence as everyone was still in shock or silently crying. The director decided to stop the filming and wrapped up for today, as they were cleaning the studio, they heard a helicopter approaching. Everyone exited the studio just to see a military helicopter landing in the wide open space in front of the studio.

You climbed out of the vehicle with fresh tended wounds. Among the crowds, a small figure came out of the studio running with full speed into your arms. She almost knocked you off your feet, but you managed to keep your balance and embraced her tight.

"I don't ever leave me like that!" Jenna says and buries her head onto your chest.

"Didn't I promise you that I'll come back?" You asked, moving an inch away to see her face.

She nodded, looking straight into your eyes.

"I kept my promise." You say and lean in to kiss her on her lips.

The crowds were crying, applauding, and whistling.

[THE END]

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna x y/n #jenna x reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n

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brighttears · 1 year

Text

Animal Control

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description except for having hair, no use of y/n

Summary: You get attacked when out with Joel and he ‘takes care of it’. (protective, feral!Joel) ... literally just violence with a soft ending tbh

Warnings: Violence(!!), death, very brief mention implied r*pe and necrophilia, pet names (baby)

Word count: 1k

A/n: Been writing too much soft Joel... he may be baby but he is ... violent baby :3

—

He doesn’t like you to see this side of him, but he has to do this. He can’t let them get away with it. He saw the way he manhandled you, he saw him jerk your head up by your hair, he saw him hold his knife to your throat, eyes wild like a fucking animal. He saw red.

Joel reacted like a machine. It took him an instant to cross the few yards to you and once he knocked the man that was on you out cold with the back of his rifle, he shot all of his pig friends. It took him four seconds, three bullets in the back of three heads as they ran away, the fucking cowards. Not the one who’d touched you, though, no, that would be too humane.

Joel needed to punish him. Joel needed him disfigured, so that when that image of you, defenseless, frozen in terror, seconds away from having your throat slit or being taken for something worse, popped into his head, he would remember the motherfucker’s pulped face, his pleads for mercy, the sound of his bones cracking, and the feeling of his fist pounding into him. Joel needed to destroy him.

When he looked back at you after he’d taken out the coward pigs, your chest was heaving, skin slick with sweat, hair disheveled from where the son of a bitch had grabbed it. Joel rushed to you, his hands, calloused from violence, softly cradled your face, seeing if you were ok. Your only injury was a nick on your throat, a thin line of blood running down from it. It made him sick, seeing what'd been done to you. He was itching to beat the culprit to death but he needed to make sure you were safe first. He was relieved to see that that was your only wound, but your face was wet with tears, trembling as you choked on gasps. Joel pulled you in and held you tight, swaying you in his arms.

“It’s ok, baby, it’s ok, Ive got’chu, you’re safe. I took care of it, baby.”

Before you two left the scene, Joel stripped the still unconscious man of everything except for his jeans and shirt and then gagged and bound him tightly to a bike rack in front of the building where you’d been attacked.

Joel relished in the muffled, panicked squawks of the scumbag when he came back for him, taking his time dragging him through the building and into a bathroom, grabbing a chair from the hallway on his way in. Joel didn’t exactly feel excited to start his work on him, it was more of a need to.

By the time he was done, all of the teeth on the left side of your attacker’s face were smashed into his mouth. Blood streamed like syrup down from his face to soak his shirt and down into his lap. Joel’d broken and dislocated his jaw, his nose was bent sideways, and his left eye and temple were black and red with bruising. His hands were crushed against the arms of the chair he was tied to–that was one of the first things he’d done to him.

He only stopped when his own hand started to seriously hurt, not wanting to break it. Joel had taken the fucker's knife with a certain idea in mind of how he’d finish him off.

“Recognize this, huh? This yours?” When the man paused, Joel roared, spit flying from his mouth, “ANSWER ME.”

His voice was weak but he croaked out a yes.

“Whose knife is that?”

“Mine.”

“And you remember where this knife was earlier today? Or did I beat your brains in too hard for you to think straight? You remember?”

He gargled out another yes.

“Where was it?” Joel's voice was deep with deadly sternness.

“It was… on the girl…”

“It was on her fuckin’ throat.” He growled in a low voice, having leaned in close to the swollen, mostly maroon face slouched in the chair in front of him. “You were gonna kill’er with this, weren’t you? Or were you gonna take’er for sumn’ else? Maybe kill’er first, then fuck the dead body? Was that what you were plannin’, you sick fuck?”

He replied with slurred consonants, struggling to answer the question because Joel probably had given him a brain bleed.

“You remember it though, hm?” Joel grabbed the man's hair, like he had yours, and jerked it as he spoke, still leaning in close, “I’m gonna slit your throat now. And then I'm gonna slit it again. And then I’m gonna look you in the eyes while you choke to death on your own blood, ‘n the very last thing you’re gonna see before you die is gonna be me.” Joel absolutely snarled.

And that's exactly what happened.

As soon as he knew the man was dead Joel grabbed his coat and left. Before meeting you back where you were squatting, Joel used snow to wash most of the blood off of his hands. He looked down and saw blood spatter on his shirt.

“God damn it. That motherfucker…” He murmured as he trudged away.

Joel knew that when he came back you’d take your time to gently clean and bandage his hand, and then flush water through the spots on his shirt to clean away the blood. You’d do all of it in silence, occasionally pecking a soft kiss somewhere on him–on his palm before wrapping the bandage around it, along his shoulders and collarbone after you’d stripped off his shirt, and then all around his cheek and jaw once you were all done and sat next to him on the ratty couch. You let him clean and bandage the cut on your neck even though it probably didn't really need it, and then he wrapped you up into his arms and held you close so you could feel each other's breathing, his bare chest and belly warm against you. After some time, you bring him to bed, pulling him onto the mattress on the floor and letting him shower you in soft kisses, whisper sweet nothings into your ear and cuddle until you both fall asleep.

You didn’t want to think about what he’d had to have done to fuck his hand up like he had, but you’d never held violence against him. Even when you’d seen his ferociousness, you were never afraid of him. Joel had a kind heart and you knew that, but in this world, it manifests in different ways. You knew he’d do anything to protect you, and you let him, because you knew the way you loved him was protecting him, too.

#the last of us #joel miller the last of us #joel the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #joel miller fan fiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller #tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel tlou #joel miller tlou #tlou hbo

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minzis · 6 months

Text

The Devil Has A New Lover

Art Credits: colin_3dart

✞❘༻An obsessive König one shot༺❘✞

✦❘༻My first time attempting to genuinely write so if it’s not the best be mindful of that! Semi graphic? A bit suggestive as well König is a bit of a perv in this so… About 5.8k words give or take.

✦❘༻The german in this is fairly rough I tried my best in researching properly for it so if there’s any mistakes in translation let me know.

✦❘༻I’ve had ‘Take Me To Church’ on repeat while writing this so take that as you will. Lowkey fulfilling my own obsession with obsessive/yandere König tbh.

✦❘༻ ─────•~✞~•───── ༺❘✦

Your finger flicker off the match, his bloodied clothes engulfed in bright flames. It seemed to have extend to your aching heart, tainting your soul a deep black. A color that used to only suit König alone. A fire that endlessly burned torching your skin on more then one occasion.

The flames dancing and crackling like a broken song similar to the one that played so beautifully every time he kissed you, every time he touched you. Lifted and held you in his arms as if he was some knight in shiny armor. How well you fit into his hands, molded into a pure perfection of his own making.

A gaze that burrowed beneath your skin like a fatal infection. One that had already picked you apart and pieced you back together more times then you’d ever know.

You knew from the beginning what type of person he was, wether it was subconsciously or not. Everyone knew how he was always a moments away from his next nervous breakdown. He was a terrifyingly beautiful force to be reckoned with on the field.

Death was this man’s best friend like a shadow that followed him even on the brightest of days.

The way he killed with his bare hands would’ve been enough to damn his soul for an eternity. A weapon in his hands only made him evolve into a worsening form of himself. He knew no amount of cleansing or repenting would save him.

Everything about him wasn’t normal, he was never normal. But by god did he make the devilish acts feel like a degraded version of heaven. His actions showed that he was some form of nasty demon but his touch was that of a saint. The voice dipped in honey, brewed in ecstasy. It was beautiful, and he made it feel beautiful. The blood on his hands that never truly washed away.

He had to be some sort of drug that constantly intoxicated you from the pretty skin he left marks on to the veins he lit on fire. He filled every sense in ways no normal man could ever hope to achieve. They could never be him, ever amount to him.

Sometimes you wondered if the feelings you had for him scared you more then the man himself. Why did the devil make evil look so enchanting? If you held him surely you’d be dragged down with him by the many sins he committed on the battlefield.

You’d feel the many ghost that haunted his thoughts, the innocent, evil, and everything in between. Maybe that’s why you enticed him so much, the ghost’s screams who sounded less prevalent when he was near you.

His life an endless cycle of what was, never a moments thought of an after or before. He was a mere animated corpse with a heartbeat. That’s why they loved him so much, his soullessness.

There was no mission too evil, even if he was damned to hell for eternity not even the devil could stop him. He was who they sent on the missions nobody dared to considered, the hushed ones hauled off in the dark. The ones that leave you awake on a cold summer night praying you’d simply forget it all but they’d forever haunt the deepest parts of your mind.

Like a chained dog thrown a bone when his existence was needed but never wanted.

He hoped on many countless night that on one of the dreadful missions a stray bullet would find its way embedded into his skin, or a simple slip up that left him bleeding out on the floor. Maybe that’s why on some missions he wouldn’t wear his bulletproof vest just to test his favor with death. He didn’t care how painful it was just that he was relived from this horrid existence people dared to call living. He was never truly living to begin not with what he’s done.

Just a dead man walking.

Karma was going to come for him it was only a question of when.

But then there was you, the new sergeant on the force who was known to have worked her ass off. And of course you were a fucking sniper, a hell of one that even the men who disliked you couldn’t mouth a word.

Something about it pissed him off, you were what he wanted to be. What he should’ve been and you were damn good at it. You were kind, too kind. How odd that you could hold such a level of optimism and humanity in a job like this.

How easily your peers flocked to you, people enjoyed your presence. A refreshing one compared to the one he brought every time he entered the room. Silence always fell over the laughter, eyes stuck to him like he was something unbearable to be around. He was respected through fear not his achievements.

Glances and words that were a coldness whenever it came to you. It was even more aggravating that despite it all, it was you that kept him up late at night.

The last thing he thought about before he went to sleep and the first he thought of when he awoke. Day in day out it was all you. No matter what he did you never left, he had to see you every damn day of the week. Nearly 24 hours a god damn day.

You were who he yelled at the loudest, punishments the made no sense compared to the fuck-up. Yet you still smiled at him, tried to laugh with him. Treated him with kindness and respect that wasn’t out of fear but admiration.

Why? What made him worth even being allowed in your vicinity.

A mission arose eventually like they always do. A two man job, one he sure as hell didn’t want to go on. Nobody’s hand raised, nor any voices raised to be his partner and everyone suggested you. How thoughtful? He was damn near seething when he had to approach and inform you of it. He practically threw the papers on your desk, “Ready in twenty Mäuschen.”

Your eyes searched over the papers in confusion before looking back up at him. You almost expected his words to be a weird sense of humor he had, but his eyes read he was far from joking. He narrowed his eyes at you like a predator stalking it prey. It was honestly quite terrifying how small he made you feel from a single glance.

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to smile or form some bullshit of a sentence that he’d rather not hear. You nodded your head shuffling the papers together, by time you had gathered your thoughts enough to look back up he was long gone. A sigh fell out your mouth as you slumped back in your chair, head resting in your palms.

It’s fine right? I mean sure he has an obvious distaste towards you but a mission is a mission. Wether he possibly hated you or not his work ethic wouldn’t allow him to let his personal feelings get in the way. If that’s what he even felt if anything at all, distaste or hatred? It’s all the same when it comes from him.

Shouldn’t you just give up? Call it quits? It’s been almost a month or two now since you’ve joined the team and he showed no signs of changing the relationship between y’all anytime soon. Let alone allowing you any type of close to him especially anything beyond a coworker type bases. It was obvious he only tolerated you cause he had to not because he wanted too.

What was supposed to be an in and out minimum contact mission ended up going completely haywire, nobody was supposed to get hurt, not on your side at the least.

Sure you’re on the field but never in immediate danger sure as hell not trying to save that monstrous of a man. A sniper, mere specter of the battle watching it unfold, finger firm on the trigger as König commanded your every move.

It was a bit of a surprise how well you flowed together. Synchronized movements with yards between y’all, moving as one. From the looks of it you’d almost have assumed you two had worked together for years but you two accomplished what would have taken some weeks of practice.

You trailed his every move through the scope becoming his eyes from the sky, the light blooming in the dark as his passion for blood seeped from him.

You weren’t sure if you should call it a passion or an obsession. Bloodlust even? He wasn’t just killing for the purpose of the mission he was doing it cause he enjoyed it. Yet for the most maddening of reasons he made it look beautiful.

Often or not people tend to forget the devil was once an angel, written out as this demonic being so atrociously evil. The devil dresses in ethereal dripping in sins so intoxicating you’d be fooled into falling for the fallen angel. He makes evil look heavenly as if there would be no price to pay for taking his hand.

Make no mistake there will always be a price to pay for dancing with the devil.

Something about it was enriching, exhilarating of an experience. To be tempted by the devil, by him. What did it make you? A craving coursed through you like a toxin as your watchful eyes admired him from afar. What you don’t know can’t hurt you right? It shouldn’t matter if you kept it to yourself. Just spectating like you always have would’ve been enough.

But like they always say careful what you wish for.

If it weren’t for the extensive training you went through you probably would’ve never seen the glint in the distance. Brief and quick you knew it all to well, the glare of a sniper. Within the brief thought process your finger pulled the trigger immediately downing the other sniper. They weren’t aiming at you though. Before you could fully understand the situation König’s voice rung out over the radio.

“Verdammter scheiß,” he cursed out through the radio, your hand immediately clicked too your own.

Your eyes searched the field where he had just been and he was nowhere to be seen. “Sir where are you, I took out the sniper but I lost sight of you?!” Your panicked voice called for him as you hurriedly gathered your gear. Leaving the sniper behind you rushing down from the spot you had been at. Slipping out the small pistol you carried along your belt.

You shoved through the trees towards where you assumed he had been. Overlooking the field from your current position it was damn near impossible to see him now with the cover of darkness. You cursed to yourself beginning to rack your brain for whatever the fuck you were gonna have to tell your team on why only one of you came back. Let alone your own personal feelings that lingered past the depths of a simple coworker relation.

It was your job to watch him the only reason you were brought along in the first place was to watch over König from the tree line assuring him cover as he infiltrated the building. “König you’re gonna have to tell me where you are or we’re both fucked,” you huffed at the radio as the dread clawing at you.

His voice cracked back over the radio, “Side building.” A hissed followed after the information as you worried over how much time there was before the loss of blood would kill him. You attempted to brush any of the thoughts out and focus on finding him first.

Sprinting through the shadows for cover, occasionally scanning the area. Your movements were quickly and fluid downing whatever men that managed to evade König’s wrath. It was fairly easy to locate the man considering the bodies he left in his wake.

“König?!?” You yelled as you darted around corners in search of him. A soft pained groaned echoed nearby in response from beside you. Your eyes immediately shot over to the sound only too find the man slumped up against a wall. A sizable pool of blood beside him a grim expression grew on your face at the sight.

The man was painted in the crimson decorating his entire uniform in it and for once it was mixed with his own. He could hardly tell the difference between what blood was and wasn’t his own.

There were no words as you rushed to his side searching for the wound on his body. It was what he was longing to feel. His body draining of its life. He was content with having died then and there but how could he when someone was so desperately calling out for him?

Someone who he had never shown an ounce of kindness too. Such a worried expression painted on her face, for a demon like him? A man who thought he didn’t deserve nor thought to ever receive such kindness, such warmth.

He grunted loudly choking harshly on his own blood, his eyes burned through his hood at the woman before him. He hadn’t spoken a word as you tended to the bullet that ripped a hole midway through his abdomen. The bleeding was a large amount staining your hands a dark red.

The thought had made him sad, his soiled blood tainting your skin. That’s not right your hands should be cleaned, cleansed of him. He feared his monstrous blood would only infect yours like a deadly disease, he was only dragging your soul from heaven.

Anytime you asked a question or spoke it was only met with a meek glance from his side. You quickly learned to read the emotions within his eyes. “Dammit you scared the shit out of me you know?” You whispered yelled your complaints making haste on stuffing the wound with the bandages you had on hand. At least so could make it back too some form of safety without worry of him bleeding out before then.

You motioned for him to stand up as you hurriedly helped him out of sight and to a near by building. It was funny to him someone of your size practically struggling to keep him up shuffling together through the building. Nether the less getting him back safely.

A loud grunt fell out your mouth as you searched for something he could lay on. You found a nearby table shoving the mess of items off it. He groaned half hazardously sitting down on the thing as you glanced around before finding a med-kit to properly treat his wound.

You had panicked eyes as you flipped through your brain for the shit you half listened to during basic medical training. Your shit memory never doing you good as parts of the information blurred out. Especially considering your new position and usually if ever directly in the middle of the combat.

You muttered multiple sorry’s after every sound he made his hand occasionally slamming at the table signifying you were more then likely doing something wrong. Your attempt was surely not the best but decent enough to keep him alive before a evacuation team could get too you.

In truth it did hurt like hell but it wasn’t something he hadn’t been through before. He probably could’ve stitched it himself but you were desperately offering your help. Soft gentle hands that were steady but a shaking voice as you made apologetic comments towards him. For once he thanked having always worn his hood cause you would’ve seen the nasty look on his face.

He was smiling, fucking smiling. He was enjoying this. You helping, tending to him.

It was a pretty damn sight to as you sat bent down looking over his abdomen. Hand pressing tenderly at his skin before pulling the needle through making up a half decent stitching job.

You’d occasionally glance up towards him sending this man into a frustrated frenzy. You shouldn’t look at him like that not this close. That worried glassed over look in your eyes. You were trusting him too much, what if he decided too just grab hold of you? He could couldn’t he, snap that pretty neck with ease. Could you be anymore naive?

That made him sick didn’t it, a freak of nature probably. He understood long before he wasn’t going to be save, the thoughts he had flooding in his head. What he was thinking of you, what he wanted to do too you. Yet here you were blessing his body with care and stitches made from nothing but pure kindness and compassion with a reassuring smile.

Maybe it was then when your fate had been decided, when he decided you were going to be his. The angel that was made just for him, just how he was made for you. You weren’t just any angel. You were his angel, his saving grace from the hellish life that threatened to drive him right off the edge.

It was almost like a light switch in his changing behavior, it’s was rapid. Too quick that it should’ve been a sign then but you were happy excited even. It’s what you had been wanting, he was finally accepting towards you.

For you it was a new friend made but for him it was a vast difference. As if his world had stopped turning only to revolve around you. The gift bestowed upon him by god, had it been some apology for casting him out? Surely it was why else where you so kind to him?

“I brought us both coffee,” you’d exclaim with a soft smile offering him the large cup that looked like a small in his hands. That means you feel the same right? It had to be the little favors you did for him and nobody else. Feeding his deranged fantasy of the love between you.

Bits of small talk you’d offer rambling about whatever crossed your mind as he hovered over you. He’d simply listen to everyone taking note of anything you’d mentioned you liked or hated that would randomly pop up on your desk or at your doorstep. A soft look in his eyes that’d narrow if another man even dared to look your way, which was more often than he could handle.

The occasion praises of adoration you’d spew as he’d showed off the knife tricks he’s taught himself over the years. Your praise alone was enough to fulfill him. Tricks that seemed to always fascinate you. He would continued to do anything you asked of him if it made you happy in any sense, all you had to do was ask. Over time he began to realize your focus never on the knife but his hands. Eyes darting around after every flip and flick. A small perk of a smile on your face, lips parted slightly as you shamelessly stared at the man.

And by gods did he use that to his advantage, you need something of a higher self? Oh but of course but his free hand will mange to find its way to your waist squeezing every so gently. He needs by? “Entschuldigung,” he’d whisper in that gentle tone as he pressed his hands at your sides moving you himself.

Eyes that went wide as you’d give a quick apologetic nod unable to form a proper response at times. A soft shudder that followed every time despite the seemingly endless amount of times you just so happened to be in his path. Your sweet voice echoing desperately in his ears on the few occasions you would apologize.

‘Oh I’m sorry.’ ‘My apologies sir.’ ‘Sorry sir.’

As if he wasn’t the one planning every action down to the bone just cause he knew it’d get a rise out of you.

‘Haven’t you been taught not to play with your food?’

For you it never applied to him, a brushed of his hands as you put your gear on insisting it would make it easier on you. He’s happy to help he’d say. Smiles, he was all smiles under that damned hood of his. It was almost impossible how far the man could smile but you could debate the sheer size of the man was simply impossible. Nearly twice your size, at the very least a foot taller. Like always you’d gracefully accept his helping bounder-less hands, only ever further indulging his desires. He was having fun with this, with you.

Seemed to understand and know everything you liked. That new song you mention unable to find it again, “Oh you mean__?” He’d tilt his head as you as you’d scoff in surprise. “Yeah actually, how’d you know?” he’d only ever follow up with a shrug walking away as you chalked it up to some funny coincidence.

It never would be though cause he already knew that about you, every core details you ever posted, wrote or tweeted about. If it was public he found it, he knew exactly who you were and it only depended his affection. Despite the man’s age he was not stupid by any means especially technologically wise, it was a terrifying level of understanding.

Stalking every corner of your socials, hell even old ones you forgot about that were assumed to be deleted. Every photo or video you’ve ever posted he had seen them all, downloaded and saved. That nice little folder for you on his personal computer named, ‘Engelchen.’ It was mostly for him to gawk at on the days it had been too long since you last posted anything new. There were a few other uses for the photos he stole found of you.

A handful on his new phone he bought just for the times he’s deployed for a long period of time unable to access his computer. He wouldn’t dare to have them on his work on, what if others seen you? He couldn’t have anybody else’s greedy eyes on what was his.

Probably why on a deranged night he broke into your apartment, that day that photo you posted and it had garnered a bit too much attention for his liking. He tired to talk himself out of it multiple times, it should’ve only been for his eyes alone. He was growing needy, possessively dangerous.

“Mien engel, warum hast du das getan?!” It drove the man mad. It was this uncontrollable craze he’d never felt before. Anger and adrenaline flooded his veins as he found himself in your living room. Shouldn’t you be a lot more careful I mean an open window? Seriously?

It was so obvious you need him to protect you, care for you and be that knight in shining armor for his angel.

His soundless footsteps treaded through the rooms, his head tilting as he knelt down in-front of your bed. Your sleeping form entangled in the sheets, a peaceful expression that was just as he imagined. He reached his gloved hands over your face brushing the stray hairs from your eyes getting a clear view. He couldn’t bring himself to feel your skin with his bear hands, he wouldn’t be able to control himself then.

He stared a few moments more before tearing through your dresser digging through the drawers finally finding what he came for. That damn outfit you wore in the god forsaken photo, simple solution. You can’t wear something you don’t have right? So he’ll just hold on to it for you! Until he knows for sure you’d only wear it with him, and him alone. A few other keepsakes as well.

It was only after that late night he spent at your apartment that it had truly worsened, out your sight of course. He knew better than that. His hands that began to kill all for your protection, or jealousy it was all the same to him. Persistent recruits who suddenly returned home on short notice only for their photos to later be plastered on their hometown news. Even friends you’ve know for years, he knew the look of a man’s lustful stare better then anyone. Cause it was the same look he followed you with.

He kept track of everyone you’ve ever mentioned making a mental note to fill himself in on any information he could find on them. Occasionally using his rank to pull background checks on someone’s presence that really ircked him. It was never hard to find information anyways. It didn’t matter what he had to do all that matters is making sure you only seen him.

König’s face was painted in a bloodied smile at the sight of the man’s fettle attempts at defiance. The blood poring from the finial cut along his throat. He preferred to do it slow. Painfully slow edging the various men to their deaths. What they dared to do? Trying to take something that was his. The first time he talked to you in front of him he tired to leave it be. What if his death upset you, Oh it upsets you?

It’ll be perfect, you slumped crying in his arms as he soothed your cries. Being there right when you needed it. Arms that you found comfort in when you rushed to his office when you made discovery of the death. Having no one else to turn too, it pains him more than anything to cause you such suffering. But it was necessary measures, to ensure you seen just how perfect he was for you. How much you needed him to care for you.

It was enough of repeating occurrences that you began questioning the nature of the sudden disappearances. All men who attempted to flirt with you. “I can talk to them and scare ‘em off for you, ja?” he suggested when you half heartedly complained about them. Surely not, could he have? It didn’t make sense to you, or was it that you didn’t want it to make sense.

The same man who took you out on heart throbbing dates, that left you with a fluttering feeling. They were perfect in every sense, exactly what you’d imagined that perfect teenage love story you missed out on as a kid. It was the first time you’ve ever been show such a level of devotion. Not the man who cluttered your gallery with the photos you had taken of or with him, he made you happy.

Someone who you were falling head over heels for, accepting that seemingly darker parts of him that didn’t bother you. Who knew they were this dark? He’d never do anything to hurt you, not on purpose at the least. He said he wanted to be with you build a life together. Brought you little gifts during works hours despite the list of rules discouraging dating ranks higher then you. It made you feel like a love sick school girl all over again, excitement that only filled you when he was around. How he’d swear to come back in one piece if a mission forced separation between y’all.

Your body was still damn near motionless as you felt your body go stiff at the images. You should’ve minded your business, why’d you have to be so damn nosey. König had just brought you back to his house for the first time after one of your dates together suggesting he could make dinner for you. You sat at the bar near his kitchen as he said he’d only be a minute. His laptop that has been left open was across from you, you tilted your head a bit in curiosity as the photo on it looked familiar. It would’ve been better if you hadn’t know.

It was of you, at first a giggle left your mouth as you began clicking through the said photos. Recent ones of you two doing various things, mostly you though. A smile was beaming on your face at the sight, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. It was cute how he kept these goofy photos of you two. Your hand miss clicked as you accidentally exited out the previews of them causing your smile too immediately fade.

There was more, to many too have been all taken recently. Why was there so many? You began to feel sick as you scrolled down. “Oh my god…” you choked out as you clicked on photo after photo ones you’ve never given him. Shivers went down your spine as footsteps sounded from behind you.

It was him wasn’t it?

“I love you,” is what he had said but why were they laced with such venom, and why did it feel so unsettling. You should be overjoyed right? Someone gave a shit, how he loved and cared so deeply. Yet the words left you in a cold sweat, veins coursing with this thing he considered love.

That’s why his computer was filled with photos, painted in his love for you. “Du bist wunderschön,” your eyes darting along the screen in a slow aching feeling after each click of the next photo. Mouthing running dry as a nasty taste flooded over your tongue.

It was fear, pure unbridled fear.

Every word was dripping in terror, what were you supposed to say? It made you sick, those twisting knots in your stomach. Your hand crept over your mouth as you tried to hold back the sudden wave of nausea. This was the first time you had feared the man before you.

Sure he’s done some odd shit before but this? This was only showing the beginnings of the man’s sheer lack of sanity. “You love me too right?” He spoke with that same reassuring tone but it suddenly made your skin crawl.

Confusion flooded judgement as you tried to process what was even happening. Love? You loved him right you always have. But at the same time it feels terrifying to love a man like him. His eyes looked over you in anguish as you doubted what words you were going to say next.

Your eyes dared to say as if you didn’t and it showed in his that it wouldn’t be an answer he’d willingly accept. “I love you too,” the words simply fell out your mouth, wether it was the truth or not had long been gone. It hadn’t mattered if you did or not he would show you anyways.

His hands moved to hold your cheeks as he shushed you the tears beginning to pool in you eyes, assuring you it was fine. “It was you wasn’t it?” your voice broke as you began to understand what he had done. That it was only acts of love, why he had blood on his hands in that name of his love for you. His gaze was simply deranged in itself. He did not understand nor want to understand why this could be so wrong, why it made you sick to your stomach. How it made you consider the idea of run away from him.

Not like you’d get far anyways.

He wiped are your tears as he explained how this wasn’t anything to worry about. He even suggested deleting all photos if it made you that upset, he never meant to hurt you. “I didn’t know this would upset you my love,” his eyes wore a saddened worried expression, hushed sorry’s as he soothed your worries.

I mean maybe he’s right you know, simply being irrational it was all photos you’ve publicly posted so it wasn’t necessarily private information. Definitely not the hardest of things to find. You keep photos of your favorite idol plastered all over your bedroom walls, now isn’t that the same thing? It’s fine you love him and he loves you it shouldn’t matter if he has a few photos of you. It’s not like it’s some stranger with these photos, it’s him your lovable sweet König.

“It’s okay,” a mumbled of words you made in a stupid belief that this man wasn’t borderline criminally insane. How he didn’t mean any harm no not him, sweet König wouldn’t do that. He’d never lay a finger on you, the man practically praised the ground you walk on like some goddess offering him salvation.

What’s a few photos if it means loving him? Nothing that’ll ever compare to the drug of his love.

This shouldn’t be so appealing you shouldn’t be wanting this, craving for him. Heart and mind were claiming their own reasons as to why you should and shouldn’t. He cares for you maybe he cares too much? A few bodies isn’t anything new, you’ve killed with your own hands before. Is there really any difference between what you and him do? The reasons are just slightly different.

Similar times to when you pitied Eve for the blame she had taken as her teeth sunk into temptation of the devil. He lies decorated it all your known desires. He’s terribly good at what he does isn’t he?

Your hand reached out at the disheveling flames, hovering over. It burned and stung like the same feeling his love for you gives. Its strange, you almost thought you were crazy yourself, probably would be too anybody else. But they’d never understand the relationship you two had. Nobody ever understands what the devil chooses to take and leave.

“Mein Schazti, what are you doing out here? You’ll catch a cold,” König spoke from the doorway, you turned to face him as his hair hung with wet droplets. The scars he boar on his face or else where along his body, each a different life that was taken and fought till their last breath. You glanced back over at the clothes that had turned into mere ashes of what was.

How many times was this now? Covering for the being before you, the man that replaced your shadow. Creaked his way into your life seeping through the cracks like the devil on your shoulder. He knew everything there was to know about you. Wether it was sone sick part of you the enjoyed the affection he gave you. You were okay with it, choosing to love him in every sense. Nobody could ever love someone like you the way he can is what he said.

“Nothing my love just getting rid of some old clothes is all,” a gentle reassuring smile following your words. He looked down behind you humming at the sight. He lifted off the doorway taking a few steps towards you before placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

For better or worse you were forever his, as he was yours.

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