#the bullet-proof bomb

[edsonjnovaes]

Corrida muito maluca!

Palavras Perdidas: Carros inspirados em desenhos, 80 atividades para crianças: simples, divertidas, de baixo custo e todas dentro de casa, Filmes e seus carros, Cars, planes, trucks and Teepees on Historic Route 66., What’s happening here?!? Participe de nosso grupo no WhatsApp Recomendo: Art and culture of the native peoples of our planet. ART AMBA MIRIM Share, help us lift other flights.

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#batmobile #caça fantasmas #Corrida Maluca #corrida maluca hanna-barbera #De Lorean #ean #esquadrão classe a #herbie bug #mach 05 #super maquina kitty #tartarugas ninja mutantes #the arkansas chuggabug #the army surplus speciial #the bullet-proof bomb #the buzz wagon #The compact pussycat #the convert a car #the creepy coupe #the crimson hayballer #the machine #the mean machine #the turbo terific #the turbo terrific #tje boulder mobile

[easternmind]

Last year in classic games

For motives I cannot expand on with much glee, I found a little more time than usual this year to reduce my seemingly endless backlog of classics. Despite all the fine new releases 2023 has greeted us with, I was able to finally dive into this eclectic handful of games I gathered over time. It is perhaps no coincidence that I reached out for more direct game experiences than story-driven ones. I find myself increasingly drawn to games designs that are mindful of the player's time as a commodity not to be carelessly squandered.

One note, if I may: I would like to inspire my readers to progressively discard the use of the word retro this year. We are all of advancing years and wisdom, I trust. The introduction of the term retro to the videogame vernacular was a gross mistake furthering the abhorrent notion that games were as ephemeral in their nature as fashion. It is a purely commercial designation by which to profitably repackage old software as a category of its own, originating from the same minds that considered games as mere novelty trinkets of limited marketable lifespan.

It is up to the player to individually decide on an older game's appeal, whether they may be discovering it for the first time or revisiting it for the umpteenth one. This is not only an appeal for those of you who write about games in any capacity, rather to anyone who takes videogames as a serious interest and communicates with others about this the object of their predilection. Thank you.

This loose cart came with a Famicom bundle auction I won in 2009, if memory serves. I turned on the Famicom and tested it merely to verify if it was still in working condition and found myself engrossed in that trademark Pajitnov/Pokhilko elegant approach to game design. As per the cassette's label, Hatris was originally a concept developed in collaboration with ParaGraph, a Russian studio that went on to develop specialized professional software, a year before the Bullet-Proof Software licensing deal. They produced a few games in the turn of the decade that were rather unusual and, some would say, even visionary. I recommend that you look up their story, if you're curious.

The only entry from the group that isn't of Japanese provenance - though it is a Japanese edition - I played it for purely nostalgic motives, perhaps a yearning for a certain pixel, palette and parallax that resoundingly evoke a time I was fortunate enough to experience, first-hand. If I may be honest, I purchased the game for the visual value of its unique cover art, which I deem superior to the US edition's. In saying that, I must highlight that the original Amiga game box art was quite accomplished.

In the Summer of 93 while on holiday at the beach, there was a French Nintendo magazine for sale whose purchase I could not resist. It was very common to find Spanish, English and French publications at the time in Portugal. This edition had a striking four page preview of this Jaleco gem, Ikari no Yōsai, or Operation Logic Bomb as it was named in the West. For years I searched the PAL version in vain, then ultimately decided to import it on account of - you'd never guess! - the superior box art. Playing it this year at long last, I was instantly reminded of an old Game Boy favourite, Fortified Zone, which I now know to be its prequel. Most top-down shooters are best played in co-op. Ikari no Yōsai is strictly and single-player affair and not once did I miss the absence of a friendly companion.

Keio Flying Squadron 2 first came to my attention via an infamous Saturn demo disc, which came into my hands through circumstances I have since forgotten about. I use the word infamous because the entire game code was available in the disc and the level select cheat code enabled me to unscrupulously play the entirety of the game for no additional expense - at only the cost of missing out on the colourful Studio Pierrot anime FMV interludes.

Having played the sequel first, I was somewhat disenchanted to learn the original game did not feature any platforming segments, it being a pure scrolling shooter in the same whimsical vein as Parodius or, say, an AirZonk. Still, a jolly good time with the old three buttons.

For reasons that will not be immediately apparent to younger reading audiences, I pride myself in having completed most Shinobi games, The Revenge Of and GG being my preferred ones. Shin Shinobi Den, or Shinobi X in Europe, was a game not readily available from my usual game dealers. I eventually borrowed the PAL version once, though not nearly long enough to master it. I finally saw it through this year, mere days before SEGA announced a new episode. While the live action clips looked a tad maladroit in the 1990s, they came to acquire that nice patina I now look for in classic games.

Omega Force was known to take the sporadic breather from producing some of KOEI's most cherished and profitable series. I distinctly remember enjoying Destrega quite a bit in its day, a game quite unlike any other. What their 1998 Enigma lacks in consistency and originality, it more than amply makes up for with its own bizarre concepts, extravagant characters and unexpected genre fusions. Of all the titles in this post, this was the one whose pace felt the most sluggish, and needlessly so.

Microsoft Game Studio Japan release schedule plans were not at all kind on this, their first production, Magatama. Earlier this year I praised this era for its highly inspired H&S action adventure titles and even spent a few days delighting myself with the likes of Blood Will Tell, Nightshade, Bujingai, or Chaos Legion. This most unusual creation, developed by the aptly-named Team Breakout - a group composed of many talented ex-Square employees - is one among the finest of the era. Sadly, it did not do enough to persuade players at the time that it was a better purchase than Otogi or its sequel. Playing it with my mind and heart set back in time to 2003, I can say that this misguided consideration may not have withstood a second thought.

I've long wanted to write an extensive article on Japanese firefighting games. In fact, I have the structure laid out for a Japanofiles entry gathering moss in my Tumblr drafts for over a decade now. For a brief period this year I convinced myself I could finally fulfil this aspiration and resumed Sakurazaka Shouboutai as research. Developed by Racdym - later Racjin - for Irem, it is every bit as good as Firefighter F.D.18 or Hard Luck, and in many ways more inventive from a conceptual standpoint. While Konami and Spike found a way to have their games released in the west, Sakurazaka's poor regional sales performance clearly accounts for Irem's reluctance to bear the cost of an overseas ticket.

#hatris #paragraph #bullet-proof software #wolfchild #mega cd #Ikari no Yōsai #operation logic bomb #fortified zone #jaleco #super nintendo #keio flying squadron #victor entertainment #shin shinobi den #shinobi x #shinobi legions #sega saturn #enigma #omega force #koei #magatama #xbox #Sakurazaka Shouboutai #irem #racjin #racdym

[undercoverpena]

it's you. it's me.

simon ghost riley x f!reader (reader!helen) wordcount: 5.3k (i have zero self-control) summary: he never wanted to get married. he’s not sure when you became the exception. an: mention of loss, blood. smut. emotions. angst. fluff (usual jo-shit)

simon ghost riley masterlist

++

He never wanted to get married.  Marriage meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leads. Leads led to death.  Not just for him, but for the poor soul he’d chain to him. The one who he’d rather not have than know their life was ended because of him. Because he’s supposed to be dead.  He’s not sure when you became the exception.  Unsure when you buried yourself so deep into his veins he needs you more than blood, oxygen and bullets.

++

Shit hit the fan. 

Some missions were worse than others. Some leave more than scars and nightmares.

Today was bad. Even he knew that. 

Alpha 0-3 lay on the floor, unconscious proof of it. 

Half the soldiers they’d gone with—dead, KIA. 

His jaw is tight, almost cracking as he stares at Johnny—unsure how they’ve walked away from it. How they’re both here, surrounded by silence as the few who have survived try to process.

He almost says something, spits it out. But then he hears it—your orders.

They’re piercing and direct. Coming over the radio as the blades overhead slow, guiding them down to the ground. He feels it—the itch to get to you. To bury his hands in your hair and pull your face to him. 

Ghost makes do with meeting your eyes when the rear opens, your eyes scanning him, the briefest mist of relief over your lips, cheeks and eyes before you nod.

“Later?”  Later.

He responds in the same silence, puncturing it with a nod. 

The two of you had your own spoken language—something he’d mastered quicker than he had any other language. But then, speaking Helen had more pros than cons. More benefits than listening to enemies talk shit about him and his mask. 

All he could do was watch as you followed the carried body. 

Unsure what version of you he’d find later—what fragments of you he’d have to scoop up. If there would even be pieces left where they were supposed to be. 

Secretly, and selfishly, he just hopes the pieces of him match with the pieces of you. Praying they slot together until the two of you can both return to some semblance of a whole. 

It’s then he has to remind himself it’s a luxury having you. War takes so much—the darkness takes so much more. 

It’s a reward to pull you close to him after a shit show like this; it’ll be a gift to feel your breath on his chest. Even more so for your fingers to draw those bloody shapes on his side—dancing over healed scars and your needle stitching. 

“C’mon, Johnny,” he snaps, filling the air with something other than failings, disappointment and held breath. “Briefing. Now.” 

+

You crumble. 

Lost it. Lost them. 

Losing is part of the war, part of the battle. But, it doesn’t sting any less, doesn’t make it easier to swallow. 

Call it.  But— I said call it. 

Your gloved hands clenching and unclenching. Desperately clinging, digging your toes into your boots as you try to not unravel. You could do it alone. When they’d left. When the room was emptied and there was only you and your failure on the table. 

They moved to leave. Quickly. Announcing they’d check the others—the ones who had wounds but still had air in their lungs. Your eyes blinking, the machines turning off, their boots squeaking before the door to the theatre squeals. 

That’s when you look at their backs, firing a quick, but soft thank you. Something those above you didn’t do when you were in their position—when you were them, head hung down, feeling the weight of another loss. 

Both of them meet your eyes, and you reward them with a smile, one which tells them it’s not on them—a smile which says you can’t win them all. Something you don’t believe, have never believed but can understand why it’s a comfort. 

They nod, and they leave. 

Not knowing you’re ticking, that you’re a bomb. Emotions bubbling, fizzing and hissing. Time ticks as you wait. For what you’re unsure. 

Silence? The moment to snap? 

It would have needed a miracle. The damage was extensive—you knew that, you’d already calculated it before you’d begun. A life, was a life. A person had people. 

You stare at the corpse—the one which had a beating heart minutes ago, the one which had the slimmest chance, but a chance all the same. 

You could feel it crushing you. The weight of loss. The failure pecking at your bones—good soldiers lost. Gone. 

Because your fucking hands weren’t quick enough. 

++

You’re not in your office. 

Not in the infirmary or the utility cupboard you often hide in. 

The one he’s somehow crammed himself into when you’ve needed a minute—hands grasping at his belt buckle. 

He’d counted the bodies hooked up to machines. 

Realised quickly, but not quickly enough. The soles of his feet hammer down, and it dawns on him how shit shit was. 

He’d felt the thrum in his chest earlier. The knot of something undoing—his gut telling, screaming and kicking that something was wrong. Now he knows what. 

Because he knows you. It’s why he cuts down corridors and passes soldiers who almost flatten themselves to the wall as he passes. 

Doing so until he finds you, and finds you he does. 

If someone told him he grasped his chest at the sight of you, he’d have crushed their windpipe with his palm. But, as he stepped through his open door, spotting you pressed into the corner of his room, he unclenches his hand from his jacket. 

You’ve been broken. A shattered raft out at sea, lost and delirious in grief. 

But this is worse.

His foot closes the door, waiting for a reaction—finding none. Nothing. Not an arch of your brow, not a snort.  

Your knees remain bent, elbows hanging over them. There’s a distant, empty look in your eyes. Both of them almost glazed over, like the light in them has been snuffed out. 

Exactly how Johnny had described them to him when he’d come looking for him, having passed you…

But, it’s that plus the fact your bloody apron is still on, your blue gloves crumbled before you—boots removed, white sock-covered feet flat on his floor. 

The only way he can even tell you’re alive and awake is from the slow rise and fall of your chest—the occasional blink here and there. 

He knows how often you’ve taken care of him. You’ve stitched him. Stapled him. 

You’ve listened and you’ve sat as he had shouted. 

Most of all, you have looked for him—found him. You’ve saved him from falling into a hole. Even going as far as to find him behind the mess, cold ebbing at him as your fingers snake under his mask—not to remove it, but to touch the back of his neck. 

I’ve got you. Ghost, I have you. Simon. Simon, I’ve got you. I’ll always have you. 

Your eyes staring into his, saying those words over and over until he can blink a little easier—he can move your hand under the mask to his lips so he can kiss them. 

And he knows it’s his turn now. 

He crouches, sliding a glove from his hand, brushing his finger over your cheek, watching your eyes flicker—registering him, acknowledging. 

“Helen.”

Your lips twitch. 

The name usually does that. The one he uses more than your own. At this point, he’s unsure if you truly hate it or just hate that you love it. He prefers it, personally. Not because he dislikes your name, but because he’s the only one who calls you this. The only one who gets that glint in your eye, that twitch of your lips. 

His fingers trace down your cheek, running to clutch your chin. You’re cold, so impossibly cold, watching your teeth nip at your lip, watching for the tremble, the quiver he knows is due to come. Not taking his eyes from you as they stare back at him, all sunken and sad, but still somehow more beautiful than any fucking sunrise he’s ever seen. 

He whispers your name—your real name, stroking the skin under your chin as he feels you swallow against his little finger. 

“Y’know why Price likes you?” 

He wraps his other hand around your arm, feeling you move with him—allowing him to lift you to your feet. Your plastic apron is crinkling, feet shuffling until he can lift you with ease. 

“Cause I’m cheap for saying I’m good with a scalpel and a PC?” 

Ghost shakes his head, wanting to chastise you—but he assumes you’re doing that enough to yourself for the two of them. 

Instead, he forces his fingers to lift your chin. “Because you give a shit, Helen.”

“I don’t want to.” 

“I know.” 

Your hands gently clutching his mask-covered cheeks, staring into his eyes as you silently stare. Not saying anything with your lips, but plenty with your eyes. 

“What do you want, hmm?” 

You. I want you. 

His hands take your wrists, holding you, not letting go.

“I don’t want to think. Just… make me forget, help me not give a shit, Simon.” 

And he knows what you need, what you’re too afraid to ask for. Fuck me like a whore, Ghost. Fuck me until I'm whimpering and begging cause I can't take anymore. 

You have said those words once. Albeit drunk, confidence propped up with vodka and fruit juice. But, if you had that same confidence now, he imagines it’s what you’d ask for. And who is he to say no? How could he? 

You’ve looked up at him from your place between his thighs, knees on stone and dirt as your hand wrapped around the base of him. Let your tongue swirl over his tip, tasting him, hollowing your cheek, sucking, teeth grazing down his shaft when he needed it the most. When he needed something so similar. 

Some drink to forget the bad days.

The two of you fuck until your raw, till you’re both full of something other than regret and sadness.

He’s aware he shouldn’t, not this time.

Ghost should hold your cheeks, stare into those pretty eyes he’d happily burn the world for, and take you for a shower, washing the day from your skin and bones. Because you’re crumbling, the parts of your confidence withering—hoping and needing to feel good, to be good. 

And he can prove that to you without fucking you senseless. He can name an infinite amount of fucking things that prove you’re good, that you’re kind, and that you can do what you can do. 

Because you’re you. 

You've wormed your way inside of him, flooded the darkest parts of him with light and made a slither of him think he deserved you.

Your hand presses to his chest, cold and timidly. All of sudden so aware of how delicate and thin your fingers are, how small and delicate it is next to his scarred, worn skin. 

“Please, Simon.” 

And he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your scrubs at the whisper of his name—feeling you hold his shoulders as you kick them into some distant corner. 

You silently thank him when he rips the disposable apron, balling it before tossing it. Letting your fingers, those soft, slightly calloused, healing fingers slide under his top—run over his skin, over the places you’ve stitched.

He doesn’t move, even if he wants to. Letting you brush over the hair on his stomach, run your nails over the lines of his muscles. Letting you read him as if his scars are Braille, allowing yourself the reminder of the times you’ve saved and healed. 

And then he pulls your chin up. 

++ 

“‘You sure you want this?” 

Ghost is rarely gentle, but Simon sometimes is.

The man you have in front of you is some hybrid of the two—masked up, but with the eyes of Simon. All blue, like the ocean, willing to drag you down. 

Sometimes they’re like the water you’d expect to be licking a sandy beach, and sometimes they’re so dark you’d fear what breathed under the watery depths. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to breathe when he looks at you. When his eyes—all swirls of blue surrounded by charcoal black—curl into you. He’s big, broad and tall, and so much more than you could have ever known you’d have. 

He makes heat pool between your legs with one look, and makes you feel safe by just being close. Even if he doesn’t see it—doesn’t fathom it at all—you’d throw away all your values and beliefs of saving people, and rip them apart with your hands to get to him. 

You feel his thumb flutter over your scar, the one on your hip from a bullet meant for him. He hates it, and yet always strokes it. A memory forever embedded into your skin he can’t help but press play on, even if he knows how it ends.

You shouldn’ have done that, Helen.  I’d do it again. Stupid, woman. You’re a fuckin’ idiot. Only for you, Ghost. Only for you.

Your hands move to his belt, undoing it—the clang of metal piercing the air. 

“Helen?” 

You look at him, meet him in those beautiful blue eyes. Don’t ask me to talk, Simon. Your lungs are tightening, aching, as if each emotion you’re holding in is made from molten ash. 

You crack his belt like a whip with the speed of releasing it from his hooks, eyes holding his more firmly, blinking away the weakness—the emotions, the fucking audacity of the day. 

“Be my reason,” you say. 

To breathe. To keep fighting. To get up. 

++

For his sins, he’s gentle. 

Both in the way he lays your naked frame on his bed and the way he runs his fingers over the inside of your thigh. 

He wants to devour you, plunge his tongue into your cunt and taste everything you’ll give him. He almost does—instead he breathes over you, watching your hips try to wiggle, his other hand holding you in place. 

He lifts his head, watching, earning the sights he’s about to behold as he eases two fingers inside of you. You’re wet, warm—but it’s the way your lips fall that makes his hip roll against his mattress. 

With each movement, he watches for your reaction. Like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and you are. 

You whimper. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter, and your mouth falls open. And it’s all for him. 

With each rise of your chest, breath hitches, and he runs his mask down your abdomen. Feeling how slick you are against his fingers, how you whimper, both pleading and breathless. Even through the mask, he can smell your arousal, how you want him to take you apart—practically taste it all in the air. 

He curls his fingers, watching as your hand grasps his forearm. More, Simon. More. Your other knotting his sheets in between your fingers, a root, something to grip until space, time and life crashes into you and makes your throat sore as you moan his name around his room. 

He wants it too. He wants to earn his name, coax it from your beautiful pink, swollen lips and wear it with pride. 

But, Ghost also wants something else. 

Normally, he’d give you everything you want, and more. From the feral look in your eye, you want to be turned away from him, for him to be rough—and normally, fuck he’d want that too. 

He’d want to split you apart, know that you’ll be thinking—feeling—him for the next fucking three days. 

He admittedly also likes the sight. 

Something about getting to see your arse while holding your tits, and having the ability to suck red and purple welts on your neck. The best, though, is when you try to wiggle to see him—catch sight of him. Your eyes pressed into the corner of your sockets, hands gripping nothing as he takes you apart with his cock.

Ghost likes fucking you like that—likes fucking you when you have nowhere to go. Pinning you. Locking you in place. 

Not that you ever want to go, he knows you don’t. 

You’re so fucking big, Simon. 

You clench around him like you never want him to stop filling you. A vice on him that he never wants to rid of either. 

Because Helen likes to be pinned, to be smothered by his body. You like him looming over you, dwarfing you; like him lifting you and fucking you against walls, doors and even fucking windows. 

He suspects it’s because you like to surrender control, like for it to be taken from her. So used to being in control, needing to be, and people depending on it. to be taken away from her. 

Your thighs quiver, soft protests as he slides another finger inside of you. Stretching you. 

“Fuck… Simon, fuck.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” 

He doesn’t lessen, listening to each whimper and moan, lifting his mask so he can kiss your skin—teeth grazing as he curls his fingers, thumb swiping over your swollen clit as your hips try to cant against his hand. 

The sensation of your fingers in his hair, makes him groan as he captures your lips. All teeth, tongue and messy, both pushing your legs wider and pulling your hips to him all in one movement. 

Needy. Desperate. Hungry. 

And then you're clenching, hips tensing before a hand grips his mask—and then you come, hips spasming, thighs shaking. 

++

Often, you let him leave the mask on—partly. 

You like to kiss him, like to bury your moans against his mouth. You’ve seen him, know him. You know the shape of his cheekbones and the silver scars. 

“Your eyes are enough for me. Never take them from me.”  “Never.” 

He's being a tease. 

Sliding inch by inch of himself into you. His tongue in your mouth, your focus on the fiery stretch he provides as he buried himself to the hilt. 

He rears his hips back until he fills you all over again, faster, sharper, more purposeful. And it’s sinful. It’s fucking bliss and a high you don’t even deserve. Not as you begin to meet his thrusts with a squeeze, a clench. Hearing his hiss, watching him place his mask-covered forehead against yours. 

Because he’s deep. So fucking deep. 

Sheathed inside of you at an angle you’ve not known before. Almost unsure what your body has had to adjust to accommodate him. Not that you care, you never fucking care. 

You want him to claim you, mould himself inside of you. Because the sting passes, the size of him is something you never prepare for. Your nails are in the back of his hair, your lips almost meeting him as he ruts into you. Your eyes gazing down, watching where the two of you meet, and you’re not sure you’ll ever tire of it—of him. 

You imagine each muscle of his, tightening and flexing—especially as he rocks into you at alternating speeds, your eyelashes fluttering, feeling beads of sweat build at your brow. 

He’s everything. 

He’s fucking fire and ice, both dusk and dawn and everything in between. Your eyes blink open, seeing his own truth—seeing it as he grunts and his hand tightens on your hip as he seats himself deeply into you. 

The words are like licks of fire up your spine, mixing and blending with searing pleasure. 

I love you. I love you. 

You know. 

Fuck you know. 

Your lips crash and swallow the words he hasn’t yet said. Feeling him shake, as your toes curl, red-hot pleasure desperate to smother every inch of you and spread along every single nerve. 

His hips losing their rhythm, hammering the head of his cock against that spot which makes the sound of him filling you so damn deplorable. 

You whine for him. 

Biting down on his lip as it slams into you, snapping you, tears spilling down your eyes as his name storms past your lips as he holds you in place. 

Fucking you through it. 

Holding you, pinning you—until he fills you, his hips shuddering, fingers bruising until they slowly unclench from your hip. 

++

If someone cracked his head open, they’d see that one of his favourite things is holding you. 

He won’t admit it. 

Not even under the worst of tortures. 

But it is. It’s simple. Homely. Something he knows he doesn’t fucking deserve, and yet, has all the same. 

“You wanna talk?”

“No.”

You’re quick. The short, sharp no filling the small space between his face and yours. Mask gone, the lamp on his desk smothering the room in soft light. 

But he knows you do want to talk. So he gives it a minute.

He lets his fingers draw shapes on your ribs, waiting, letting you settle against him, hearing your mind begin to turn and churn. 

And then you talk, as he suspects you will. 

Because he knows it’s what you need. Even if you beg him to fuck you into his mattress, even if you tell him to fuck off, you need to talk. The thoughts building otherwise, stealing your confidence, your belief, your fucking hope. 

He needs silence, and sometimes needs to be alone. Sometimes, he needs both. 

You need to be touched, to be rooted, and to talk it out. Let the thoughts run from your tongue and meet the air—even if you repeat yourself, even if the same thought comes up time and time again. He will just listen. 

You’re rambling, talking about the clinical-ness before you move into how there was nothing you could do. So much blood. Too many bullets. You’re good. Not that good.  You lost one, and then the other. 

On another day it can be more, your hands not good enough today, but will they be tomorrow?

“Simon…”

He doesn’t breathe. Feeling, watching your eyes lift up from your place on his chest, scorching into his. “…They didn’t have a person, Simon. Not one. No Ghost. No Helen. Not this… Not that we’re each other's person. Not like how I mean.” 

“How do y’mean?” 

Your eyes tilt down, and he wonders if you can hear his pulse. 

“I have no one to alert that they’re dead. Not a wife. Not a husband. No children. A parent, yes. But… not a person. They died without…” 

You lift up, his fingers falling to your chin, feeling your lip quiver. Tears in your eyes, making them shimmer—a single tear hanging from your lash, dangling, waiting to drop. 

“It’ll be the same when I die… no one to legally inform. No one to...” 

Then it drops. The tear. 

Falling and cascading down your cheek before it lands on his chest. It bleeds out, mixing with the dried sweat and forgotten kisses you’d left before.

And then, like all downpours, more follow suit. Dancing down your skin, too many for him to catch even if he tries. 

He’s ashamed it takes him a minute. 

Wondering what the hell you even mean until he realises—no one knows. Not officially. Not even fucking unofficially. A secret, one which flickers inside of him and inside of you. Something shared in quick looks and private moments, but never where else.  

You shake your head, lifting up from your position on his chest, wiping your cheeks as you try to put on a smile. “I’m… ignore me. Just being daft.”

You’re not.

But he doesn’t say that.

He says nothing, eyes falling to his vest in the corner before landing back on you, watching you shimmy and shift to the end of his bed. 

“I should shower,” you mumble, hand brushing hair from your face as you stand.

His hand wants to lift, to take your wrist and pull you back to him—to kiss you, to tell you so many things. But his throat goes dry, silence filling the space his voice should be. 

++

It’s odd, what the two of you have. 

Far more than a situation, and way more than convenience. 

It’s trouble, difficult—often the hardest thing you could have chosen to do, and you stitch wounded soldiers for a living.  

But it makes sense. 

He didn’t seduce you. Wasn’t the best out of a bad situation.

He was dry and dark humour and had beautiful fucking eyes that you’d suspected were meant to strike some fear in you, but you’d weathered worse storms than him. You’d first kissed him because you had to—a niggling feeling inside of you that had to know if his lips were soft or whether they just looked it. You’d kissed him again because he stopped you from thinking, from crumbling.

Simon made you feel like you were falling, happily. 

His hand taps on your door, clicking your pen as you look up at him. He’s all casual, a sight to fucking behold. Dark grey joggers and a long-sleeve tee—and from the look in his eyes he’s on his way to training which only sparks more sinful thoughts in your hectic mind.

Initially, way back when, it had been about sex. 

About providing to yourself you could take him, having felt him, having felt how heavy, thick and long he fucking was. Then, it wasn’t.

Now it’s something big—bigger than his cock. It’s feelings and need, it’s desperation and imissyous wrapped in something you’re not sure you can live without. Now it’s about everything else, it’s about the small things and the fact you can feel yourself wanting to smile just because he’s here. 

“Lieutenant, what a surprise! How can I help you?”  

You wonder how often he smiles behind the mask. 

His reputation of being cold, difficult and sometimes an arsehole—depending on who you ask—is widely known. But you know a different person. One who washes your hair when you’re too tired to stand, one who brings you the milkiest tea on cold mornings, ‘Because you’re fuckin’ bitch without a tea in y’, Helen.” 

It still surprises you when he holds it up. It shimmers, sparkles and gleams between a bare thumb and his index finger. 

“For this situation, I think you should be callin’ me Simon.” 

You narrow your eyes, even if your heart is already pounding. Panic. Dread. Your mind racing, unsure what you’ve done—half-worrying if you’d lost one, even if you never wear jewellery. Not here. Not on base. Suddenly questioning whether you’d drunkenly told Soap to buy you something again, a dare gone wrong. 

You hum.

Hiding as best as you can that you’re lost, and confused. 

“Are you going to call me by my name?”

“No.”

Snorting, you fold your arms. “Didn’t think so. You going to explain why you’re holding a ring?” 

“I think you know.”

“Humour me.” 

Because my brain is running away from me. 

He’s not romantic in terms of red roses and sweeping you off your feet. He’s romantic in ways like tapping your arm twice, letting you know he’s missed you. Letting his eyes land on you across briefing rooms, nodding—you got this, Helen. You can do this. 

Ghost is sweet in ways others don’t see. His hand on your lower back when he can tell you want to leave somewhere, a silent offering to walk you back; bringing you a thicker pair of socks when snow is landing on the sill of your office, knowing you hate being cold. 

So, this… him standing holding a ring, could mean many things. 

“C’mon, Helen.” 

You pull a face, shrugging. 

“Be my person.” 

Your brows furrow, eyes frowning. 

Your mind explodes with a sea of things, darting, trying to remember, thinking of that exact phrasing. It takes a second, and then…

His eyes have that shimmer, that fucking obnoxious twinkle. Likely having watched you come to the same realisation—letting you take your time, proudly standing in your smile and glittering eyes.

“You want me… to be your person, person?” 

“Be the one they tell. Yeah.”

It would be easy to get ahead of yourself. 

It could be a formality, something small. A gesture but not the actual question. 

“I know you liked what I did with my tongue last night, but I didn’t know I was that good at giving head—“

“Helen.”

It comes out warningly.

It makes your lips clamp shut, looking down before meeting his gaze—his fiery, intense fucking stare. 

“Look, I know I was upset, but you didn’t need to go steal a ring for me.”

“I didn’t steal it. I had it made.” 

“What?”

He shrugs. 

He fucking shrugs. 

“When?”

It comes out high-pitched. The tone surprises you. So much so, you clear your throat. Repeating it, in a more normal and appropriate volume as you stand, gesturing to close the door behind him as you look at him. 

“Does it matter?”

“I think it fucking does.”

“Last time I went home, home.”

You glare.

Wishing you could see his smirk, already imagining it there all the same. 

Your fingers take it from him, looking over it as you admire it, feeling how warm it is. He’s been holding it, likely pressed into his palm on the walk over here. Your fingers turn it, feeling the ridges of it. 

Mostly, you’re trying to recall when he went home. 

The last time, you two had both been released home at the same time. Having half-joked that you’d combust without his cock, that he’d have to visit you, come ruin the countryside with you—only for him to offer to come with you. Come home. See your place—ensure you didn’t die from lack of being fucked senseless. 

Your fingers won’t do shit, Helen. Not now, anyway.  You’re a cocky shit, Riley.  And you’re a whore for my cock. 

His hands are buried in his jogger's pockets, questioningly staring at him as you hold it. This little thing, that means something big. 

“It’s made from a bullet. One you took out of me.”

Your lips part.

“Not sure if you remember? You told me to keep it as a reminder of what good hands feel like.”

“I remember…” you lick your lips, unable to stifle the way your heart hammers into your ribs—pretty sure he can hear it, the entire base for that fact. “I also remember you showing me how good yours were.”

“Enough.”

You silently apologise, looking at it again before meeting his eyes. “You’ve really had this the whole time?”

“In my vest.”

He says it so plainly like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

As if your mouth shouldn’t be falling open in surprise again, that you shouldn’t be staring up at him in the way you are. 

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s you and me, Helen. Sometimes we’re the only thing that makes any fuckin’ sense.” 

“You know what giving me this means, right?”

He nods—fucking formally at that. 

“Ghost—“

“Simon.”

You smile, lips tight. “Simon. Does this mean what I think it means?” 

“If you think it means that it needs to go on your finger on your left hand, then yes.” 

He’s looking at you, pleadingly. 

“I think you should ask.”

“I just fuckin’ did!”

You laugh, watching his large chest rise and fall in annoyance. 

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re a pain in my arse—“

You say your name. 

Sharp, but sweet. Watching the parts of the mask around his nose flex in and out as he snarls and sighs. 

“Simon… out there, I’m Helen, I know. But, here… holding this, I think you should say my name too,” you whisper, more fragile, quieter than he’s likely known you to be for a while. 

And then he nods.

Taking the ring from your palm, sliding it over your fingernail, on that hand, on that finger—hovering it close to the knuckle. 

And he asks—using your name. Will you be my person?

#simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost riley #ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost x reader smut #cod ghost x you #ghost x helen #simon x helen #ghost helen world

[save-the-villainous-cat]

One bed trope but angsty????

“That’s quite a mess,” the villain noticed. They stared at the once clean sink. Now, there was blood everywhere, along with bandages and a bottle of vodka. Ultimately, their eyes wandered back to the hero who had taken the liberty to claim the bed. They looked exhausted and deep down, the villain was a little angry at the both of them for not acting sooner.

For being so reckless.

“Didn’t have the energy to clean up,” the hero admitted. They’d been crying and the villain was fully aware of how awful their…partner must’ve felt.

“Is the bullet still in your shoulder?” the villain asked. Back then, the hero’s wellbeing had been all the villain could think about. It had been a sharpshooter. And the villain hadn’t acted soon enough.

The hero had been in shock, hadn’t felt anything and the villain wasn’t really too keen on instructing them to get back to the hotel on their own.

“No, it’s in the sink.” Their voice was flat, emotionless even. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the floor in a minute, I just need to…”

“No, stay there.” They closed the bathroom door and sat down on the bed. “Any pain?”

“Took a bunch of painkillers. It’ll be fine.”

The villain had never had great conversational skills and whenever they tried to be encouraging, their words got stuck in their throat. Often, they felt like it would be best to say nothing at all.

“Why would that sharpshooter miss my head?” the hero asked. About an hour ago, the hero had been shot. They had managed to get back to the hotel without getting spotted which (in itself) was already a miracle. And the villain had followed them once the gunshots had stopped.

They had a theory. The hero seemed to know the answer already.

“I don’t know,” the villain said. Most of the time, the villain couldn’t tell what the hero was feeling. They supposed that years of training, hell, a decade even, had shaped them into something flawless that refused to show imperfections. Especially emotions. “Let’s not worry about that. We should get you to a medic. Maybe you know someone who might help us?”

The hero shook their head.

“The only ones who come to mind are at the academy.”

And that was a sensitive topic. After all, those people had tried to take out the hero in the first place. The sheer thought of those people made the villain’s blood boil but they knew two angry people wouldn’t get anywhere.

Suddenly, the hero was close to tears and the villain saw how their bottom lip shook. They hid their face in a pillow but the villain wasn’t going to watch them suffer like that.

“We’ll find a solution to this, I promise. We will get you to a doctor first. I may know a few people. And then we will prove your innocence, okay?” the villain asked. They tilted their head and pushed a loose strand out of the hero’s eyes. “You will get your old life back, I promise. Everything will be fine.”

“But they don’t even want me there,” the hero whispered. “The academy accused me. They had fake proof and convinced everyone: other heroes, citizens, even my friends, I—”

“Hey, it’ll be fine. And even if they don’t want you back, then we’ll just bomb the entire place.” The villain really didn’t know what to do, so they went through the hero’s hair with their fingers. They remembered it from their childhood; it was something distant, something soothing that had always calmed them down. “Deep breaths, okay?”

The hero obeyed and slowly, their face softened.

“You’re insane,” they said with only the tiniest hint of a smile on their face. They made a little bit of room for the villain and admittedly, considering the villain’s own tiredness, they couldn’t refuse. They slipped under the blanket before the hero could change their mind.

“In a good way.”

“Not necessarily.”

Silence. The villain could just stare at the hero, a little broken and definitely at the end of their rope.

“You know, real friends wouldn’t believe those lies. And true friends wouldn’t shoot at you,” the villain said. “Even if they missed your head on purpose.”

“…I know,” the hero said. “Maybe that’s why I came to you.”

The villain thought about that sentence until they fell asleep.

#sry I’m really tired #writing snippet #heroxvillain snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #an answer for an ask #request #angst #very soft angst tho

[matan4il]

Update post:

Today, there was an attempted terrorist attack at the Meggido junction in Israel. The hammer-wielding terrorist was thankfully caught before he managed to carry out his planned crime. He's 17 years old, and you can bet the anti-Israel crowd will use his age as "proof" that Israel arrests and jails kids, without mentioning what these minors are being imprisoned for, instead of condemning those who brainwash children into carrying out terrorist attacks. Just one reminder out of many such attacks, in 2018 a 17 years old Palestinian terrorist killed a 45 years old Israeli man, so please no one pretend like minors are harmless, or ignore that when teenagers commit harmful crimes in other countries, they're arrested there, too.

It was obvious that some people have made up their minds about the incident with the WCK workers even before the investigation started, so I expect its conclusions will get perverted and ignored, too.

That same anti-Israel crowd will also ignore (unless they'll use it as ammunition against the Jewish state, by actually claiming that Israel, a nation still reeling from the genocide of Jews, and the continued killing of its citizens by antisemitic terrorists, is intentionally killing its own, because there's just no cartoon villain crime they don't think they can pin on the Jewish state) the fact that there's another IDF investigation that's been released today, which said Efrat Katz was accidentally killed by a helicopter rocket while trying to stop the Hamas terrorists who were kidnapping her into Gaza. The helicopter pilot didn't realize at the time that there were hostages in the car as well, this was only deduced later, from the testimonies of other people kidnapped by Hamas. In other words, as horrific as this truth is, accidents do happen during war. The worst, most tragic ones, and we can't undo them, no matter how much we want to. But they happen to every army, and are not actual evidence of intentional killings, or intentional war crimes. Just like someone having been killed is in general not enough to prove a murder took place.

This is 68 years old Efrat Katz.

The WCK incident report is now out, and I am linking the source publication, so that no possible bias can be attributed to re-phrasing by journalists from any side.

As was the initial impression (for those who don't simply want to believe in every evil, dehumanizing lie about Israel), it turned out to be a tragic accident, that entailed many factors, first and foremost misidentification, in part due to Hamas. As I've pointed out more than once, Hamas steals humanitarian aid. Due to this, the WCK operation had hired armed guards to protect it from looting. Tragically, one armed guard was identified without question on one of the WCK's trucks, and was mistaken for a Hamas terrorist, while at least one other armed terrorist was also identified and thought to be in the convoy's private cars. The vehicles did have the WCK sticker on their roofs, but at night, that wasn't visible to the IDF soldiers. Since the whole convoy was misidentified, the drone fired more than once at more than one vehicle, but this is linked to the same single mistaken identification. It means that even though this shouldn't have happened, the soldiers who fired at the convoy really did believe they were targeting terrorists, which is their mission.

The IDF has expressed sorrow over this incident more than once, has taken responsibility, has conducted an investigation, and following its results, two high ranking officers have been removed from their posts, and two more were severely reprimanded, which means this will be in their file forever, and will influence any future decisions made about their service.

This is 72 years old Nadjda Astreks.

She lives in the southern town of Ofakim with her husband, Alexnder. In the above photo, she's pointing to the bullet holes in her kitchen, left by the terrorists on Oct 7. The couple don't have a bomb shelter in their own home, so they had to go out to a public one when the rocket attack began at 6:30 in the morning. When they returned, is when the terrorists shooting at the buildings began, and the confused couple didn't know what to think or do at first. They went out, and saw the girl from across the street falling. Alexander approached her, only to see a pool of blood, and realize that she had been shot to death. A soldier who was running in the direction of the terrorists told them to go back to the neighborhood bomb shelter, where they ended up hiding for hours, without food and water, or proper toilettes, without knowing what's going on outside for a big part of that. It was fellow residents from their neighborhood who faced the terrorists and saved the people there, but the first ambulance for the injured was only able to make it there at three in the afternoon. Nadjda said that even much later, she's still having trouble eating, whenever she thinks of everything that happened on the day of the massacre.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #ask #anon ask #wck

[mmgwritings]

UNKNOWN / NTH

Characters: Kaz Brekker / Sun Summoner ! Reader

Prompt: when alina starkov fails to destroy the fold, kaz brekker discovers the true power of the saints.

Warnings: angst, canon divergence, shadow and bone season 2, main character death, definitely didn't proof read, kaz suffering, fjerda sun summoner.

The nichevo'ya bore down upon us and Sankta Alina was struggling to wield her power while shielding the group from the volcras. Waves of terror swept over us when the screeches of the volcras echoed around in the dark. Beside me, Jesper whispered curses as he loaded more bullets into his pistols and Wylan knelt down to search for more gunpowder in the bag.

"Got everything we need, Wylan? We're not going to a picnic, you know" Jesper quipped, a nervous grim in his face. "We're definitely going to die"

Then, the nichevo'ya breached Alina's protection with the Darkling behind them. Inej, quick as lightning, drew her sword "neshyenyer" and sprang into action. With the blade gleaming in the dim light she enganged the shadow monsters in a fight which each swing of her sword was precise.

Y/N didn't wait and started shooting at the shadows. Jesper's pistols were also aimed and ready. He stood at the forefront of the remains of the First Army, with King Nikolai at his side, shooting and desperately trying to get a clear shot amidst the chaos of battle.

Nothing was working. It seems that don't matter how hard we fight the darkness didn't falter, and then, as if and overwhelming force had descedend upon us, Alina's light protection crumbled completely. We were now exposed to all the horrors of the Fold.

"Come on, run!" screamed Nina. She grabbed my hand and pushed me through a door in the fortress as the battalion scattered, desperately seeking refuge in other rooms. Jesper, Wylan, and Kaz ran close behind us, with Zoya supporting Nikolai's injured side and Mal dragging Alina.

We entered a training courtyard, with the remnants of the battle between the Darkling's Grisha and the First Army still visible. Volcra dragged the bodies of the fallen and descended from the skies in droves. The place was engulfed in chaos, and the sounds of combat reverberated all around. A volcra swooped over our group, seizing one of Nikolai's soldiers. His screams faded into the darkness.

"We're too exposed here!" Kaz shouted as he began striking his cane against the old door lock, which gave way without much effort. "Let's go, get inside!"

Kaz led us through a series of corridors, candles still burned and provided a faint glow to guide our way. The air was heavy with tension, and the sounds of death echoed from outside.

In a small, dimly lit room, we finally regrouped. Mal and Alina were gasping for breath, their faces pale, while Nikolai's wound was tended to by Zoya and Nina. Kaz was busy devising a plan, the gears of his mind turning even in the midst of chaos. Jesper and Wylan stood ready, pistols and bombs in hand, guarding the entrance.

Alina, even though visibly shaken, looked at each of us with fierce determination. "We may be cornered, but we're not done yet," she declared. "We fight, and we survive. This is not how our story ends."

"Well, whatever your plan is, Sanka, you'd better make it quick," Kaz said coldly. He had never believe in saints; this wouldn't be the moment. "You have amplifiers, don't you? Why aren't they working?"

Alina paled. "Mal... Mal is the third amplifier. Baghra told me that only with his death will I have enough power to destroy the Fold." A heavy silence settled in the room.

Alina would have to kill Mal, the man she loved. Y/N had always known that a Grisha's powers were cursed. She was born in a village in Fjerda, raised under the belief of Djel, but saw her world shattered when she discovered her powers. For her sins, for her curse, her family was murdered by the villagers. In a last desperate attempt, her sister handed her over to a Kaelish slave trader, which is how she ended up in the pleasure houses of Ketterdam.

Y/N had suppressed her powers since then, rarely using, and no one knew about them... no one except Kaz Brekker, the man who set her free. Kaz needed a spy, and she was perfect for the mission. Years later, Y/N was still working for Kaz — murdering for Kaz.

Kaz discovered Y/N's sun summoner powers by chance when a mission went awry, and they needed to escape. SHe had to blind two of their pursuers from the stadwatch and for the first time, she feared Kaz. She thought he might sell her, turn her over to Ravka, or auction her off to the Drüskelle.

But that day never came. He never spoke a word about Y/N being Grisha, never asked her to use her powers... and that was how she began to fall in love with Kaz.

Alina's eyes welled with tears as she looked at Mal, her voice trembling. "I know, but I can't bear the thought of losing you."

Mal reached out, gently wiping away her tears. "We've faced so much together, Alina. This is just one more sacrifice we must make for the greater good."

Kaz, still resolute, added, "We don't have much time. We have to make a plan"

Tears streamed down Alina's face as she nodded, knowing the weight of the decision they had to make.

That's not fair, i thought. And, as she was capable of reading my mind, Inej, who had been quietly listening, spoke softly, "Life isn't always fair, but the choices we make define us. We'll support you, Sankta Alina, no matter what you decide."

Zoya, her expression soft, added, "It's a hard choice, but it's one that could save countless lives. Or, maybe we can find a way... Nina, how fast can you cure him?"

Nina, her face filled with concern, replied, "I'll do my best, Zoya, but it might take time. We can't afford to wait too long."

The room was filled with a shared sense of determination as they began to explore every possibility, but we didn't have time. Outside a cry pierced the air. It was the Darkling, leading the charge of the dark forces.

It won't work. I realized this just by looking at the determined way Alina gazed at Mal – she would never sacrifice him to save the world. She's not capable, just like Nina isn't capable of healing him in time. Mal would have to die, and Alina couldn't be the one to kill him.

"Maybe there's another way" I whispered.

Inej, her eyes filled with hope, asked, "What do you have in mind?" at the same time that Kaz a loudly "No"

My voice gained a touch of determination as I responded, "We can't let Mal die, but we also can't let the Darkling win. We need to find a different source of amplification, something that doesn't involve taking a life."

Confusion hung heavy in the room as Kaz stepped forward, his face masked by controlled fury. "You're not going to," he said "I'll not allow it"

"It's not your decision to make, Kaz," I replied, my tone resolute.

Kaz's eyes bore into mine, a battle of wills silently raging between us. "You can't expect me to stand by while you kill yourself."

"Believe me, that's not my intention," I said with a sly smile. But smiles never fooled Kaz. He know me, perhaps the only person in the world who truly know me.

We're complicated people, each with our own traumas, but over the years, we've learned to share some of our past. Kaz told me about Jordie, the farm, the con and I told him about fjerda, the blood, the slavery.

Once, at the slat, on a rainy night, Kaz's expression softened slightly as he said "We've both carried our burdens, but it's made us who we are. It's what's kept us alive in this unforgiving world."

We became friends, confidants, and slowly, we tried to be something more. He can't stand being touched, and I can't stand being seen — two of the most broken people in the Barrel, trying to shed their armor.

In the quiet of that rainy night in the Slat's office, we dared to be vulnerable. Kaz's gloved hand hesitated, almost touching mine, as if testing the boundaries of his aversion to contact.

I whispered, "Kaz, it's okay. You can trust me."

He looked into my eyes, a storm of emotions flickering in his gaze, but he didn't pull away. His gloved hand met mine, the moment felt like a breakthrough, a chink in the armor we had built around ourselves.

In that fragile connection, we found solace in each other's company, knowing that we didn't have to be alone in the darkness of the world.

I let the memories fade away. Kaz was standing in front of me, shielding me from the eyes of the others.

"I have to do this, Kaz. You know that," I whispered, moving closer to him, my hand softly touching his fingers.

Kaz, his gaze unwavering, finally nodded in reluctant agreement. "I know, but it doesn't mean I have to let you go alone"

Dread coursed through my body when I realized that Kaz was going with me. If I couldn't make it, he would end up dying with me.

"No, you're staying here," I said, but Kaz simply turned his back and began giving orders to Jesper and Wylan to prepare reinforcements. "KAZ!" I shouted, panic-stricken. I ran over and stood in his way, and I did something I had never dared before – I held his face.

"You're not going alone, Y/N" he said, his eyes locked onto mine, "If you go, I'm going with you."

I removed my hands from Kaz's face when I noticed he was turning pale. Jesper, like everyone else, was confused, so he said "I'm not sure what's happening."

I couldn't explain further because, at that moment, a terrible noise descended upon us. Something was tearing the door apart. We all rushed towards the other exit leading to the hill. The Darkling's nichevo'ya circled the grass like vultures, destroying any form of life. Nikolai, Mal, and Jesper began firing their pistols.

Then, he appeared. The Darkling was still handsome, even with his face partially marred by the corruption of merzost. His eyes blazed with fury as he spoke to Alina.

"You can't escape me, Alina. Your powers belong to me, and you will give them willingly or by force."

Sankta Alina, her voice filled with defiance said "I'll never willingly give you anything, and you'll never control me again."

She then attempted to strike him with a beam of light, but it was strangely weak. When it hit the Darkling, he absorbed the light as if it were nothing.

A twisted smile appeared on the herege face. "You see, my little saint, you can't fight destiny. Your powers are mine to command."

Sankta Alina couldn't do anything to stop him. Y/N had to intervene while the Darkling believed he had everything in his grasp.

She looked at Kaz and whispered a "I'm sorry" with a small smile o her face, one that Kaz knew it was filled with sorrow.

Kaz expression hardened, he simply nodded and said, "Just make it count."

Y/N, being more experienced in sun summons than Alina, definitely didn't need an amplifier to perform the cut.

With confidence born of her expertise, Y/N channeled her power, a blinding ray of red sunlight cutting through the room and striking the Darkling. He let out a searing scream as the light consumed him, writhing in pain. It was a scream of pain and surprise. As the rest of the world, he believe that existed only one sun summoner.

The room was filled with a blinding radiance, and for a moment, it seemed like the Darkling's corruption might be purged. But as the light dimmed, his sinister form slowly re-emerged, and it became apparent that the battle was far from over.

"Alright, let's see how strong you are," Y/N said as she unleashed waves of light upon the nichevo'ya.

The nichevo'ya screeched in agony as they were engulfed by the brilliant light, their dark forms dissipating in its radiance. In the midst of the battle, the Grisha and first army all rallied behind her, recognizing that Y/N's power might just be the key to turning the tide against the Darkling's forces.

The sky crackled with energy as she fought the darkness. Y/N unleashed all her power, releasing every ounce of her strength, and gradually, with bursts of radiant lightning, the Fold dissipated. Volcras burned and plummeted from the skies.

Volcras and nichevo'ya fell one after the other, their malevolent forms vanquished by the searing light.

Y/N's power illuminated the battlefield, then, as a final blow, Y/N performed the cut, unlike the initial one which was merely to test the strength of the heretic. This one was hot, sharp, and incredibly potent.

But it wasn't enough. Remnants of the Darkling's cut hit her chest. She fell to the ground, struggling to breathe, her chest burning.

In her most haunting nightmares, Y/N is always alone when she die. Typically, it begins with a startling realization that her demise is finally upon her. She feel her heart struggling to keep beating, even under the weight of a perfectly aimed dagger. The cries of my family have faded into silence, and Y/N, like any other ordinary person, is capable of facing death.

But this time, everything feels too vivid, too different, as if a new nightmare is taking shape. She taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth, choking and bringing tears to her eyes. Strangely, she don't experience any pain; in fact, she doesn't feel much of anything except an intense cold, even though the sun shines brightly above.

What makes this new nightmare the worst is his presence.

Kaz looms above Y/N, his brown eyes hidden behind unshed tears. His voice sounds muffled, as if speaking from beneath murky waters. He speaks in desperation, making threats and offering impossible promises... promises about love.

Y/N, gasping for breath, managed a weak smile. "Not... on your... watch."

Kaz, his usual mask of indifference cracking, held her hand tightly, his gloved fingers trembling. "You better not."

But Y/N wasn't feeling the warmth of his hands and breathing was becoming a difficult task. Blood coated her mouth, and her vision blurred as Kaz's face slowly faded from focus, Nina was by his side, trying to tend to the gaping wound in Y/N's chest.

Nothing seemed to work; there was some kind of dark poison, a residue of the Darkling's merzost, in her body preventing the wound from closing.

Y/N loved Kaz's eyes; often, they couldn't lie as convincingly as his words. It was through Kaz's eyes that she knew. Kaz couldn't hide the worry and helplessness in his gaze. For the first time, he wasn't able to find a solution to the problem at hand, and it weighed heavily on him.

It didn't hurt, it wasn't tumultuous at all.

Yet, it was bittersweet to know that someone who had never believed in saints, who had never begged, and who had never touched another person for fear of the dead, had done all of that for her.

For the first time that year, the sun shone in Ravka, but when Y/N opened her eyes, winter was closing in around her.

In the distance, an ash tree stood tall, beckoning like an invitation.

#mmgwbrekker #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x you #shadow and bone #six of crows #kaz brekker #ineje ghafa #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #alina starkov #mal oretsev #malina #the darkling #darklina #nikolai lantsov #zoya nazyalensky

[yulin-pop]

⤷ ✧ Wake up

Gender neutral

- order 76 | headcanons | Housewardens

Note: Sleepy, airheaded silly goose — refers to main story in most of the segments not proof read.

Riddle Rosehearts

Before he even knew your name or spoke to you, you were about to fall asleep. The way your eyes kept fluttering shut and opening wide again.

You had very little energy to say the least. Sometimes he would be having a friend conversation with you and you just fall asleep standing up?? He is actually very concerned.

You would fall asleep a lot and even if you weren’t in the same class, he found out. You were in for a long scolding everytime that happened (it happens a lot). It was hard to fall asleep because he was quite loud but somehow you still closed your eyes and snored right in his face.

He wasn’t sure if you were getting enough sleep at night for whatever reason he decided to invite you over after school to see what tires you out so much. Immediately after school you knocked on (on his bed) and he checked up on you every hour or so. He hoped you’d get some good sleep and be more energized in the morning.

He learned two things, you’re a cuddler and you’re going to be tired no matter what because he woke up to you clinging onto him like a panda.

When he did wake you up, you asked for a few more minutes.

“You had 17 hours of sleep! How could you possibly need more?!”

Leona Kingscholar

He’s impressed. Even when you stepped on his tail you were clearly about to fall over and join him in his nap.

Not much to say besides he thinks it’s funny. But he doesn’t get why you’re so tired. He sees you take very long naps and half of the school day you decide to just sleep. Then your friends have to wake you up.

He’s caught you napping under a tree many times. He notices how objectively beautiful you are. He’s never gonna admit that though. You could be drooling with the eye crusts but you would still be really, really cute.

He doesn’t wake you up on purpose. He lets out a small laugh when he sees you and your eyes shoot open. Gave him a jump scare.

“Are you watching me sleep?”

“Why are sleeping in the courtyard anyway? Get up and sleep in a bed or something.”

Sometimes he would pick you up and carry you somewhere less crowded or more comfortable. When you wake up in a different location than what you remember, you don’t question it. You’re too tired to.

Azul Ashengrotto

You are not a sufficient employee. You’re generally always slow and a little bit forgetful because of your sleep deprivation.

He thought you would come running to him for a detailed study guide because instead of studying you slept your days away. But you never came. I mean you were gonna but you lost track of time and never ended up making a deal.

Whether you bombed the exam or passed with flying colors, you dodged a major bullet.

He observed you were bad at serving customers and yawned every 3 seconds, which made him glad you didn’t make a contract because you’d be dead weight.

However in PE, he noticed you were physically more capable than him. You beat him a race while you were half asleep. That’s just impressive. But it shows you only put in effort to be better than people.

You fell asleep in Mostro Lounge numerous times. He has to kick you out because you’re not ordering anything. But you always whine about how comfy the booth seats are.

“Azul… Give me a break please.”

“Don’t give me that look…”

He’s really curious why you’re always so sleeping. He sees you nap all day in school and somehow you still have eyebags.

Is it magic that makes you so tired? He just doesn’t understand.

Kalim Al Asim

During your stay at Scarabia, it was when he really started to notice how sleepy you always looked. He actually took pity on you and apologized, asking if the bed was uncomfortable or you don’t have any food to energize you.

He says that you could sit out in the morning march because you were just so tired. You looked like you were about to collapse. He feeds you a lot because he assumes you’re low kn energy because lack of carbs.

He is way too nice to you. He’s a very comfortable pillow and so everytime you see him, you sit down next to him and doze off on his shoulder.

He doesn’t usually say anything out loud as to not wake you up but inside his head he’s cooing and resisting the urge to cuddle you.

“Ah, you’re awake. Did you sleep well?”

“No, can I sleep some more?” You didn’t even wait for a response before you closed your eyes again.

Vil Schoenheit

One glance and he’s appalled. Your eye bags— what happened to you?! Maybe you’re like Ignihyde’s housewarden and stays up late.

He takes it upon himself to fix yourself up a little bit. He asked you why you wear such baggy clothes and you respond with “because I can fall asleep faster with comfy clothes.” Don’t you worry about self image?

You’re a bit of an airhead, only thinking about the next time you can nap. Your uniform is always messy because you decide to lay down and rest where ever you please.

It’s a shame because you are pretty inside and out. Your sleeping face is just naturally cute and you help people however you can, even if it’s low effort.

He gives you healthy energy drinks to keep you awake and it hardly has an effect. He gives you skin care and you fall asleep before doing it each night. Hell, he even had to tell you to take a shower. If he hears a thud he knows you drifted off the dreamland in there and fell down.

He’s basically the one making you keep up with your hygiene. He never lets you off the hook, he’s not the type to let you sleep in him either.

What sucks is that he never allows you to fall asleep when you’re in his presence unless he’s feeling gracious that day.

“Vil, please just 5 minutes. I think I’ll collapse if I don’t nap right this second…” You stumble forward and he catches you by the arm.

“Seriously, you must’ve been born with a curse.” He gently picks you up and sets you down on the couch. “30 minutes and we’re back to it.”

Idia Shroud

Sheesh, you’ve got worse eyebags than him. He first saw you when you were awake being pulled around by your friends.

When he encountered you asleep in the courtyard, he was surprised. You look much cuter when you’re asleep. But why were you sleeping behind the statue of Hades?

His muttering accidentally woke you up and you stared back at him like he’s crazy. You rubbed your eyes and blinked. It was a short stare down until you just flipped on your side and went back to sleep.

He sees you around a lot. It’s like you’re doing it on purpose. He thinks of you more than he should, you probably forgot he existed.

What’s strange is that you have strange dreams of him. Like he appears in your dreams either as a background character or is talking to you.

You try not to think about him but it always happens.

Malleus Draconia

You only met him because you fell asleep outside one time. It happens way too often unfortunately. No one was there to drag you into your bed that time and so you were there until late at night.

Your eyes shot wide open when you felt s strange presence and the ground shake a little. There were fireflies out of no where.

Then you met Malleus. You didn’t feel that tired around him for some reason. You didn’t get close though. You just talked to him about himself. You avoided any questions about yourself. A majority of the time you thought it was a reoccurring dream. You eventually started sleeping outside on purpose to see him.

Sometimes you look for him at school. You end up wearing yourself out after 10 minutes and fall asleep, hoping to see him again.

Malleus definitely tried to intimidate you for a while, he felt bitter because of how nonchalant you were. Turns out you were just an airhead and so he took it less personal.

It’s often that you fall asleep mid conversation with him. He’s not mad really, he just sets you in your bed and gets one last look before going back to his dorms.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst #I love Malleus #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim x reader #kalim al asim #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader

[friendly-witcher]

Damn

just a small spencer x gn reader (I think, tell me if I missed something) ficlet about the first time you see him in his FBI vest. inspo was all the tiktok edits 🔥

word count: <1k

warnings: implied sexual themes set in the finale of season 7. bank heist + bomb threat with Lady X. established relationship with reader, who is a misc. scientist at the Smithsonian (yes I watched too much bones). this is a no maeve zone.

if you like this, I might write a few more with them :)

please be kind, my writing is my own, I do not own these characters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your boyfriend is hot, you’ve been well aware of this since the day you bumped into him in the hallway of your apartment building and every day since then. He’s tall, handsome, and has perpetually tousled hair, to say nothing of the fact that he is the smartest person you’ve ever met. He looks like a sexy professor straight out of a romance novel, yet somehow has no idea how gorgeous he is. All of this being said, you were not prepared to see him in your office wearing his usual dress shirt, tie, and his FBI bullet proof vest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ An hour or two before ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spencer had rushed to the scene after a bomb went off in the bank. He had sent you a brief text saying that he was fine, not to worry, and that he was heading into the city. This was the first time since you had been dating that a high profile case had been this close to home. So while you were used to being worried, this worry felt so much more immediate as you watched the chaos unfold only a mile or two away. 

You stayed in your office trying to concentrate on tables and graphs, but your eyes kept drifting to the news live-stream in the corner of your screen. You heard a quiet knock on the door and looked up to see your colleague Renee eyeing you with concern. 

“Lover Boy is on the scene isn’t he?” She asked, grimacing. 

You nodded, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears that threatened to form. 

Renee perched on your desk and took your hand. “He’s a highly trained FBI genius, he’s going to be ok.” You nodded again, rubbing your face in exasperation. “Let’s go and make a tea.” Pulling you from your desk. You resisted, motioning to the screen. “Watching isn’t going to help him, it’s only going to make you more stressed.” 

“I’m bringing my phone.” You grumbled as you followed Renee to the kitchen. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Emily and Will walked out of Union Station, battered but unscathed, Spencer let out the breath he felt he had been holding in since Will had walked into that bank. 

“We’re ok, we’re ok.” Emily held out her hands as you all rushed towards her. 

“Thanks to Miss Calm and Collected here.” Drawled Will, looking at Emily with a mix of gratitude and disbelief. "She defused a bomb in under two minutes without breaking a sweat."

“Well done. Both of you.” Hotch looked them both over approvingly. “You two go get checked out. I’ve got to debrief with Strauss then we are good to head out.” 

Everyone nodded in agreement, patting each other on the back and inspecting their wounds. Spencer hung back and looked at his phone, “Actually guys, I have to go check on something…” not meeting any of their curious gazes, “I’ll catch up with you guys later. If that’s ok?” 

Hotch nodded, dismissing him. “Good work today.”

“Catch you later, Pretty Boy.” Derek winked at him and turned to walk away. 

Spencer looked back down at his phone at the message, “Please be careful, I love you.” You had never said that before. He had suspected that you did love him for a while, but this was the first irrefutable evidence. He smiled and started towards where he knew you would be waiting. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While Spencer often dropped you outside work or met you nearby for lunch, he had never actually been to your office. He came through the doors slightly out of breath, “Do you know where I would find Dr Y/N L/N’s office?” 

As he strode through the corridors of the Smithsonian Institute trying to find your office he noticed he was drawing quite a few stares. Ignoring this, he finally reached your door. Where he found you with your head resting on your arms, a forgotten cup of tea beside you. 

He knocked on the door gently and you started to say, “Renee I’m fi- ” until you finally looked up and saw Spencer standing in the doorway. Your face broke into a smile, “Spencer!” 

Your eyes raked over him as he approached, unscathed, and damn. You had thought the men-in-uniform thing was a joke but looking at Spencer now you got it, picking your jaw off the ground you barrelled into his arms. 

“Are you all right?” He asked, turning your face to examine your features. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine now,” squeezing him tighter and smiling up at him. He looked at you amused and curious. 

“What was that face? Was it about the text?” Concern marring his beautiful face. 

“Honey, no! I meant that…I just…” you blushed, “I’ve never seen you in this…” your hands tracing across his chest adorned with the letters ‘FBI’. 

“I did get a lot of funny looks walking over here,” his brow furrowed, “I’m sorry I should have taken it off. I just wanted to see you and forgot.” He shook his head, admonishing himself. 

Looking up at him you continued trying to stifle a giggle, “Spencer, you sweet beautiful genius,” you said as you cupped his face, “They weren’t looking at you funny. You look, how should I put it, smoking hot. Like an actual real life superhero.”

It was his turn to blush and he tried to disagree with you, but met with your adoring gaze he stayed quiet and grinned. He gently pressed his lips to yours then met your eyes, “By the way, I love you too.” You kissed him again, smiling. 

“Come on, let me take you home.” He picked up your bag and extended a hand to you. 

“Yes please, Dr FBI agent.” Taking his hand and smirking at him. 

“So I should wear the vest more often?” He asked innocently.

“Definitely.” 

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #derek morgan #criminal minds x reader

[mintaikcorpse]

Moments in the Hunger Games that Dr. Gaul would hate

Dr. Gaul says that humans are naturally violent, and to prove her wrong, here are moments in the Hunger Games that show that they aren't.

-Lucy Gray comforting Jessup when he wasn't feeling well

-Lucy Gray crying and mourning when Dill died (Wovey in the book)

-Lucy Gray making sure Jessup ate despite her having the advantage if he didn't eat

-The first thing Lucy Gray doing in the arena was look for Jessup and run away with him so they could both have a chance at surviving, despite all the murder and chaos happening around them

-Lucy Gray comforting Jessup as he was dying

-Lucy Gray in general

-Jessup protecting Lucy Gray from the bats (rabid raccoons in the book)

-Reaper giving Lamina cloth and Lamina giving him food. Then Coral, Mizzen, and Tanner came and she warned him (in the book)

-Reaper collecting the bodies of the fallen tributes and covering them with the flag to give them proper respects

-Reaper warning Wovey when she was walking to the snakes

-Lamina killing Marcus. Ik it was still murder, but it was a mercy kill. She even comforted him before and stared at his body and curled up into the fetal position after

-Lamima has a lot of empathy in general and I love her so much and she's litterally just walking proof of Dr. Gaul's theory being wrong. Her name is litterally animal spelled backwards, which is what Dr. Gaul belived the tributes were. Violent animals

-Bobbin letting Wovey sleep on his shoulder

-In the walk to the cart, Bobbin was holding Wovey's hand

-Lucy Gray letting Wovey hold her hand before the games

-Treech protecting Lamina when Brandy was killed from the bullet

-Reaper going out of his way to protect Dill. I could make an entire post on this alone. But like, in every scene with them together, he's always looking out for Dill. Even when he jumped at his Mentor, he was looking at Dill before to see how she was doing. Dill's death is what made him want to honor the other tributes deaths. I can only imagine how that made their friends and families feel at home, to see the person they loved getting the respect they could in such violent games

-During the bombing, Marcus ran back to go get Lucy Gray despite thst fact that his chances of dying there were very high

-Ik he wasn't part of the games, but Sejanus going to spread bread around Marcus's dead body (I love Sejanus sm and I better not see y'all thirst over Snow anymore)

-In the book, there was no bloodbath scene. Most tributes ran straight for the tunnels, while Coral, Tanner, and Reaper went to get weapons, but even Coral, who was known for being violent, ran. Only Reaper stayed

-Reaper apologizing for having to kill the tributes the night before, and promising to honor them

-In the book, Teslee was running from the snakes and Lucy Gray came out of the tunnels singing so the snakes would be distracted so Teslee would have time to escape

-Screaming and crying and throwing up because Reaper killed Teslee but brought her body over to the other bodies because it's really all he could give her

-In the book, Lucy Gray and Reaper were the last ones left, and they procrastinated on killing each other. Lucy Gray killed him by getting him to drink poisoned water, not by any violence. She even closed his eyes when she realized he had died.

This was just the 10th Hunger Games. Damn. Imma go on to the other ones now

-Instead of of breaking their alliance by killing each other, Maysilee just left Haymitch saying that she didn't want it to come down to the two of them

-Haymitch staying with Maysilee as she died

-When Annie's district partner died, she gained serious PTSD, which should be proof enough that naturally, HUMANS DONT LIKE VIOLENCE

-Katniss volunteering to protect Prim

-Thresh smiling at Rue when she managed to steal the knife from Cato (this is so sweet to me, I love the District 11 kids sm)

-Foxface not killing anyone (that Katniss knows of) and running away, proving thst people are just trying to survive and not be violent

-Foxface and Katniss bumping into each other but then running away. Especially Katniss, because she definitely had the advantage

-Peeta joining the careers to protect Katniss

-Peeta telling Katniss to run when the careers were hunting her

-This wasn't shown to the audience, but Katniss said that if her and Rue were the last 2 left, she'd let Rue win

-Katniss letting Rue cuddle under the sleeping bag so that she could stay warm

-Katniss mourning the death of Rue by leaving flowers over her body and then giving respects to District 11. She even cried and threw her spear when Rue died

-Clove and Cato's entire friendship (also, Clove smiling at Cato while they were on the plane)

-Thresh killing Clove purely because of what he thought she did to Rue, implying that he wanted to protect Rue. (I like to believe that he didn't make an alliance with Rue the dame reason Katniss didn't make an alliance with Peeta in the beginning; he didn't want it to come down to the two of them). Despite that, he was still heartbroken when she died

-Thresh sparing Katniss's life because she was friends with and protected Rue

-Clove calling for Cato when Thresh was threatening her, and Cato coming to help (in the book)

-Cato crying and begging Clove to get up when she was dying

-Katniss mercy killing Cato despite everything (in the movie)

-Katniss and Peeta not wanting to kill each other and deciding to eat the berries together instead

75th Hunger Games

Yes, ik the rebellion. But I'm still counting it.

-Peeta volunteering to avoid having Haymitch go to the games

-Mags volunteering for Annie

-The female morphling (who I headcanoned as her name being Chassis) sacrificing herself to save Peeta

-Peeta staying to comfort Chassis and talking about how pretty the sky was

-Chassis and Autus (male morphling) teaching Katniss how to camouflage, despite her not knowing about the rebellion, and for all they know, she could try and kill them. But they still wanted to save everyone, so they kept Katniss alive

-MAGS. Mags is the best

-Finnick staying with and protecting Mags despite her chances of surviving being very low

-Katniss keeping Finnick alive, despite not knowing about the rebellion

-Peeta staying to comfort Katniss and Finnick during the jabberjay attacks

#tbosas #hunger games #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #i cant tag everyone here but im going to fucking try #lucy gray baird #jessup diggs #dr gaul #reaper ash #wovey #lamina #marcus #sejanus plinth #bobbin #treech #coral #Tanner #mizzen #teslee #maysilee donner #haymitch abernathy #annie cresta #katniss everdeen #primrose everdeen #peeta mellark #thresh #rue #foxface #clove #cato

[cowgurrrl]

Some way some how Joel and reader in lftl are able to take each other back to their homes from before. For closure and memories. They both are just two people who miss their babies. And now they get pictures and cards from their homes. Another little piece of Sarah and Jane to go back to jackson.

Hello do you have access to my wips I was literally working on this!! I wrote this more about reader going back to their last apartment because @hier--soir has an amazing fic about Joel going back to Texas and it's absolutely gorgeous <3 anyways, I hope you enjoy!! this made me CRYYYY

Never Grew Up With You

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author's note: Jesus Christ I haven't cried at a fic like this in a LONG time I'm genuinely exhausted

Summary: "To never see her face again is what grief is." — Euripides, translated by Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides aka this ask [1.5k]

Warnings: talks of Jane, memories, oh it's so sad

It's eerie being back in that town. It's empty, but the remnants of Outbreak Day linger in the streets— decomposed bodies, crashed cars, craters where the bombs hit. You recognize bits and pieces. The downtown area which used light up with Christmas lights and smell like funnel cake during the winter months. The church where you lied on the application form so Jane could get into daycare. Your apartment building. You stop in front of it, Joel at your side, and look up at it. 

It looks smaller than you remember it like maybe you romanticized the shithole after so many years of living in a worse shithole. Only a few windows still have glass, and you catch faded curtains flapping in the abandoned apartments. "Mommy, look!" Jane had yelled that day so you could catch the jets flying over the building. You were standing in the same area you are now. Your heart clenches, and Joel seems to feel it at the same time.

"Are you sure bout this?" He asks, and you nod. "I'll be right here with you the whole time. We can leave whenever you want." You don't answer him. You just take a deep breath and start walking toward the stairs—bullet holes and rusty, dried blood line the path up to your third-floor apartment, but other than that everything is the same. There's even still a flyer on the bulletin board advertising an apartment-wide potluck set the week after Outbreak Day. Jane wanted to go. She said her friends were going and she wanted you to meet them. You said you'd think about it.

When you reach the top of the stairs, you find your apartment door still open and immediately regret not closing it. What if there's nothing left? What if it's been raided? What if it's all destroyed? You push yourself forward until you're over the threshold and back into the life you left behind. The body of the runner who burst into your apartment that night is still there, grey and all but dust at this point. Dirty plates sit in the sink. Jane's kindergarten homework has slid off the table and onto the floor, her scribbly handwriting boring holes into you. You pick it up despite it having boot marks and ripped edges and stare down at how she wrote her name. Joel doesn't say anything, but he squeezes your shoulder and lets you know he's there.

Together, you silently move through the rooms and salvage whatever you find. In your room, you find ratty old clothes from 2003, medical textbooks, and a file full of important documents shoved under your bed. Among the papers are your tax forms, a copy of your college diploma, and Jane's birth certificate— the only physical proof that she was ever here. Jane Eloise born April 7th, 1998, to you and no one else. Somehow, the glaring absence of Matt's name on her birth certificate still makes your stomach turn. You find a few more keepsakes before moving to the living room.

Whatever might've been there has been taken or destroyed by whoever's been in the building in the last twenty years. The blankets and pillows that once lived on your couch are gone. Your TV has been smashed in. The shoes Jane always left in the middle of the floor have disappeared, probably taken by some other parent who was desperate and was too scared to think of the child who left them. You're about to walk down the hallway to the bathroom and Jane's room when something crunches under your foot. You look down, and all the air gets punched out of your chest. As gently as possible, you bend down to pick up the shattered picture frame and stare at it. 

It was a picture taken by a friend at the county fair. Jane is on your right with a half-eaten blue cotton candy in her hand and a water bottle tucked under her arm. Her hair is in a braid, and there's a big blue stain on her Princess Ariel shirt, but she looks happy. You're both smiling big, the reflection of the colorful carnival lights shining in your identical eyes. Everyone always said she looked like Matt, but you can clearly see your features reflected back to you in this picture. God, how could you have forgotten about the way her eyes crinkled when she was happy? Or how she leaned into you in public? Or how young you both were?

"What's that?" Joel asks as he walks over to you, and you meet him halfway to show him the picture, unwilling to hand it over just yet. It takes him a minute to realize what he's looking at, but when he does, he looks up to catch you staring at the picture. "'S that Jane?"

"Mhm,"

"She's beautiful," he says, and you smile. "Is that cotton candy?"

"Yeah, it was her favorite. Practically begged me to buy it for her. I'm pretty sure I overdrafted my bank account just to get it."

"How old are you in this photo?" He asks, and you furrow your brows as you think. 

"Uh, Jane looks about three or four, so I was, at least, nineteen."

"You look happy."

"And tired," you say. Both things are true, but you can't ignore the bags under your eyes or your horribly fitting clothes. You were struggling. You were alone. You were so incredibly ill-equipped and felt the weight of the world on your shoulders. And Jane... Jane is none the wiser. She's smiling. She's fed. She's loved. She's happy. Maybe you were doing a better job than you thought you were. "You know she wanted to go on the Ferris wheel?" You ask, and Joel raises his eyebrows.

"That little?" He asks, and you laugh, nodding.

"I said the same thing, but she was so determined. So, my friend got us tickets to go on it, and we went, just the two of us. But when we started going around, she started getting really scared about the height and how fast it was going. She buried her head in my arm almost the whole time, and I was stressed that she was miserable and we had wasted my friend's money, and I was so fucking tired," you say. "But when we stopped at the top, I told her to look at the sky, and she did. I pointed at the different stars and talked to her about the moon, and she calmed down. I don't know if I distracted her or if she realized how big the sky was in comparison, but when we got down, all she could talk about was how close she got to the moon. After that, we'd go out every night and look at the stars. Even snuck out of our QZ shelter after the Outbreak."

"D'you get caught?" 

"Once. I knew a FEDRA guy, and he let it go. We never got caught again." You haven't thought about Owen in years. You don't know if he's dead or alive. You don't even know if he remembers you. You're not sure if you want to know. 

You grab a few more things from her room: a teddy bear, a few shirts, and a picture of you and her on the day she was born. Being in her space again makes your head swim, and you want to stay here forever and leave as soon as possible, all at the same time. Eventually, after combing through every nook and cranny you still know, you do leave. You say a proper goodbye to the first home you shared with Jane and the memories you made there. You're silently grateful to the apartment for holding so many treasures you would've otherwise never gotten back. 

You don't know why, but you trace your steps back through one of your old routes. Joel is silent beside you and lets you lead, knowing you would never do anything to endanger him. You recount stories as you pass certain buildings or paths; he listens and asks questions about her and your shared life. Before you know it, you're on the same hill overlooking the QZ. The one where you hid with her when the Outbreak first happened. The one you sat down on and sobbed after Adam died because you had to pull yourself together before reentering. The one you buried her on. 

The tree holding her has gotten bigger, its limbs stretching to the sky and the leaves a brilliant green. Seeing it thrive makes you smile just a little before you pivot and start walking to where you know she is. The sight of a fresh bouquet on her spot stops you in your tracks and makes your breath catch. All these years, you worried she would go unremembered under that big oak tree. You worried she was alone and scared. You worried and worried and worried because that's what any good parent does. The yellow flowers protecting her prove your worries wrong. You take a deep breath and grab Joel's hand before walking over to her. 

"Hey bug," you start, fighting your tears, "This is Joel. He’s Sarah’s dad and he’s my… he’s my best friend." You squeeze Joel’s hand and take a shaky breath. "He takes care of me and I take care of him. So, you don’t have to worry about Mommy being lonely, okay? I’m gonna be just fine. You don’t have to be scared for me. I've got my people here just like you've got your people there. So, you just rest and I'll be okay." Now, you're really crying and there's no stopping it.

"I love you. I hope leaving didn't make you think otherwise, but I came back. I'll always come back because you're my baby. You'll always be my baby."

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha

#the last of us #joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us x reader #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fic #joel tlou #joel miller angst #tlou angst #the last of us angst #joel miller x f!reader #look for the light #the last of us au #tlou au #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #joel the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader

[q-starhalo]

What Bad has in his Memory Book day 2:

"two eggs"

"pancake hat"

"waldo shirt"

"empanada"

"pepito"

"pac is not pacman"

"tubbo is a train conductor"

"capybaras are giant guinea pigs"

"bagi is a friend"

"bagi has a nice house"

"bagi has a romantic fish that can talk"

"foolish is small"

"cucurucho saved eggs"

"cucurucho is friend?"

"bagi is bullet proof"

"bagi has a room for her pet cat"

"get headache medicine"

"max made a bomb"

"the eggs are back"

"they are all ok"

"they are sleeping"

"don't forget to write"

"don't forget to read"

★ day one ★

#alright day 2 notes wooooo!! #these are just notes to see what he puts down and what he remembers/others tell him :P #qsmp #badboyhalo #:P #✎ stars quotes

[blingblong55]

Soon you'll get better-141

MW3

[Alternative Ending]

[My version] ---- No use of [R/N], angst? fluff? ----

A/N: this is my version of an alternative ending to MW3…so take this as my delusional headcanon...

Who knew that disarming a bomb to save millions would take a sacrifice. Certainly, Captain Price wasn't aware of this. One thing is for sure, in the job of a soldier or an SAS, Navy SEAL, or any other form of soldier one must die to keep the world at peace. One must lose so that civilians live another normal day. Not always will it be to lose a life but if you are even daring the universe, you can lose sanity before losing a friend. Task Force 141 knows this all too well now. Losing John 'Soap' MacTavish. Not the man, no…but losing the soldier in him. That is a greater loss because now, they roam those dangerous parts of the world without the other. They have been consumed by darkness. That is the truth.

Price has the gun pointed at him. So near death now, something not new to him but to be this close…it's never easy. In a flash, Soap gets up, trying to save not himself but his friend, his captain and a man he knew well. Makarov's gun doesn't have much of a hesitation when its trigger gets pulled. The bullet, that one thing that has been known to end it all by many people like Soap, now entering his body, to end his. A loud thud as what looks to be like a dead MacTavish falls. Ghost and Gaz arrive with the other team. Guns and bullets play the main role in this fight. Not always do heroes win against a villain and 141 was proof of that.

Makarov and his men leave. An escapee with promises of redemption. What a dangerous world this will be. "…one KIA," words Kate Laswell regretted on hearing. No pulse but the gloves of the lieutenant failed to find the short and very small signs the young sergeant had left in him. Crimson red laid all on the floor. Blood no one wanted to see in this lifetime but it was bound to be seen at least from one of them. Price shakes his head. "No, this can't be," he takes his gloves off and amid lost hope, that faint sign of life is there.

John 'Soap' MacTavish, pronounced KIA on a mission with the last task force he worked for. Johnny MacTavish was rushed to a private hospital. His blood is all in the hands of nurses and doctors as they try to save his life. Agents in the room per request of the CIA to ensure the young man would survive to see his homeland. No one but a handful of people would know of Johnny's well-being. His family grieved. His cousin regretted inspiring his 'little brother'.

It wasn't the world that saw 141 grieve. Not even the reflection saw the frowns and drained eyes. Makarov watched though, he saw how his, in his words, 'needed actions' made the men of Task Force 141 fly to Scottland. To play it safe, they acted. Ashes from the fireplace of the night before were laid to rest in that beautiful place. The wind, as free as could be and as Johnny yearned to be took them to a promised land. One even those alive hoped to visit. 2073521, John 'Soap' MacTavish's service number is now signed off and stamped as KIA. No longer would that soldier be a part of anything but a grave.

It's been one month since the death of Soap. Johnny is now at a small home in Scotland. Price, Gaz and Ghost all take turns to watch over the man. He is in a deep coma. The scar from the bullet is covered by a bandage. His jaw would eventually receive a new scarred look. The nurse taking care of the man, coming in and out, was checked by at least two soldiers before entering the home. The machines fill the void left by silence. Occasionally, the men would fly home in secrecy so no one would raise suspicion as to why they were in Scotland.

Well, all except one. Ghost. That man stayed awake most time and talked to Johnny as if he was awake. Johnny was like his brother Tommy. Both annoying, loud, persistent and the closest he had to normalcy. Johnny looked up to Ghost, very much like Tommy. "Lt, my lass and I are having some issues and well, how do I even apologise without saying it?" "Lt, give me a minute, let me deal with this alone first." "Yes, Lieutenant, but the joke was better in my head." "C'mon Simon, it was just a prank." "Maybe y'aren't as handsome under the mask, maybe that's why my lass is hesitant to introduce yer to that other date she wanted yer to have." From advice to humour, these two men had now formed a bond. For Ghost, it was like losing Tommy all over again.

Gaz, oh those two shared many nights on missions. Soap knew Gaz talked to fill the silence on operations. It was a way of not just burning adrenaline but also making sure his teammates were okay. Soap grew to love that about Gaz. "You have to wake up, mate…Y'know, Ghost has been talking more to us." Gaz chuckles. "I like to believe that he found a new family with us," he sighs and shakes his head. "I…I'm sorry for not being there sooner. Maybe if I…if Ghost and I would've been there sooner you and I would be on that bachelor's trip, huh," Gaz's eyes land on Johnny. His chuckle was deep with sorrow and regret. Every night, Gaz's brown eyes never failed to grow teary. All the what-ifs landed on his mind. "I…like to believe you are playing pretend so the pretty nurse keeps coming or that you are just annoyed at me and are giving me the silent treatment." In Gaz's hands, he holds Soap's dog tags.

Price was different this time. He quit smoking for some time. One thing all tough soldiers know is to understand loss. There is one reason for it, they have to get used to it. He shook his head, "It's on me, ain't sunshine." No response. Typical. It was hilarious really. Now that he needed Johnny to talk, there was no voice. Not even a scoff. "Your…lass, she uh….she has been well since we told her the news. Gaz makes sure she has support and Ghost sometimes surveillances when I tell him to go home. He thinks I don't know, but I know he never goes back to England." That stupid machine, why can't it shut up? Why can't it let Johnny speak? Damn it, damn it, curse me, haunt me for all I am worth, this all goes through the captain's head. In a sinking ship, the captain gets everyone off it and he must sink with his ship, so why couldn't Johnny let him do that?

Every night, Johnny gets new stories, well old ones, the ones Ghost lived through. Without knowledge, Johnny is getting every piece of Ghost's life story. Every time he helps with Johnny's physical therapy, Ghost complains but he also tells one fact of his young life. From his young bastard years to his recent ones.

Three hundred-sixty-nine days passed and now, Johnny is awake. He has been awake for about five minutes and at least every single second has been filled with questions, hugs, smiles and the dark jokes Ghost made. "It's an order, Johnny, you can't die on my watch." Price commands. "Aye," Johnny lets out. His hair was a bit longer now, no more mohawk, to which Ghost calls this, 'Johnny's weirdly normal self'. "At least I don't parade that shite mask around," Johnny bites back. "Oi, watch it." Ghost responds. Now, it's clearer than ever that in that year, 141 got even closer. From this day forward, the men have created a bond no man can break, not even a goddamned bullet.

It's now been three months since Johnny woke up, the men are in an operation but the nurse and Laswell stay behind. Being dead serves no good in a team anymore so now, all he does is walk, learn to move his muscles for the better and talk to a therapist. Ever since, Johnny has been dealing with his PTSD and depression. Laswell ensured the men of the team she would never lead Johnny's side because she too saw him like a little brother to her. A lethal little brother that is.

After a somewhat good operation, the three men flew back to Scotland. Laswell and Johnny greeted them with a home-cooked meal. One that Laswell's wife had to fly over for, simply because she was worried the two would not cook the meal well and because she too needed to see her wife. "Welcome home, y'shits." Johnny patted Price's shoulder. "Now we know who will be responsible for a stomach ache," Gaz comments. "Y'know, for that comment, I think I'll kick ya ass." Johnny walks to Gaz, a side hug given as both men find their brotherhood to be intact. "Do it, I'll bet on Gaz," Ghost walks past them and Johnny gives him a scoff.

As the six people sit around the campfire, Price and Laswell begin to share stories. Then Laswell's missus joins in. Gaz and Johnny follow soon. Ghost adds his humour now and then. Beers, laughter, the night sky, the warmth and sense of belonging, all coming to Johnny. He looks around, his arm draped on Gaz's shoulder. This is the kind of relief that is needed after a hell of a life. "It was confidential, Laswell," Price's voice was low. The two women laugh and it gets followed by the other men. It wasn't until sunrise that they all decided to pause the conversation and talk it over lunch.

It was maybe cruel how they ended up on a beautiful grassy hill in Scotland but the fact that after years of ache, blood and betrayal they all got to sit down was where beauty is found. If Johnny doesn't feel lucky, he should know, that to get to this moment, he lived in the dark and now happily lives in the light. The grasslands, all to prove it. Soon, he'll be better and John 'Johnny' MacTavish, will run along the highlands with his dog, chasing the soldiers he is helping train.

Task Force 141, all for one and one for all.

Tags:

@actuallyhiswife @liyanahelena @ghostslittlegf @ghostslillady @goldenmclaren

Join my tag list

#cod #cod 141 #mw2 141 #task force 141 #141 #141 task force #tf 141 #141 au #mw3 2023 #mw3 spoilers #mw3 campaign #cod mwiii #cod mw3 #mwiii spoilers #call of duty modern warfare 3 #call of duty mw3 #modern warfare 3 #mwiii #mw3 #soap cod #john mactavish #gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #simon riley #captain john price #john price #cod modern warfare #cod mwii

[deathsimage]

Finally Alone

Content: Price x reader (18+) minors dni, afab reader, short athletic reader, reader is a member of 141, reader is a sniper and close combat expert, reader is 20-25

Warnings: smut, sexual situations, language, fighting, jealousy, childhood trauma, age gap

Details: (y/c/n) = your field call name; (y/n) = your name (first); (y/l/n) = your last name

Note: for some reason during the fight scenes I was imagining Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit playing in the background 😂 and when the “good part” hits After Dark x Sweater Weather idk why but yeah. This shit is long btw, buckle up sluts. Not proof read! Lightly scanned over 🫢 enjoy Daddy issues squad 🫶🏻

8:00 AM

You yawn as you wake up to your alarm clock, rolling over to see your Captain who had spent the night with you last night. Nothing happened, just him being there for your comfort. Your depression was setting in and he could tell you weren’t in a good head space, it’s his job to notice those things. You tend to be worse when you’re alone, so he volunteered to stay with you overnight to make sure you made it through the night okay.

The team knew about your illness and your trauma, they could tell something was off when you first joined, and when you finally opened up to them they pieced everything together. They’re your family and they do anything they can to help, just as you would for them.

Price’s back was facing you, he was clearly awake from the alarm clock but he was entirely too comfortable to get up. You begin lightly grazing your finger nails up and down the skin of his back, making him shiver a bit. You giggle at the fact you have never seen him do that, and he rolls further onto his stomach so you would continue to lightly scratch his back. This would eventually become routine.

When he finally decided to get up and get dressed you couldn’t help but just watch the sleepy man, thought running through your mind…thoughts you didn’t want.

You were never protected. You survived on your own from the time you were 6, you took care of yourself and you protected yourself the best a child knew how to. In fact, all the things you seen and went through growing up, you shouldn’t even be alive, it doesn’t make sense that you survived. You never felt safe, ever. It was just part of your life..until now.

Tears began filling your eyes as you felt something you thought you would never have the luxury of feeling.

Safety.

Even in the field with bullets flying at you and bombs hitting the ground 10 feet away from you, if he was there..you felt safe.

(y/n)? You didn’t notice Price was now looking at you, already walking over to sit on the edge of the bed, his rough hand lightly placing itself on your cheek. “What’s wrong?”

Your eyes snapped up to look at him, starting to smile. “Nothing..for once..everything is okay.”

Price gave a sigh and a light smile, confident that he was the reason why you felt so content. Standing back up to walk to the door. “We’re in the sparring zone today, wear fighting clothes.” He said before leaving for you to get dressed.

9:00AM

You showed up in your camo cargo pants and a black tank top, seeing a few soldiers already sparring on the mat. Seeing your best friend Soap you smiled and went to stand next to him. As soon as you approached he got his usual goofy smile and wrapped an arm around your shoulders to give you that rough weird bro hug. “How ar’ ye feelin today?”

“Good.”

“Good. Price was worried about’cha so I was too. I think he’s got a crush on ya.” Soap grinned like he was getting high off of teasing you. He knew you liked Price, he seen the way you looked at him and the way you listened to him the way you listen to no one else. You’re fairly stubborn, only doing what you feel is right, unless Price says. Whatever Price says, you do it. Although you’ve never had a problem ignoring authority before now..something about his commands were just..right.

Ghost was standing next to the mat, seeming to be instructing the matches. You were a good fighter, you’ve been fighting all your life. Even if you were small, you found how to use it to your advantage.

“(y/c/n)” Ghost barked “on the mat. Men, this is why you can’t estimate anything, never let your guard down, always expect anything. Soap, demonstrate.”

You pushed off your boots and socks, stepping onto the mat, looking back to Soap with a shit eating grin. “Fuck Lt, why do I have to get beat up?” Soap groaned as he got onto the mat with you, rolling his eyes at your cocky smirk.

“Start.” As soon as the words left Ghosts lips you had Soap down on the mat.

“Dammit (y/c/n) give me a second to see you love first at least!” He yelled as he got back up, turning around to find you, but once again you already had his legs clipped from under him. Soap was one of the best fighters in any military, so was Ghost and Price, but you were something different. You went for targets larger men never looked for, so therefore never thought to guard. Before Soap knew it you were running at him, he braced himself to take a hit but he was completely caught off guard when you hit the mat and slid, grabbing his hands as you slid between his legs, making him fall face first. Jumping up behind him, you just walked over to him and sat on his head, causing him to aggressively tap the mat.

Ghost just chuckled over to the side of the mat, allowing Soap to go sit on the bench.

“Okay well if you think it’s so funny why don’t you go fight her?” Soap pouted. Ghost just shrugged in acceptance of the challenge, stepping onto the mat to face you.

After another embarrassing match of you easily slipping by each one of Ghosts techniques, ending up behind him before he could see you move, he was down on the mat face up, groaning as he cursed himself for letting you get by him. Wasn’t his fault, you just knew what you were doing, and it was different than what most men tend to work with.

One of the by standing soldiers decided to speak up, seeming that this small woman needed to be put in her place so to speak. “I bet she can’t be König”

Soap just looked up from the bench “I’ll wager on that. You by everyone a round of drinks if she wins. If she loses, I’ll buy.”

The other soldier chuckled and agreed to the bet, Soap shaking his head “I almost feel bad for doing that to him.”

Your 6’10” teddy bear walked onto the mat, shaking your hand before getting in stance, you both beginning on Ghosts command.

Normally König would be afraid of hurting you, but he’s fought you before..he knew he had to give his all even for this small mädchen who wasn’t tall enough to even reach the top shelf of her locker. It was funny actually, how indestructible she seemed, almost made of rubber. She would get bruised, but bounce right back, and hit you harder than the last time. She had fought to survive this long, her body just decided to keep up with her mental will.

It took longer yes, but you eventually had König on his stomach with his neck between your thighs and his ankle pinned under your arm. “Geben! geben!”

1:30 PM

You let go of König and got off of him, the both of you chuckling as he got up. He gave you a pat on the back, almost knocking you over, before nodding to Ghost and going back over to the side with Soap. Soap was grinning like he just won the lottery, the other soldier completely dumbfounded at the fact that a girl not even 5’6” could take down a mountain of a German man. The men decided to pile out of the sparring building to go get those promised drinks, not to mention they needed lunch. Soap turning to you “you comin?”

“Nah, I haven’t fought the captain yet” you grinned looking back to Price who was just now finishing a cigar. Price rolled his eyes and tossed his cigar aside, waving for Soap to go on without the two of you. Now, you and Price were alone.

Taking off his boots, Price stepped onto the mat with you, a playful smile on his face as he looked down at you.

“On your mark captain.” You beamed, wiggling your hips a bit in excitement.

Once the fight began you almost seemed to let your guard down on purpose, just so you could feel his hands on you; his body pressed against you. Feeling safe even while ‘fighting’.

“Don’t take it easy on my (y/n), I may be about 10 years older than you but I’m not that old.” He chuckled, now having you pinned beneath him, but you were quick to swing your leg back over him and throw him off of you, now on his lap holding his jaw to the mat while holding his arm twisted and pulled to you. “Never mind..” he groaned, making you giggle and let go of him. Mistake.

Now he has you, once again, pinned to the floor. Although this time, your wrists are pinned above your head, his thighs pressing against yours to press them back towards your body, practically having you in the missionary position. You both freeze, looking into each other eyes, his aqua eyes making you shiver the way he’s looking at you, as if you’re his..he could have you right now if he wanted, and the twitch in his pants let you know that he did.

Price had enjoyed your company from the moment you joined 141, loves your personality and the brightness you brought to the atmosphere. He wanted to protect you more than anyone else, especially after learning your traumatic background. He also had..feelings, that he thought he shouldn’t be having. Waking up in the middle of the night in a sweat with a tent under his blanket due to having dreams about you in ‘certain’ situations.

It seemed like hours had passed, but it was only a few seconds before his lips smashed into yours. He seemed..hungry..starved. He craved you and he finally had you. He was already grinding against you, his hard cock pressing a through his pants even through your own, it was obvious that he’s…big.

Wrapping your legs around his waist he began kissing down your jaw line, down to your neck. He wanted to mark you, make sure everyone knew you were his. You squirm beneath him as the electricity spreads through your body, the warmth that felt like fire burning between your legs with want and desire. “Captain..please..”

“Tell me what you want love..and it’s John.” He breathed against the soft sensitive skin of the love bite he had drawn to the surface with his teeth and tongue.

“I want you John..please..fuck me..” you panted, feeling his face leave your neck as he looked at your face intently, seeming to look for any sign of discomfort or regret. Your eyes were half closed, feeling drunk on just his body heat alone, inhaling his scent, feeling every bit of his body against you. He leaned up, unbuttoning your cargo pants, sliding the zipper down as he pulled them off of your legs, letting your thighs go back to resting against his own. Leaning back down, his lips once again connected with yours, his tongue slipping between your lips to dance with yours. His hands found themselves underneath your shirt, squeezing your breasts in his palms before pulling your shirt off, then his own. God…his body was ethereal, like he shouldn’t even be real. His face now only inches from yours, his lips a painfully short distance but not close enough to touch. His fingers slid down your abdomen, tucking under your panties. His middle finger slid its way between your slit. God, even his fingers were huge.

Rubbing his finger over your cunt to feel the slick he had produced from you made him smirk. “Already this wet for me darlin’?”

In response you bucked your hips up to push his finger further, but he just leaned up and pressed your stomach down with his other hand, forcing your back flat on the floor. “Needy little cunt eh?” He smirked, his breaths still heavy. Sliding his finger up to your clit, circling with the tip of his finger before flicking it, all making your body twitch and jerk, he continued to stare down at you in admiration. You were his..finally. Watching you get so much pleasure from just his kisses and his finger made him high, feeling that nothing could ever make him feel this good.

He slid his finger out and slid it into his mouth, tasting your slick, letting out a low grumbling moan, sounding almost primal as he tasted you. “Fuck you taste amazing..” he growled. Repositioning himself, his face was now between your thighs, kissing your bud through your soaked panties making your back arch again. He once again used his big strong hand to press you back down flat onto the mat, his other finger moving your panties aside to drag his tongue over your cunt, up to your click. Making you let out a loud whimper made Price growl against your pussy, the vibration of him sending stars through your vision. He seemed drunk off of your wetness, your pussy in general driving him insane; just as perfect as he imagined in his late night fantasies.

One hand still pressing against your abdomen to keep you in place, the other hand gripped your thigh. Sucking on your clit while working his tongue around it, his hand moved from your thigh to slide his middle finger inside of your wet cunt, making your legs shake at the double sensation. Didn’t take him but a moment to enter a second finger inside of you, pumping them in and out as a slower pace, curling his fingers up against that sweet spot. You only noticed for a second but Price was grinding his hips against the mat, trying to give his throbbing cock the least bit of friction. “J-John!” You gripped the hair on the top of his head as your legs lifted off the mat, shaking violently as you came on his fingers. Pulling his fingers out, looking down at your dripping wet cunt made a fire light in his chest that was already lit, but now it was roaring. He licked at your cum like you were the most divine thing he had ever tasted, sucking at your juices before pulling back to slide his two wet fingers between your lips, making you taste yourself. Licking and sucking your cum off of his fingers made him groan, leaning down to kiss you with his cum slicked mustache/beard. “Come on.” He slid his fingers from between your lips, wrapping his arms under your back, pulling you into his lap so your legs wrapped around him before standing up, holding you in his arms. You laid your head on his shoulder, eyes half shut as you were still high on your climax. He had carried you into the locker room showers. Sitting you down on one of the benches to push off his pants, his cock, so thick, making an obvious indention in his tight fitted black boxers. On sight, you immediately got to your knees in front of him, catching him off guard a bit as he looked a bit surprised as you wrapped your lips around the cloth covered erection, your hands massaging his balls through his boxers, a deep breathy moan coming from deep in his chest, his finger tangling in your hair. “Be patient love..I have other plans.” He looked down at you as he sat you on the bench again, leaning down to kiss you as he wrapped his arms around you to unhook your bra, laying it to the side. Pulling you to stand back up he knelt down to pull off your panties. You pressed your hand against his strong shoulders to step out of them, him giving your bare pussy a kiss before standing up and turning the hot water on in one of the showers, leading you to step inside. Your legs were still weak but you could stand. You enjoyed the warm water, not even noticing that Price was now standing behind you without his boxers, his naked erection pressing against your ass. You laid your head back against his chest, looking up at him with a loving smirk. He pushed your back forward, having your face pressed against the tile wall with your ass pulled to him. “Thighs together.” He commanded, making you quiver as you obeyed him. Pushing his thighs against the soft skin of your inner thighs, he slid his cock between your thighs, rubbing against your slit as he gripped your hips and began slowly fucking your thighs. “Fuck…not even inside you yet and I’m losing my mind..” he panted breathlessly.

Pulling back, his fingers wrapped around your waist to turn you around to face him, picking you up to wrap your legs around him. You both stared at each other like you were looking at heaven itself. One hand reached beneath you as he angled his cock to push inside of you. Fuck he was so thick..he may be around 7 inches but he was so..so fucking thick..

You whimpers, stuffing your face into the crook of his neck as the stretch of your hole was fairly intense.

“You okay love?” He whispered against your ear. “Yes sir..please don’t stop..” you spoke against his skin; pushing the rest of his cock inside of you until you were full, your toes curling at the fullness. “Yes..thank you sir” you barely got out through heavy breaths. He simply smiled as he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of the soft walls of your pussy. This would be easier if you were standing and his had your ass pushed back to him, but he wanted to hold you, look at your face, take in the emotions in your eyes. He loved you.

His hips began to snap faster against your own, you were finally able to lean back against the tile, pressing your hands against his broad chest as you looked at each other as he fucked you into the shower wall as the warm water ran down your bodies. The mixture of your moans was a song of your souls connecting in such an intimate way. Your bodies finally connecting as one.

His hips began to lose pace, getting sloppy as he was reaching his climax. “(y/n)..where do you want me to cum..?” He panted. “Inside..please sir, I want all of you.” Just those few words sent him over his edge as he slammed into you one last time, as deep as possible as his warm cum filled your cunt. Te sensation of his cum filling you sent you over your own edge, slumping down against his chest. Pulling out of you, setting you down, himself leaning against the wall to let the feeling come back to his body as you laid against him, your legs still shaking as he held you against his body, the warm water washing you both clean of your sticky. His head looked down, his lips pressing against the top of your head. “Glad we were finally alone.”

#captain john price #captain price #john price #captain price smut #john price smut #captain John price smut #call of duty smut #cod smut #cod mw smut #cd mw2 smut

[mgc02]

I got a request. The confrontation with Valentino at the club in "Welcome To Heaven" escalates and Sir Pentious takes an angelic bullet for Angel Dust, which lands his redeemed soul right in the middle of the Heaven Court.

Ok, VERY interesting concept I love it!

The Selfless Snake

Tw: Blood, mention of toxic relationship, slight angst, not sure if this counts as Canon character death since he is technically still alive

Sir Pentious saw Angel's face when he saw his boss. He didn't know the full extent of what was going on but he knew that it was serious. He had been trying to work up the courage to court Cherri bomb though failing epicly and hilariously every time. But he was ready to leave when everyone else was after seeing that Angel was so serious. And that was the plan. Until sweet oblivious darling Niffty took off in the worst possible direction. Angel tried to stop her but in the act Valentino saw him.

This lead a confrontation and Angel held his ground. Standing up to him which Pentious could tell was a hard thing for him to do. Angel got his point across and it seemed that although he would pay for it later today he had won. But as Angel turned Pentious noticed that infernal Moth pull out a blessed pistol. In an act of instinct he pushed Angel out of the way taking the bullet himself. He felt shooting pain up his spine and a pound of pressure from the point of entry before he fell to the ground.

Angel upon realizing was in shock and in tears. Sir pentious grabbed at the gapping bloody hole in his chest. He wasn't long for this world. He thought for sure he was a goner... but then he blinked.

"The court finds no evidence that- huh? What!?!" the woman speaking gasped with a look of shock and bewilderment. Gasps followed by whispers flooded the room. Sir Pentious though confused and a little scared waved awkwardly and smiled. "Hello" his discomfort was lessened when he heard a familiar voice.

"Pentious?!?" Charlie gasped her eyes wide in disbelief before joy took over. "You've-You've been redeemed!!!" Vaggie was next her looking surprised as well but also a little hurt though Pentious didn't know why. Charlie tried to gather her bearings and plead with the court. "Look there's proof right there! It can be done. We've done it!" The gasps rose around the room once again along with judging glances at the woman in charge. Pentious simply stayed silent and slightly confused.

Charlie before continuing looked over at Vaggie with a look of conflict and uncertainty before smiling and taking her by the hand. "Heaven may have been wrong about the exterminations but that doesn't mean that things can't change. That heaven can't right these wrongs. If we put on this belief that we are perfect we never try to improve. And this here is proof that people can improve. So why can't heaven do the same?" The quiet in the room gave away that everyone could tell she had a point. The woman in charge looked over at the smaller one who pleaded with her with her eyes.

She sighed. "This does change a lot. And it does warrant our attention to at least give it a chance. We will put the exterminations on hold for now while we assist with your redemption plan and do our own research. And if it plays out right... then maybe there is a future where the yearly extermination is eradicated for good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have much to discuss with my superiors" everyone exited and Charlie threw her arms around Pentious in literal tears.

"I can't believe my eyes! I'm so proud of you! But what happened? We stopped watching after Angel confronted Valentino." Sir pentious had a lot to tell them. "Well, it was quite intense I must say- wait what do you mean watching?"

#hazbin hotel #vivziepop #hazbin hotel sir pentious #hazbin sir pentious #sir pentious #angel dust hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel angel dust #charlie hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin charlie #hazbin fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction

[whimsimille]

POMEGRANATES

Jeong Jin-Man x female! reader

Pandemonium overtook the cabaret, and the unmistakable sound of glass shattering pierced through the cacophony.

Before you found refuge in the room and made a beeline for the closet, your eyes had taken in the eerie spectacle. The grand chandelier suspended from the ceiling cast ominous shadows that danced on the walls, their movements dictated by the tongues of flames consuming the room. Smoke, ashen and thick, curled upwards, a grim proof of the chaos below. It originated from multiple sources: tablecloths set ablaze, furniture upturned and broken, and bottles of discarded alcohol shattered upon impact from stray bullets. The stench was overpowering—a sickening cocktail of gunpowder, sweat, and blood.

One man clutched his stomach where he'd been shot; another woman sobbed uncontrollably near an upturned piano while cradling her head wound; yet another lies motionless near a pool of crimson liquid.

Imagining the worst case scenarios playing out of the reach of your eyes, you hope that whoever's shooting will miss their target.

But then again, if they did, they wouldn't have come here in the first place. This place was a haven for criminals, a den of vice—no honor among thieves—and it looked like someone wanted to reclaim the turf or send a message.

You didn't care about any of that; all you cared about was survival. And Min-Hye.

Through the cracks in the closet door, you watched in horror.

Bodies lay scattered like broken dolls, some screaming for mercy or moaning in pain, while others just lay still—dead or unconscious. It's hard to tell which is worse. Blood drips from their wounds and mixes with spilled alcohol on the floor as chaos ensues around you both.

Men in black tactical gear methodically searched each room, their eyes glazed over with a cold detachment that sent shivers down your spine. They moved swiftly and efficiently, leaving little room for error or hesitation. Their guns were cocked and ready to fire at any sign of movement.

Your Korean wasn't as good as your English to understand everything they said, but you caught enough to realize that they were looking for the girls.

Holding Min-Hye tightly against you, you notice how her soft curves nestled into your own body—the direct opposite of the flimsy lingerie she wore.

Your own clothes were practically torn to shreds from when they'd dragged you into the back room, and your skin was bruised and battered from their rough handling. But there was no time to mourn that now.

Min-Hye let out a whimper as the scream of a woman rang out, but you quickly grabbed her face and put it on your neck.

"Shh, shh," you whisper into her ear, gently stroking her hair as you try to calm her down.

The older woman shook in your arms, her frightened breaths hot against your neck. They were almost upon you now; you could feel their presence through the closet door, like a foul wind that reeked of sweat and gunsmoke. One hard kick and it would all be over. But you couldn't just let them take her—not like this. Not while she was clinging on to you so desperately, trusting in your protection. You had to do something—anything.

"You're going to be okay," you whisper, even though you know you might both end up dead.

Strangely, you feel calm and detached. Maybe it's the adrenaline, or perhaps it's because you've been in similar nightmarish situations before.

Growing up, your home was a battlefield. Your mother, with her razor-sharp words and fists as hard as talons, and your father, a drunk who spent more time stumbling than holding a job.

Your childhood was a blur of violence and fear—trying to drown it out with the solace of books. But that didn't stop bullets from flying and bombs exploding, or men with guns barging into your home, looking for who knows what. You knew how to survive in these situations. How to stay quiet and hidden, how to move without being seen or heard. You were an expert at keeping yourself alive, you learned never to show fear, never to scream, and never to go down without a fight. You learned to toughen up, to leave scars on whatever dared to harm you.

The closet you're in now is cluttered with discarded sex toys, torn dresses, and stained undergarments. Amid the chaos, you spot a pile of black leather items—remains of some BDSM act performed earlier tonight.

You quickly gather them, creating a makeshift cloak for you and Min-Hye to hide underneath.

“I-I’m scared!” Min-Hye interrupts your crafting, her head falling onto your shoulders as she weeps.

Without moving your lips, you pull Min-Hye's head back and gently remove the blonde wig from her head, revealing her short black hair that is matted with sweat and tears. You remember your own hair being pulled, yanked as a form of punishment or control. But that's a thought for another time.

"Breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out. Slow and steady."

Letting go of the cover, you find her hand and give it a gentle squeeze, hoping to transfer some of your calmness to her.

She must have picked up on your trick because she slowly started to mimic your rhythm.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoes through the room as someone kicks in the door of the suite you two were in.

You hold your breath as you hear them approach your closet, feeling the vibrations of their heavy boots on the wooden floor. The knob turns slowly, and you flinch, expecting the worst.

Sweat begins to form on your brow as the door creaks open ever so slightly, revealing only darkness at first. But then, a sliver of light from the hallway enters and you see a pair of cold, impassive eyes gazing straight at you.

Your makeup smeared as you rolled out of the closet, your eyes fixed on the intruders—two men who stared back at you in surprise. You can see the shock on their faces when they take in your nude body and Min-Hye hiding behind you, her eyes wide with fear.

Adrenaline makes you swift and sure. Your hand snakes out, grabbing one of the discarded leather straps from your makeshift cloak and whipping it towards them.

The strap catches one man off-guard, wrapping around his neck and yanking him backward with a crack. He chokes, gasping for air as you twist it tighter, your fingers digging into his skin like claws.

Meanwhile, his comrade takes aim at you both, finger squeezing the trigger. But before he can fire, you dive forward and slam into him with a grunt of effort. Your shoulder crashes against his stomach just as a bullet rips through the air where your head was moments ago. You sink teeth into his neck to muffle his cry of pain until he goes limp beneath you.

The second man, dazed but still breathing, tries to bring his knife up, but you're too quick. His eyes widen as he sees your hands wrap around his neck and then narrow in anger when you squeeze. You smell the sweat on his skin as you twist, feeling his windpipe bend under your grip like a rubber band under pressure. You can hear him gurgle and wheeze for air—a pathetic sound that fills you with satisfaction. This is how it should be—every single one of these bastards deserves to suffer like this.

With a final crack of bone breaking under your hands, the man goes limp and drops to the floor with a thud.

For a moment, all is silent.

Your eyes land on Min-Hye, cowering behind the overturned table, her eyes wide with fear yet still following your every move intently.

From the moment you were unwillingly brought to this place, the youngest and the last to be ensnared, to be handled around Chinese men like a sex toy, you had taken Min-Hye under your wing, offering her the care that had been denied to you, even when she was 5 years older. And now, you would do anything to save her.

A sharp crack echoes through the room as more gunshots ring out.

Glass shatters behind you; someone else is breaking in or shooting through another windowpane. You barely register it as you kick the men away from you and push yourself up to your feet with a snarl. Your legs tremble underneath you but adrenaline carries you forward nonetheless.

You snatch up a shard of broken glass from the floor as another shot rings out—too close for comfort—and throw it with all your strength at a third assailant who had just entered through the doorway. The sharp piece hits him in the eye and he cries out before he falls to the ground.

You could hear others getting closer, their heavy boots stomping on the floorboards. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you tried to think of a way out of this nightmare.

You needed to get Min-Hye to safety, but how? The exit door was locked and there were at least two of them guarding it. The window was your only option, but it was high and covered by metal bars. And even if you managed to open it, the drop would surely break her fragile body. You didn't even know if she could climb or if the fall would kill her instantly.

A sudden thought hit you like a lightning bolt: the ventilation shaft! It led directly outside; perhaps you could squeeze through the tiny opening with Min-Hye and make a mad dash for freedom before they caught on to your plans.

Frantically, you reached for the fallen gun in one hand while dragging the unconscious men with the other, positioning them into a corner. It was a spot that was out of sight from outside yet still provided a modicum of cover while you prepared to make your bold escape.

“Damn it!” you hissed when you checked the gun, finding the chamber empty. Your heart sank as you checked the other bodies, but it was the same story.

In desperation, you ripped off one of their masks, revealing a scarred and rugged face that mirrored the cold determination in his eyes when he was conscious. You swiftly grabbed his discarded weapons belt, strapping it around your waist firmly, now armed with a knife and a baton.

"Y/N..."

"Shh, calm down. I have a plan," you reassured her, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.

Your eyes darted around the room, landing on a chair nearby. In quick strides, you rushed to it and jammed it under the doorknob. The chair was old and rickety, its wood groaning under the strain. But it held. This makeshift barricade would buy you some precious time.

Now, it was time to get Min-Hye to safety. She was still shaking, but she didn't resist when you lifted her into your arms, her bare legs brushing against yours as you placed her on top of the table.

With trembling hands, you started to unscrew the bolts that held the grate in place. The monsters outside were cursing loudly, their threats and taunts blending into the cacophony of the chaos beyond the door. Your fingers slipped several times, smearing grease and dirt on the metal, but you were determined.

After what felt like an eternity, the last bolt came loose. You quickly pushed the grate aside, revealing a dark and narrow passageway. The shaft was barely big enough for one person to squeeze through. The air inside smelled musty, filled with the scent of dust and rusted pipes, a testament to the age of the building.

"Min-hye," you said, looking at her, making sure to hold her gaze. "I need you to trust me and crawl through here, okay? Can you do that?”

She nodded, biting her lower lip nervously. “But…what about yo-?”

“Just listen," you said, cutting her off. You pointed down the shaft. "Follow it straight, then take the second left. There'll be an opening that leads to the alleyway behind this building. Wait for me there.”

"But..."

"Just trust me, okay?"

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes, but she didn't question you further. With one last look at you, she crawled into the shaft.

You watched as she disappeared into the darkness, her silhouette fading until all you could see was the black void of the vent. You turned your attention to the pipes running along the ceiling. They were old and rusted, snaking their way across the room and disappearing into the walls. You followed their direction, guessing they led to the main water supply...which meant the main exit was in that direction.

"Y/N, what are you doing?" Min-Hye called out from the shaft, her voice echoing slightly. "Why aren't you following me?"

You didn't answer her. Instead, you reached down and grabbed one of the knives from the belt you'd taken from the unconscious man. The cold metal was comforting in your hand; its weight was somehow reassuring. You tested its balance, swinging it a few times before strapping it securely to your thigh.

Then you turned back to the shaft, forcing a smile on your face. "I'll see you soon," you told her, then you closed the grate, leaving her alone in the darkness.

You moved back to your hiding spot, a small alcove behind a heavy curtain that provided somewhat of a shield from the view of the door. The fabric was thick and velvety, muffling the sounds from the other side of the room as your heart pounded in your chest.

Just as you settled into your hiding spot, the door to the room burst open.

A tall man stepped inside, his presence filling the room. He was imposing, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway. He was dressed in dark clothes, the material stretching over his muscular form. He smelled oddly good, like a mixture of citrus and nicotine.

His eyes were deep-set and intense as they took in the room, searching. They were the colour of storm clouds, cold and unforgiving.

You left your hiding spot, charging at him with a primal roar. He turned just in time to see you, his eyes widening in surprise. But he was quick—quicker than you'd expected. He grabbed you mid-air and threw you to the ground, his grip like iron around your wrist.

You groaned as you hit the floor, and the wind knocked you out.

He was on you in an instant, pulling you up by your hair and pressing the cold barrel of his gun against your throat.

Unlike the others, his eyes didn't rake over your nearly exposed breasts, or the blood pooling around your inner legs from being used earlier, or the bruises marring your body. His gaze didn't possess the leering, predatory glint you'd come to associate with the men in this place. Instead, his eyes met yours and held them.

It was almost as if he was assessing you, looking beyond your physical appearance and into your core. It was as if he were asking himself if you were a morning or a night person, if you enjoyed the silence of the library or the hustle of the city. It was as if he cared more about what you preferred, pink or blue, rather than the color of your lingerie.

You didn’t close your eyes or tear up; all that you did was look back at him through your damp eyelashes, smirking.

The man arched an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by your defiant response. But to your surprise, he eventually let go of your hair and sheathed his gun. With a swift movement, he shrugged himself out of his jacket and gently draped it over you, his hands careful not to touch your bare skin.

As he bent down and lifted you into his arms, you couldn't help but think of the ancient Greek myths you had read as a child.

Now you were Persephone, trapped in the underworld of this criminal haven, and he was Hades. But unlike the myth, there was no pomegranate seed to bind you to this hell and no mother to plead for your return. 

The only hope was your own survival instinct and the strange mercy of your captor.

Knock Knock

"Which cheese is the most dramatic?"

"Gorgonzilla."

"Correct. And which cheese is always on time?"

"Swiss, because it has holes in it, like a clock."

"Good. And which cheese suffers the most?"

"Grated cheese."

"Excellent. You may enter. Oh, and by the way, you're bleeding, noona."

Those are the first words that Jeong Ji-An utters as you stumble across the threshold of her uncle's house. Her eyes, glazed with the artificial glow from the television screen, flicker to you momentarily before returning to the unfolding nature documentary she's engrossed in.

It was something about lions in Africa; she seems to be really into wildlife documentaries these days. She always shares a few interesting facts about cheetahs that make their legs super flexible when running at high speeds and how they have spots to camouflage themselves against the tall grasses as they hunt for food.

As her routine requests, she's curled up on the worn-out couch, her small hands coated with a thin veneer of butter from the popcorn she's munching on. The rhythmic crunching of the kernels punctuates the silence of the room, the only other sound being the low hum of the narrator explaining the predator-prey dynamics in the wild.

"Hello to you too, baby.”

As you bend down to plant a soft kiss on her head, the scent of her strawberry shampoo and the cigarettes she smokes fills your nostrils, momentarily washing away the gritty stench of gunpowder and blood that clings to you.

You're not much older than Ji-An, but the bond you share with her feels deeper, stronger. She's the one precious jewel whose value is immeasurable. Maybe it's because she's the spitting image of Jeong Jin-Man, a tiny version of her uncle. Or maybe it's because she, like you, carries the weight of a world much too harsh for her tender years.

"Did you two have dinner yet?" you ask, changing the subject, trying to bring some normalcy to the situation. You glance towards the kitchen; the smell of something burning is still lingering in the air.

You can already imagine Jin-Man's reaction when he sees what happened. He'll probably grumble something about his niece not paying attention while cooking or being distracted by the TV again.

Ji-An finally tears her gaze away from the TV, her eyes lingering on the bloody wound on your ribs with an unspoken concern. "I did, but he didn’t. He was probably waiting for you.”

A sigh escapes your lips and your heart clenches with an emotion you can't quite name. It was always like this. Despite his gruff exterior and chilly demeanor, he'd always wait for you, working obsessively, neglecting his own needs until he was sure you were safe.

"And where's our workaholic now? Is he holed up in his room again?"

“Office. He's been engrossed in managing the missions with Pasin, poring over the site data ever since you left home at dawn," she replies, gesturing towards the closed door at the end of the hall.

“Is Pasin there with him now? They have been working together a lot lately.”

“No, Pasin left a while back. He mentioned that he was going to check up on Min-Hye at the safehouse first, then head to his restaurant. It's almost closing time there, actually. I should start getting ready for my Muay Thai class with him. He's been teaching me some new moves, and I don't want to be late."

"Ji-An, it's already past your bedtime. Your class can surely wait until tomorrow," you attempt to reason with her, casting a worried glance at the vintage clock hanging on the wall. Its hands were inching closer to midnight.

"But noona," she protests, her voice taking on a whiny tone too high for a 17-year-old girl. She puffs out her cheeks and bats her eyelashes, a well-practiced display of aegyo. "I've been practicing my punches and kicks all day. I'm so excited to show him the progress I've made. I just can't wait!"

You sigh, a fond smile tugging at your lips. You know when you've lost this battle. Ji-An's determination was always a force to be reckoned with.

"Alright, but on one condition," you stipulate. "You must promise me you won't mention this late-night training session to Jin-Man, okay?"

Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she grins widely, revealing her perfectly aligned teeth. "I promise, noona. Your secret is safe with me. Furthermore, you once again have a battlefield odor."

You chuckle, your hand reaching up to affectionately ruffle her slightly messy hair. "Alright, alright. I hear you, Ji-An. But… before you go," you add, holding up a finger to catch her attention as she's about to spring up from the couch. "I need you to do a few things for me."

She looks at you expectantly, a frown forming on her forehead. "What is it, Noona?"

"First, go put some warm clothes on. It's cold outside, and I don't want you to catch a cold. Second, remember to turn off the TV before you leave. And finally," you say, pointing at the pile of dishes in the sink, "wash the dishes. We can't have ants invading our kitchen."

She pouts, crossing her arms over her chest. "But noona-"

"I know, Ji. But we all have to do things we don't like. It's part of being responsible. Now, go on. I need to get cleaned up."

“Yes, mom.”

With a dramatic sigh, she nods, pushing herself off the couch to do as you instructed. You watch her go, a small smile on your face. She may be a handful at times, but she always listens to you in the end.

Turning your attention back to yourself, you head towards the bathroom.

As soon as you open the door, you take off your jacket and immediately spit out blood into the sink, wincing at the sound of it hitting the porcelain like a bullet casing echoing through an empty chamber.

There's a persistent ringing in your ears—maybe from gunshots, screams or just stress. But it doesn't matter now. You grab a bottle of painkillers from under the sink and swallow two dry, feeling them slide down your throat like tiny pebbles.

Caught in the mirror is an unflattering reflection: dark circles like bruised moons under your eyes, mascara smeared across your lids like the inky strokes of a careless painter, strands of long hair, reeking of sweat and clinging to your forehead. Dirt is caked under your fingernails, souvenirs of the hours spent digging through the earth looking for something you weren't supposed to find.

Your hand reaches for a washcloth, dipping it into the warm water as you lean against the sink for support while taking stock of your wounds. Your skin is scraped raw from crawling through unmarked graves and dodging bullets; there's a deep cut on your left thigh and shallow ones along your arms where you used them for cover. Your ribs ache where that bastard shot you, but at least it was only grazed. That bullet could have done some real damage if it had been an inch to the left. You grit your teeth against the pain and scrub away the blood with vigor.

Despite the pain and the exhausting work, nothing can change the fact that you did what needed to be done. Murthehelp is always like this—dirty, dangerous, and hazy at times—but someone has to do it. And you do it very, very well.

A knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. Jeong Ji-An pokes her head in. "Do you need anything else before I head out, noona?" She asks curiously and her face softens when she sees the bandages peeking from under your torn shirt, her mouth turning down into a worried frown.

"No," you reply with a small, weary smile. "Just admiring my handiwork."

She rolls her eyes but doesn't comment—she knows better than anyone how tough life can be sometimes. You can hear her rustling around in her room before returning with some clean clothes for you and announcing that she turned off the TV and did the dishes like a good girl.

“Great, baby."

Looking down, you see the baby blue lacy pajamas she knows you love to wear.

"It's your favorite, right, noona?" She says this, holding up the soft fabric. "And you know, Uncle Jin-Man always says you look nice in these." She adds with a teasing smile. “Maybe wearing these will make him less angry at you for coming home shot again."

You laugh at that, despite the pain it causes in your ribs. "I'll keep that in mind, Ji-An. Thanks for the tip."

With that, she gives you a quick, warm smile, her eyes twinkling with that youthful mischief, before she heads for the door. "Don't let him put you in a wheelchair. I like it when you’re able to walk, you know. It’s not as fun when you’re all bandaged up and grumpy.”

“Yah! Jeong Jin-An!” You shout, feigning anger. But the girl was already gone, her laughter echoing in the hallway.

“That brat…” You mutter under your breath, a small smile playing on your lips despite the pain.

Gently, you peel off your clothes, the fabric sticking to your sweat-drenched skin. You leave them in a crumpled heap on the floor.

With a sigh, you sink into the water, wincing slightly as it stings your fresh wounds. Yet soon, the warmth starts to seep into your muscles, loosening the knots of tension and easing the throbbing pain.

There, in the bathtub, you lower your head beneath the water, closing your eyes and holding your breath. You imagine what it would be like to be this weightless always. It's quiet and warm, and your mind is empty of anything other than the comforting lull of the water against your skin.

You think about how every inch of your body screams in agony, and how, in this moment, submerged in this warm bath, the pain is bearable. You entertain the thought of what it would be like to let go, to surrender to the quiet peace of the water.

Then, your mind wanders to the feeling of the porcelain against your skin. You recall a memory from a few weeks ago when you were sitting in a bathtub similar to this, and only then were you engaged in a deep conversation with Min Hye. Her voice was punctuated by the sound of her smoking, the bright red lipstick staining the cigarette’s filter. There, you weren't holding your breath. You were telling yourself to remember that moment, how it made you feel alive despite the danger lurking outside your door.

You think about the bruises on your knees, the deep purple and blue hues, the tenderness you feel when they brush against each other and even though they hurt, they'll fade in a few days, just like the pain from your past.

You think of how your lungs are starting to ache, and it reminds you of running through the park with your sister, rolling down a hill and picking leaves from each other's hair. You then think of the day she died, how you held her lifeless body in that same park, and how the world seemed too cruel and too big.

It was like the earth was mourning for her, groaning, opening up its foundations like an old and creaky house, revealing its rotting insides. And yet the wind, the rain and the cold weren’t the cause of the shivers that raked her body, making her hands tremble and her eyelids twitch.

A body left to rot, to return to the soil, to turn into dust. A name scratched from the books. A face lost to the turning tides of history.

You contemplate all these things and more. You ponder everything that comes with living and being alive. All the things that hurt, sting and break skin, and then all the things that are light, gentle and happy. You weigh the two in your hands; the pain and the joy are so intertwined that they're impossible to separate.

After what seems like an eternity, the water begins to turn a pale pink from the blood seeping out of your wounds. Your skin is raw and red, stinging from the hot water and the rough scrubbing. Despite the pain, you can't help but feel a little cleaner, a little less tainted by the night's events.

Slowly, you pull the plug and let the water drain, watching as the pink swirls spiral down the drain until only a few droplets remain.

You reach for a towel, wrapping it around your body and wincing as the rough fabric brushes against your tender skin. The mirror is fogged up, but you don't need to see your reflection to know the extent of your injuries.

Moving to the sink, you retrieve a first-aid kit and start to stitch up the deeper cuts. The process is tedious and painful, but you've done it countless times before. Your hands shake slightly, but the thread goes through the skin with practiced ease. Once the stitching is done, you clean the area one more time before applying a bandage over it.

Dried off and bandaged, you put on the  pajamas and head to Jin Man’s office.

The office door is slightly ajar, revealing the familiar sight of his desk cluttered with papers and screens, each displaying different angles of surveillance footage or diagrams.

A map of Seoul sprawls across the large desk, littered with notes, files and printouts from their last job. On the screen of his computer are grainy photos taken from a distance; they appear to be of two men meeting in what looks like an abandoned warehouse. One man has his back turned towards the camera while the other gestures wildly with his hands, most likely giving orders or directions.

You push the door open further and step inside, wincing at the loud squeak it makes under your weight. It needs oiling.

Jeong doesn't even seem to notice or mind; he's too absorbed in whatever he's working on. A half-empty cup of cold coffee sits on his desk, the steam long since dissipated, next to a plate with crumbs from a hastily eaten sandwich that looks like it was abandoned mid-bite.

You take a moment to appreciate how he wears his work like a second skin—it defines him, molds him into something almost apart from human—and you feel a pang of guilt for disrupting his routine like this.

His office smells metallic and antiseptic; it's always been like that since you can remember. Not unpleasant but not inviting either; it matches his personality perfectly. Outside, the world continues its mad rush of people, cars and noise. But here, there's just the hum of machinery from his computer and occasional typing noises.

"Done playing the tough guy, huh?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"You walk like a cat," he replies, not missing a beat, "And after a shower, you always smell like a mix of vanilla and lavender. It's a comforting scent, but it doesn't cover the stench of danger that follows you."

His words hang in the air, adding an extra layer of tension to the already charged atmosphere. You watch him, taking in his stern expression and the way his fingers dance over the keyboard. His words are stoic, almost passive-aggressive, but you know him well enough to see the flash of worry behind his icy demeanor.

"Could you at least look at me when you're lecturing me?" You snap, regretting the bitter edge in your voice the moment it escapes your lips.

He finally looks up, his eyes hard and unreadable. "I'm not lecturing you. I'm merely stating the facts."

Surpised, you watch as he fixes his table, clearing a space amidst the clutter. It's a spot you know well, a space you've occupied many times in the past. It's an unspoken invitation, a silent concession on his part. Despite his harsh words, he's still making room for you.

You hop onto the table, wincing slightly at the sharp pain that flares up from your ribs. He doesn't comment on it, keeping his attention fixed on his work, but you notice the slight tightening of his jaw.

Provoked by his dismissive attitude, you reach for a lighter and a lone cigarette that's been left on the edge of his cluttered desk. It's a mint flavored one, you notice, the kind Ji-An prefers and sneaks in from time to time, despite her uncle's constant disapproval.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" You challenge, striking the lighter and bringing the small flame to the end of the cigarette. The pungent smell of the tobacco fills the room as you take a deep breath, the smoke curling in the air around you.

He finally takes a long sip of his coffee before turning to look at you. "No," he says finally, "it's supposed to make you think. Think about your reckless actions and the consequences. Think about the people who care about you and worry about you. You could have avoided this," he adds, his gaze dropping to your bandaged ribs, "if you had answered my calls or asked Pasin for reinforcements."

"I was handling it just fine. I don't need a babysitter."

"Do you think this is a game?" He hisses, his icy composure finally breaking. "Do you think you're invincible?"

"You're not the only one who can handle a mission, Jin-Man," you snap back, ashing the cigarette on his pristine desk. "I can take care of myself."

In a split second, he’s on his feet. He moves so fast that you barely have time to react. One moment he's sitting behind his desk, and the next he's standing in front of you, his hands on your knees, forcing your legs apart to make space for him. He steps in between them, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

Before you can utter another word, he pulls out a knife from his pocket, a switchblade with a sleek, matte black finish that glints ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights. He presses the cold, razor-sharp blade against the tender skin of your throat. His touch is light, but you know he can cut deep if he wants to.

Simultaneously, he snatches the cigarette from your hand, crushing it under his boot. The smell of burnt nicotine fills the air, mixing with the sterile scent of his office.

“Hey! I need my nicotine fix-”

“Quiet!" he hisses. “I don't know if your goal is to live only for 2 or 3 years more, but you're so reckless, and you're going to get yourself killed one of these days."

The words hang heavy in the silent room, and for a moment, all you can do is stare back at him, your heart pounding in your chest. You can feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. He's close—so close that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. His jeans brush against your bare legs, and you can't help but shiver, feeling the wetness between your legs spread.

"I didn't save you from that cabaret to watch you bleed out. I didn't let you raise my niece as your daughter, only to let her see you getting home wounded. I didn't invite you into my and Ji-An’s lives just for you to get yourself killed." A thin line of blood appears where the blade grazes harder against your skin, but, no, he doesn't pull away; he's only watching as it blooms red against the pale expanse of your neck.

"You don't get to decide what I can and can't handle. I'm not the damsel in distress you saved from that grimy cabaret. I'm not your innocent niece who needs protection. I'm not your responsibility. I'm a killer, just like you."

"And what if you are? What if you're more than just a responsibility to me? I don't even know where you end and I begin." He moves his face closer to your collarbones, and his tongue darts out to taste the saltiness left behind by the blood trickling down from the cuts on your neck. It's a possessive kiss—like he wants to claim every part of you as his own.

Suddenly, you are very aware that he is a man who's been through hell and back—not just with the scars from bullets and knives but also from the way his eyes seem to hold so much pain yet desperation for something more.

"I'm tired of watching you put yourself in danger. You can't keep doing this."

For the first time in years, Jin Man sounds truly vulnerable. His gaze stays locked on yours as if waiting for an answer or maybe hoping you'll finally say something that will change his mind about caring for you. But all you can do is breathe in the scent of his cologne, which mixes with sweat.

You feel yourself slipping away from sanity, wanting him to save you from the chaos within yourself.

"I don’t need someone but myself.”

He sighs heavily.

His large hands shake as they grip your knees tightly for support as he leans against them, staring down at your groin, taking in your arousal staining the PJ shorts.

“Yeah? Can you take care of this yourself, too?”

Pulling the blade out of your throat, he carries on, pressing the blade against your skin gently, tracing it along one hipbone, then the other, as if he needs to make sure everything is okay down there. His hand brushes against the tender skin of your thighs before slipping inside your shorts to touch where you're wet from anticipation and fear mingled together.

It's intimate but also terrifying—you can't help but squirm under his touch as he traces the outline of your labia teasingly while looking straight at you with those dark eyes that have haunted your dreams for months now.

You bite down on your bottom lip to stop it from trembling as he starts cutting through the fabric of your shorts, and you hear the soft rip of cotton tearing apart.

The air in the room feels heavy with anticipation and tension as he caresses your mound before pushing inside. It's cold against your heated skin, making you squirm slightly under his touch.

The knife glides through your folds effortlessly, causing you to gasp in surprise when it hits something soft and sensitive inside you.

He withdraws the blade slowly, the cold metal leaving a stinging sensation in its wake. A small cut on your flesh blossoms like a tiny crimson flower, the evidence of his intrusion.

A bead of blood forms at the edge of it, growing in size until it's too heavy to cling to the blade. It drips onto the floor between your legs.

With a calculated motion, he discards the bloodied knife onto his desk, the clattering sound echoing in the charged silence of the room.

"So experienced yet so innocent. My little lamb," he murmurs, breath hot against your neck as he smears his finger on the little pool of sweet nectar seeping from between your folds.

"What are you doing?"

His dick strains in his trousers, throbbing at the unsure, confused tone that layers your question. It sears through him like a midsummer heatwave—the flash of bright sunlight after the clouds of a storm have parted. Jesus, you’re too good at this; you know exactly how to get under his skin.

“Teaching you to not play with fire.”

It's clear he's not going to let you hide behind a wall of anger and defiance anymore. Each word he says seems to peel away another layer of your armor, exposing something raw and fragile underneath. Something that craves his touch, even when it hurts.

"Ouch!" You exclaim sharply as his strong hand grips your arm, yanking you around and forcing you to stand upright again. The abruptness of the movement causes a jolt of pain to shoot through your body, making you wince.

Before you have a chance to protest or push him away, you're bent forward, your chest pressing against the cool, polished wood of his desk. You try to push yourself back up, but you're stopped by a firm hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, effectively pinning you in place.

“Stay still.”

You let out a whimper, your hips instinctively shifting in response to his forceful command. Slowly, you let your body go limp, surrendering to the dominating position that Jin-Man has forced you into.

“Do you know,” the man begins, fingers trailing down your lithe back, along the length of your spine, all the way down until his fingers can tuck under the hem of the rest of your shorts, "that in the old days, rulers like this were not just used for measurement?"

You know it. But you won’t answer; you won’t give him the taste. So you shake your head and make a whining sound as your boss begins to push the fabric down over the swell of your ass.

"They were also used for discipline against wayward children.”

Your whole body shivers.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Long lines of red across your thighs and ass marks to remind you not to act like such a slut…” Jeong emphasizes the words with the drag of nails against the newly-bared skin. “You’re just asking to be punished.”

Shaking your head again, you try to deny the accusation.

“Oh,” the man says, feigning surprise and removing his hand from your  backside. “You don’t? You don’t want me to spank you for your insolence today? You want me to stop?”

There’s a small thudding sound as you let your head bump into the desk a couple of times in self-punishment. When you speak, the words are straining and shaking. “N-No, Sir.”

“What was that?”

You groan in frustration. “Yah, Jeong Jin-Man, come on! Ah!”

Fingers wound tightly in your hair, Jin Man pulls your head back from the desk, baring your bruised neck. “Excuse me?”

“Sir! Sir, I’m sorry; please, I’ll be good, I–” You mumble, probably aiming for politeness, but the words come out more sulky than you likely intended.

Jeong Jin-Man ignores it in favour of getting your bloodied shorts down, pushing them over your thighs until they fall to a puddle on the floor around your ankles. Spreading the cheeks, he can see your stretched and cut pussy, can see the throb of your clit, your smaller, puckered hole also smeared with wetness from just how much you had been oozing out.

Lifting his gaze, he surveys the room meticulously. His eyes linger on the worn-out leather chair with its loose stitching, the stacks of paperwork teetering precariously on the edge of his desk, and the dimly lit ceiling lamp that casts long, sinister shadows on the wooden floor. His gaze then falls on a wooden ruler resting among a chaotic array of stationery in an open drawer.

He reaches out, his fingers wrapping around it and lifting it from its resting place. He turns it over in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the worn wood against his skin. He tests its weight, swishing it through the air and listening to the soft whooshing sound it makes.

He thinks he will only stop once your ass and the backs of your thighs are neatly lined in red, with touches of crimson and purpling spots showing through the skin where patches of bruising are going to form.

Jin Man knows your skin has always been easy to mark, flaring eagerly with scarlets, pale rose and smatterings of plum. The warm colours are quick to fade, replaced by blues and greens, mottled yellows that cover the fragile arcs of your cartilage, flesh pasted with echoes of tender, affectionate violence.

It’s so pretty, so lovely. He has always preferred charcoal and pencils when setting something on paper, but when it comes to this particular canvas, he likes to paint.

His free hand settles on your ass, squeezing it hard and leaving his large palm impression on your skin, making your lips quiver.

"One," he says, and the sting is immediate as the ruler hits your right cheek, leaving a blossom of searing pain that radiates across your body, making you gasp. "Two," he continues, and this time the ruler hits your left cheek, making you shudder violently.

The sting is fierce but not enough to distract from the strange pleasure that courses through you. You can feel yourself getting wetter with each strike.

"Three." He slaps your left side, causing a wave of heat to wash over you as he repeats it on the other side.

The room seems to echo with the sounds of his hand connecting with your flesh. This time he doesn't stop at five but hits six and seven times on both sides before pulling back to admire his handiwork.

The welts are already bright red and tender, ready for him to take more if need be. He runs a finger down each one gently, tracing their edges before trailing it lower between your legs, where he presses against your clit roughly. You moan loudly this time, needing him to continue even though it hurts so good.

“I-Is it over?”

He chuckles, the sound dark and low, resonating from the pit of his chest. It's a sound that sends shivers down your spine and has you clenching your thighs together in anticipation. He lifts his finger, coated with your arousal, and presents it to your lips. "Taste," he commands.

You parted your lips obediently, taking his finger into your mouth. Your tongue wraps around it, tasting your own arousal—salty and bitter, with a hint of metallic tang from your earlier exertion. It's a taste that's uniquely yours—a taste that he's come to crave.

Once you've licked his finger clean, he pulls it away and grabs hold of the ruler again. He brandishes it in front of you, the wooden surface gleaming under the harsh lighting. Another line of pain sears across your ass cheeks, making you jerk in surprise. This time, when he pulls back, he commands, "Sit on the desk and spread your legs.”

Again, you hesitate. You can feel your fingers twitching, itching to claw at him, to show him your defiance. But you know better than to challenge him now.

Crack!

Jeong snaps the ruler against the desk and  you flinch. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

No, you think, but you're not giving him the satisfaction of hearing you say it. You scramble into action, hopping up onto the desk again, scooting backwards until your knees hook on the table’s edge when you open your legs. The sting of the cut intensifies, making you wince, but you refuse to let out a sound.

One more time, he steps between your spread thighs. “You asked if your punishment was over. Do you really think that after all your disobedient, inappropriate behavior today, those measly strikes were all you deserved?”

Shaking your head desperately, you babble, “No, sir, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”

Jeong Jin- Man stuts. “And now you’re lying…”

“No, please, I just want to be good, I–”  You are cut off with a hiss as your boss cracks the ruler down half-way up the center of your inner thigh.

He doesn’t lift the ruler, instead dragging it over your skin, up, up, up until he reaches the crux of your hip. You shiver, your eyes wide and your lips caught between teeth.

Glancing down at the ruler, you see the point of which is laying mere inches from your cunt before looking back up.

Jeong can tell that you’re trying to hide how hungry you are and how much you want this, want more, and need it. But you are so subtle about it; he can only tell because he knows where to look.

“You don’t need to count this time,” he says, seemingly casual. “Just do your best not to make too much noise, hmm? We don’t want Ji-An to come back home and hear you like this.”

“Yes, Sir.” Your reply is curt, but the edge in your voice is unmistakable.

Jeong doesn't seem to mind your defiance. If anything, it seems to amuse him, admiring the way the muscles in your thighs tense up as he uses the ruler to part your soft labia. He presses the wooden corner harshly against your clit.

“Fu– Mmph.” A sharp, snapping sound breaks through the air as you clap a hand over your own mouth, cutting off the curse before it can fully form itself.

The man smirks and twists the ruler, maintaining the heavy pressure.

Smack! Smack!

Puffy lips must cushion the blows, just slightly, but he is still sure that it’s sharp enough to hurt when the blows make contact with your swollen clit. The impacts sound moist, and the slick covering your skin likely makes the sting a touch more severe.

Jin-Man doesn’t give you a moment to recover between each hit, unleashing a stream of spanks in quick succession, each one causing your entire body to jump and convulse as though you had been electrocuted.

“Ngh, ngh, nghh—Mmph!” You have both of your hands covering your mouth, your eyes squeezed shut and your knees jerking inward on every impact. You try to bare your teeth at him, a growl of defiance building in your throat, but he cuts you off with a sharp look, as if you're a dog trying to show aggression to its master.

It only takes a few more smacks against your pussy before the man’s free hand has to grip your thigh and hold it still, keeping you from allowing your legs to close.

Resting for a moment, Jeong lets the flat side of the ruler lay overtop of your cunt. The already-flushed skin is now a darkened red rather than that rose-petal pink, the colour of your mouth. He is sure that it would be hot to the touch, glowing with heat from the abuse.

“Please!”

Dropping the ruler to the floor, he steps forward. Reaching down with one hand to click open the buckle of his belt, he buries the other in your hair. "Please, what?" he asks, his hand tugging on your hair, tilting your head back to expose your delicate throat. The threat of teeth grazing your skin is electrifying.

He takes his time, slowly unbuckling his belt, the leather sliding out of its loops with a soft whisper of sound. His pants drop to the floor, pooling around his ankles, revealing a hard thickness straining against the fabric of his boxers.

With a swift tug, it's freed, standing erect and proud.

Your eyes widen at the sight, heat pooling in your lower belly. The tip of his cock is flushed a dark red, throbbing with anticipation, the veins on the sides bulging and straining, ready to claim its prize.

A whimper escapes your lips, your back arching involuntarily. The heat radiating off his dick is palpable, and you can't help but imagine how it would feel sliding into you, filling you to the brim.

On seeing your reaction, a predatory grin spreads across Jeong's face. He moves closer, his hand gripping your head firmly and holding you still. He positions himself at your entrance, his fingers gripping your hips, pulling your legs wider apart.

And as he thrusts into you, claiming you entirely, the Greek myth of Hades and Persephone rings in your mind again.

Only this time, you are not a helpless Persephone being whisked away to a foreign underworld. Instead, you are a willing partner in this dance of power and desolation, a queen finding her throne in the deepest depths of hell. And Jin-Man, your Hades, is not just your captor but also your savior, a dark god offering you a sanctuary built on shadows and secrets.

As the underworld of his life consumes you, you realize there are no seasons dictating your stay, no harvest goddess waiting for your return. Your fate is braided with his, and in this underworld, you are both the rulers, bound not by pomegranate seeds but by a desire as relentless and binding as the river Styx itself.

#jeong jin man #a shop for killers #lee dong wook #lee dong wook x reader #seo moonjo #seo moonjo x reader #yoon jongwoo #floriculturist #imagine

[silly-thinkings]

"Let me, go find Damian." (DCeased Story line)

Well well well reader. You've got another choice. Wait, you're totally following along right? Just in case here's (Scene 1)

“Go find Damian.” You traded the suitcase for the shot gun and turned Alfred away. The butler quickly made his way to the bat-jet

Bruce now turned ran towards Alfred but you grabbed his cape pulling him back. Your husband roared as he faced you.

Alfred made eye contact with you. You smile. A bright beautiful smile before running deeper into the cave.

You ran towards one of the confinement rooms and turn around “I love you. I love you so much Bruce.”

You hoped he Heard you. His arm reaching out as he ran towards you. You ducked as he swiped a hand and promptly flipped him into a bullet proof room. With the press of a button you seal the door. Bruce banged on the glass trying to get to you and you felt your tears bubble up again. “I’ll find a cure. Damian will live. He will carry your legacy.”

The space around you shook. Booms could be heard from the city. Maybe it’s being bombed. But you didn’t care. After one last look at your husband you left him trapped there. You ran back to the computer shutting everything down. “Need to find my little ones.” You make your way to one of the moter bikes “computer. Initiate lock down.”

“Yes miss Y/n”

You put your helmet on and you were off.

***

The city burned, but there were still survivors. With your katana you cut down some of the dead as you led a group of about three dozen into the forest.

You were about to head into the city to find more survivors but the Batmobile burst through a crowd of dead. The jokers body strapped to the front of the car. Your confusion quickly turned into joy as your two children, Jason and Cassandra hopped out the vehicle. Gordon was with them but you held onto your kids for dear life. “Your ok. Thank the gods you’re ok. I thought I lost…” you didn’t think you had any more tears to shed. And yet here you were, what’s left of the family hugging each other. You feel Cassandra press her forehead against your neck. Her hand holding onto your cloths tightly. While Jason rested his chin on top of your head. “You’re such a bad ass Ma.” Since you’re alone he realized what’s happened to the rest of the family. He’s no idiot.

You pull away to get a good look at them. You then looked to Gordon “has Barbara…”

Gordon closed his eyes with slight nod.

“Sheesh I thought I got rid of my ex. Look! He’s following me” Harley shouted from the crowd of survivors.

You turn to see Harley and ivy waiting for you to wrap things up.

“Ma? What’s with them.”

You smile “they’re friendly. Apparently the plants like me. Ivy said it was because of the way I treated my garden back at… home.”

Cassandra held your hand. You look to her to see a warm smile. “They’ve been helping me find survivors, we’re going to build a sanctuary. Come.”

You take Jason’s hand “let’s go James. I have no intention of loosing anymore family.”

//Left behind ending//

Congratz! you got 2/3 endings :3 Hope you enjoyed the story. Trying something different and I'm not thinking much of it. This story was a spur of the moment kind of thing XD. Plz leave a a comment and lmk if the links work XD. Appreciate you! and thank you for reading.

#batmom #batmom reader #dc fanfic #jason todd #bruce wayne x fem!reader #batman angst