#snip snip fucker

[snip73]

every freakish monster is obsessed with this man

Love you Arthur Lester

[glitchesart]

Ordered myself a white fatalis plush a while ago as was disappointed by how much of it was made of this weird cardboard material, then i remembered that i knew how to sew and i could just replace all of the weirdly sharp fabric. So I did

[fictionalred]

anyway SNIP SNIP fuckers!

[theaofthesea]

When someone you claim is like a sister to you comes to you about not feeling good enough, maybe think your response through so you are supportive and it doesn’t sound like you agree that they’re not good enough.

[ozzgin]

Featuring some of the recurring AUs for an easier reading.

Monster Harem Series

Yandere!Monsters x Heartbreaker!Fem!Reader

Breeding kink

Public Property Reader

Monster Daddies Reality Show

You're not the father! [Doodle]

Sleepover [Doodle]

Breeding kink [Doodle]

Stuffed toy jealousy [Doodle]

Tentacle House Monster Series

Yandere!House Monster x GN!Reader

Yandere!House Monster x GN!Reader 2

Plumber x Reader x House Monster

House Monster Encounter [Doodle]

Caught in the act [Doodle]

Reader with poor eyesight [Doodle]

Easter Egg Hunt [Comic]

Monster Streaming Series

Streaming to Monsters (GN Reader)

Streaming to Monsters (GN Reader) Part 2

Slime viewer vore

Human streamer receiving gifts

Monster Streaming Followers

Yan!Monster viewers

HornyMantis and boobs

Followers reacting to gaming Reader

Followers reacting to you having a favorite

Adult gifts from your followers

Meet and Greet with your followers

Shark Loan Shark crossover

Biggest toy achievement [Doodle]

Gangbang Milestone [Doodle]

Trying on clothes [Doodle]

Chameleon viewer [Doodle]

Shark Loan Shark Cameo

Flashing HornyMantis

Monster Dating Show Crossover

Monster Hotel Series

Monster Hotel (GN Reader)

Monster Hotel Breakfast

Monster Hotel Menu

Monster Hotel Door Sign

Monster Hotel Residents: Slime Monster

Toby and metaphorical speech

Thanksgiving Special

Monster Hotel Staff: Toby the Gardener [Doodles]

Toby with succulents [Doodle]

Toby learning sign language [Doodle]

Proposing to Toby [Doodle]

Toby and Gossip [Doodle]

Room Service Reader [Doodle]

Slime Girl Suggestive [Doodle]

Slime Guest stuck in your shower [Doodle]

Hugging stages [Doodle]

Rent-A-Monster Series

Idea: Rent-A-Monster

Idea: Service Vampire

Service Vampire drinking your blood

Emotional Support Monster

Monster Tutor

Service Werewolf

Service Werewolf helping you sleep

Krampus Christmas Special

Walking home [Doodle]

Needy Werewolf [Doodle]

Human Adoption Agency Series

Human Adoption Agency Origins

Seamster Monster Owner

Pastry Chef Monster Owner

Rent-A-Monster Crossover

Monster Roommates Series

Short: Monster Roommates (GN Reader)

Monster!Reader with monster fucker roommates

Cultural Differences

Morning Rituals

Monster Husband Series

Monster Marriage (GN Reader)

Monster Marriage (GN Reader) Sequel

Monster Marriage: Work Distractions (smut)

Monster Husband Honeymoon

Monster Dating Show

Monster Dating Show

Monster Dating Show: The Official Cast

Monster Dating Show Round 1: Dealing with Exes

MDS with a hoe Reader

Mr. Host in despair

Interview Snipped [Doodle]

Monster Dating Show: The Rejects [Doodle]

Host Design [Doodle]

Consequences [Doodle]

More Monsters

Complete list here

More Doodles

Complete list here

[oddballwriter]

All I Want is Forever

Summary: A blurb in which you are a vampire and in a relationship with the MK system and Khonshu likes to nag you about how you take a bit of what’s ‘his’.

Warning: Reader is mentioned to and is actively watching the moon boys sleep in this, it’s an endearing thing. Mentions of blood drinking (both implied for feeding and also for sexual purposes). Implications that Steven’s a monster fucker. Khonshu being a pain in the ass and an asshole. Not proofread so beware of any mistakes I wrote this around midnight and I was simultaneously watching The Last Unicorn.

Author’s Snip: Vampire posting time 🖤🦇

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Word count: 780

Taglist: @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @sergeant102105 @ingoldthewizard

It wasn’t creepy.

Well, it was. It was creepy, but it technically wasn’t on par with the fact that Steven, Marc, and Jake didn’t mind it.

Well-

Okay- more like Steven and Jake liked it and Marc didn’t say anything to not ruin whatever joy the other two got from you watching them sleep, but you could tell that Marc understood that the gesture was endearing rather than… predator. Which you wouldn’t put past anyone considering that the whole concept of having a vampire watch you sleep was seen as a predatory thing in film and media over the centuries. But they knew you’d never do such a thing to them. Never take without permission.

Even when you first met each other, they already seemed to know that you weren’t one of the “bad ones” let alone knowing what you are from the beginning. You weren’t sure when exactly you two crossed from being casual acquaintances in the night where you’d occasionally join them on local missions and get your feed that way - to a fully committed relationship, but you were there now and had crossed many other lines in the relationship, and done many things that you’d most likely see in adult rated monster romance novels, of which you found out Steven had a secret stash of in the flat. But there was one that you hadn’t crossed. One that you personally never wanted to cross.

You’d be lying if you said that you never wanted to turn them. It was this strange irk that sat in your chest and made you clench your jaw, wanting to bite. With all the years that you’ve been around, you’ve learned to control all of your irks to the point that you can hardly feel them anymore unless you let them be there. But this one sat even when you tried to shake it off. But you had enough willpower to keep it away from them.

Even if you liked the thought of being the same in that sense, you could never. You liked them this way. Warm. Breathing. Heart beating. Life still in them. It made them so beautiful to you. But even if you did want to make them yours there was one thing in your way.

You can always feel him in the room at a certain point as you watch them sleep, and it’s not different when you sit there on the edge of the side of the bed gently petting Steven’s hair as he sleeps there sound asleep. You feel the slightest gust of wind behind you and that feeling of no longer being alone in the room, coupled with the high and mightiness that Khonshu carries in the air with him, but you just continue on watching Steven’s chest slowly rise and fall and the slightest sound of the body’s heart beating until dusty old bird speaks.

“You can not have them.” he bellows out, “They are mine. They are my avatar.” he reinstates.

“I don’t want to have them.” you remind him. “If I wanted to I would have done it already. Steven’s given me his neck a dozen times already. I could have easily done it then.” you tease.

“I have told the little bug not to do that. I have told him that the blood in that body is mine on a technicality and that he’s not to waste it. But he doesn’t listen to me.” Khonshu complains. You just roll your eyes and say “Don’t kink shame him.” under your breath.

Khonshu stomps his foot, exclaiming “He could use that blood to spare when they’re harmed in battle that I assign them.”.

Steven sturs in his sleep at the sound but you turn back to him to gently shush him and lull him back to sleep. “You assign them plenty and replenish them when they need it. Don’t act like you can’t.” you scold him. “And don’t act like you don’t keep them from aging. I can see the changes of time in every living thing I see, and I don’t see any on them. They can sit by the both of us and be fine.” you tell the god.

“As long as they’re here with me forever, regardless of how, I’ll take it. It’s that simple,” you explain. “I prefer them like this anyways,” you add. “Steven as a fledgling would be a hassle anyway. He wouldn’t eat anything straight from the source. And Jake’s a messy eater in general.” you claim.

“But if you ever set sights on a new potential vessel then feel free to toss them right towards me. I’m sure I can figure something out.” you joke.

[galacticskull]

My knife, your life.

respectfully, if men can say “your body, my choice” i guess it’s only fair that we say to them “my gun, your life”

[ms--lobotomy]

Happy Fulgrim Fucker Friday. "It's Saturday!" Shut up I will maul you.

Summary: Daemon!Fulgrim finds a human sacrifice he particularly likes. Word count: 1260 Content Warnings: SMUT, Human Sacrifice, tried to balance being in character with keeping consent in check, permeating feeling that something is Wrong, biting, a shit load of cum, drugs, kidnapping probably Image Credit: @squishyowl

The cold air brushed against your skin, threatening to leave goosebumps. Your wrists were tied over your stomach, which heaved up and down as you looked around for someone, anyone. The people who had finished the ritual had long disappeared, likely to go back to their families. The cavern was pitch black.

You remembered the faceless person in violet who'd grabbed you on your way back from your job at the factory, residue and grime accumulated on your skin. No one had batted an eye as you were taken down through the dark alley, winding between buildings down until you made your way below the underhive. By then, you'd given up on screaming for help.

They cleaned you, chanting in tongues you'd never known, and read some text before they left you on the altar for what must have been hours. As far as you knew about rituals, this was rather tame. You tensed your fists up and relaxed, trying to at least free your hands from the restrictions. It was lonely in here.

"My," you heard from the darkness, "what a specimen!"

Your head snapped to the other side to see two eyes reflecting what little light there was, the glimmer of a violet tail and two? Three? Four arms.

"Who the fuck are you?" you asked, shaking in your restraints.

The figure laughed. "Fret not, darling," he said. "As far as Daemon Princes go, I've been told I'm rather tame."

You tensed up again. "Daemon Prince?" you asked. "You're... not here to eat me?"

He laughed again, his voice reverberating through the large space. "Not unless you give your express permission, no," he said. You felt him come closer, something warm yet wrong. A finger slid across your side, bunching up your work clothes on the bottom.

"My... permission?" you asked, sighing. You looked at him. He seemed to radiate his own light, almost--he was violet like your captor's robes, but there was a vague friendliness to his eyes that you hadn't quite expected.

"Unless you'd rather not--"

"Please," you said, shuddering under him.

He chuckled before snipping your restraints with a clawed finger, and you reached for him instinctively. He wasn't clad in anything, and you already felt not one but two cocks poking between your legs. Your face went warm and you buried your face in his warm, slightly violet flesh.

"Mm?" he asked, rubbing your back. His claws ripped at the back of your shirt, ripping it apart along with any underthings you may have been wearing.

"'M yours," you mumbled, rubbing up against him. Something in you was screaming that this was wrong as you looked up at him, his face too perfect and his body exactly the way you liked. Something was wrong. But he was the only one you'd seen in hours.

"Yours," you begged, "yours any way you want me. Please?" you asked. You couldn't believe the words coming out of your mouth, your face went warm as he took the shreds of your clothes and tossed them aside.

He placed you sitting up on the altar, admiring you for just a moment before he pulled you in close, pressing kisses all over you. It was excessive, how he pressed his lips on your face, breasts, stomach; you could feel his teeth against you, threatening to break skin.

He looked up at you as he tugged your pants and underwear off without effort. You were a breathless mess now, covered in marks that would have let anyone know who you belonged to now. You nodded, laying back on the table and throwing your legs around his face.

"Looks like you know what to do," he chuckled. "Good girl."

As he descended upon you, all you could do was cry out and grasp for the two hands that weren't holding you down. He eagerly took them, grasping them as if he were feeling how much smaller you were than him. Was he even bigger now...? you thought to yourself before your thoughts were liquefied under him.

"Mm," he said into you, his voice silvery and nothing short of beautiful. "You feel so nice around me," he said, moving from your clit towards tonguefucking you.

You cried out sharply, bucking your hips into him. "Oh, oh!" you cried out. Half-thoughts swirled in your brain. You didn't even know this thing's name--but he pressed into you so expertly, you didn't even care at this point.

"Mmn! Mmn!" you cried out, grasping for him. "More, more, oh-!"

"More?" he asked, moving away from you. He towered over you, his twin cocks apparent above your face dripping precum. The room was a little warmer now, you swore, and your legs dangled above nothing instead of hitting the floor as if it had gone away.

"More!" you cried out, grasping for his hands.

He readily took them, grinning while he leaned down to press one of his leaking cocks into you. "That's what I like to hear," he mumbled as you stretched around him like he was the only one you'd ever be able to take.

"Mm," you mumbled dumbly, wrapping your legs around his waist. You felt his other cock hard between your legs. He pressed his way in, grunting all the way. His long, white hair fell over his shoulders and over you, a comfortable curtain between you and the pitch black.

He started to fuck you, his pace expert and his eyes trained on you. Your eyes were half-shut, drunk on everything about him. You knew him intimately now, and you didn't even know his...

"What-- oh! What are you, mmn, what are you called?" you asked between thrusts.

"Little songbird, why should that matter?" he asked. "I'm here to free you, after all."

Your face went even warmer with every "ah, ah, ah-!" you cried. Your eyes squeezed shut, but you could feel the smirk on his face with every thrust before you felt something even larger prod at you.

"Forgive me," he said as he slid his second cock inside of you. "but I know you can take this."

You cried out, grasping for his large hands. He took them, pressing his twin cocks in and out of you. He went faster, and faster until you lost track of time. You tilted your head back, and he went in for the bite, sucking on your pretty neck.

"'M close," he mumbled through your skin as he thrust into you three last times. He'd pressed into you, his cocks visible in your distended belly as he came. It started to trickle out as he pulled out. You shivered underneath him. He chuckled, looking down at you.

"You look spent," he said. "How about we come back to my realm?"

You nodded as he took you into his arms. His skin was firm against you, smooth and nothing short of beautiful.

Your eyes drooped half-open while he slid off with you. The room grew violet, while you saw nude beast things lounging around. Some had rolled up bits of paper on them, while others were engaging in other forms of personal entertainment. There were even faces melded into the walls, shrieking quietly and writhing like they were trying to escape.

"Where are we?" you asked as he sat down on a throne-chair big enough for him. He positioned you on his lap, turning your head up towards him.

"We're in the Palace of Pleasures," he said. "My name is Fulgrim, and I am in dire need of a consort. Would you take that honor?"

Taglist: @bispecsual @justeverythingnothingelse @bleedingichorhearts @nekotaetae @historitor-bookshelf

And last but not least... thank you @astrohymn for the c0mm!

[seiwas]

the blade bleeds longer than the wound takes to heal | simon riley

wc: 2.2k

summary: progress is non-linear. simon is learning just that. 

contains: any warnings that apply to cod, blood, mentions of serious injuries, recovery and healing, kind of non-linear, simon-centric with a splash of romance, hurt/comfort

a/n: first time writing simon and he's a tough one!! but i'm really happy with how this turned out! + a very belated birthday gift for @vierisqe! forgive the jumble of american + british english in this one (i've reread this so many times that it's mushed together in my head and i can't tell the difference anymore djhfbjas) i hope i wrote him well!!

Simon picks up a knife in the dead of the night. 

At 2:00 a.m., the wind whistles outside your window, a wayward branch being thrown aimlessly against glass. The branches drag roughly against the delicate surface, scratching and banging in the gust of a predicted storm. 

Simon wakes up, eyes shooting open as his fingers instinctively reach for the small blade slotted underneath your mattress, sandwiched between soft cushion and the wooden panels of your bedframe. He keeps it there—

“For monster hunting. Sneaky fuckers only appear when lights’re out.”

—in case anything happens, he doesn’t say. 

(But you know old habits die hard, and Simon sleeps better with a weapon only layers away from his skin.) 

You’re curled up on his chest, hanging tightly onto his bicep as your breaths lull in the steady beats of slumber. His eyes blend dark blue against the backdrop of the night, and the only light casting itself into your bedroom diffuses from the streetlamp a few flats down. 

“We should keep a night light,” you’ve told him a few times before—if only to avoid small accidents, like tripping over folded carpets or bumping into the sharp edges of your dresser. 

“No ghosts here but me, love.” is all Simon replies.

(You take his cheekiness and keep it close to your chest, sporadic as it is, snorting as you let go of the topic.) 

He sees better in the dark—better than most, he’d like to think. 

His gaze flits to the window, watching intently as the branches move haphazardly; the sound hits the glass like bullet cases clinking against marble flooring. The same white marble bloodied deep red—

An inhale tickles his side, a phantom sharpness despite his ribcage being fully healed. There is no puncture, no gaping wound like that day 8 months ago—only scar tissue formed thickly along the outline of the knife that pierced through him. 

He breathes out, slow and steady, taking one last look at the window, before moving over to the door, checking for shadows and any suspicious movement. Then, his gaze rests on you—your hair splayed across his shoulder as you sleep soundly.

It’s okay. You’re okay. 

Everything is okay. 

.

Some days, he can breathe just fine. 

Spring blossoms through the flowers in your garden, white chrysanthemums that give Simon the worst spring allergies but he insists you keep. Despite the morning sniffles, when pollen seems to dust his dawning breath, he finds breathing easier on these days than most. 

You do your best to snip away at the blossoming buds, preparing to bundle them far away from the burly man they weaken. 

But Simon stands beside you with a watering pot, tilting the spout to drizzle life onto the blooms he knows are your pride and joy. 

He owes it to them, he supposes, for keeping you company months at a time. 

. 

It’s at the fizzling end of summer when Simon returns to you. 

Captain Price had contacted you weeks prior to inform you of the incident—just three things Simon requested be divulged: 

One, that he had incurred a stab wound to be monitored for a few weeks, most likely in military facilities. 

Two, that he’ll be discharged soon after. 

And three, that you stay put and be calm; that you not worry. 

(Your hands shake throughout the entire call, your knees giving way as you fall to the bunched up carpet of your bedroom floor. 

To you, Simon is untouchable. 

To you, Simon is impenetrable. 

He never divulges any more than he has to, but you’ve always known he was good at his job. The silent yet commanding confidence he carries can only be born from years of expertise, his senses sharpened and tuned to the slightest sign of danger. 

Over the years, without fail, Simon has always come back to you in one piece. 

So when he walks into your flat with staggered breaths, smelling of antiseptic and sterile sheets, your heart aches.) 

You give him a look, eyes glassy with your hands clenched on your sides as if avoiding to touch, should he be fragile; he holds that stare for a few seconds too long until he decides to fuck it, pulling you closer to his chest. 

Fuck doctors’ orders that his stitches haven’t fully healed. Fuck doctors’ orders that he should ‘minimise thoracic pressure’. 

Fuck doctors’ orders that he should watch his breathing, keeping it slow and steady only. 

“Quit all ‘o that,” he clears his throat, hiding a wheeze from the impact, “Didn’t get me killed, ‘n it won’t. S’no grave to cry over.” 

You can’t help it though, he knows, your fingers clutching tighter onto the ends of his jacket as you rest your forehead on his collarbone. The pain muddles together in his chest, soaked by the tears seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt. 

There are many things Simon doesn’t tell you, many more that he won’t—

His body holds a litany of injuries, scars built upon scars; some lie on the surface of his skin, others residing deeper than any knife can sink into. 

—last month, he nearly died. 

A miscalculated raid had led him straight into a trap, isolating him from the rest of the 141. He was concussed and sedated, senses dulled by the chemicals injected into his bloodstream. It happened too fast—a blade, inconspicuously small but sharp, piercing through his ribcage; the hits that followed dealt greater damage. 

Price found Simon lying in a pool of his own blood, deep red against the white brinks of death. 

Three broken ribs—two that stabbed through his lungs along with the knife, and one that managed to puncture his heart. Doctors warned that breathing during recovery would be difficult, but he hardly finds it to be the most challenging part. 

The paranoia is worse. 

He’s been more fidgety since, constantly wary; uneasy. Worse compared to usual. 

Every professional he’s spoken to has told him that progress is non-linear—

“So, give yourself some time. Some days can be easy and difficult the next, but the day after that might be—” 

To that he says, fucking ‘ell. 

.

You cut yourself while trimming your chrysanthemums. 

It’s a small nick on your thumb, but that finger always bleeds more than the others do; blood red drips onto a few white petals—a striking contrast.

Simon finds you that way. 

He moves on autopilot, rushing in to grab the first-aid kit you keep in one of your kitchen cabinets. On the surface, he is calm, face set straight and hardly rattled by the accident. This is the only good he sees in the snail-pace of his recovery—his jagged breaths conceal the real reason his hands tremble slightly holding yours.

A small cut shouldn’t need bandaging. A small cut shouldn’t need gauze and waterproof plaster. Simon shouldn’t insist on taking over, especially when the pollen clogs his nose. 

But your white chrysanthemums should not be red. 

He tells himself he’ll get you a pair of those cut-resistant gardening gloves. 

Those petals should not be red. 

.

The knife isn’t the problem, it’s what surrounds it. 

Simon hasn’t been the same since his return, and you’ve begun to notice.

For a big and hefty man, he prefers keeping himself away from as much fuss as he can. Weekend markets with him have always been pleasant; he carries all the produce and you stop at food stalls to feed him bites of whatever catches your eye.

Not this time.

This time, Simon glues himself behind you, your back pressed against his chest as he navigates you both through crowds. He zeroes in on every single person brushing against you, searching for anything sharp. 

When you wait by a food stall, he scans the area; his focus shifts from a family of four settling their toddler on a stroller, then to a man older but not nearly as large as he, bringing in sacks of flour inside a bakery. Off in a corner is a teenager, swallowed by the thick fabric of a hoodie similar to his own; Simon observes him a little longer, drawing suspicions about the movement concealed inside the kid’s pocket. 

(You notice it when you ask whether he prefers peaches or mangoes for the crepe’s filling, only to be met with no reply.) 

Then, a faint trail of smoke wafts out of the boy’s nose—it’s just a vape. 

Simon turns away. 

By brunch, which you always somehow seem to drag him into, you settle into your seat and ask the server for a butter knife. 

(Simon stays silent most times, with the occasional dry retort or witty quip directed at any silly thing he notices, but he’s been completely quiet this entire day. The slightest bit of tension pinches the skin between his brows as his eyes dart from one person to the next—like roaring waves rushing to catch the shore.) 

It happens all too quickly, how he pins the server’s wrist down onto your table when you’re handed the butter knife. 

Everybody in the restaurant pauses to look at you two.

The shock on your face mirrors the server’s. 

Simon lets go immediately, mumbling his apologies as his hands dig inside the pocket of his hoodie. You turn to the server sheepishly, standing up to follow him to the cashier. 

(You know Simon well enough that he hates all the attention, so you quickly settle everything with the manager, explaining as best as you can that it wasn’t intentional. The server is kind enough to let it go, his wrist red but otherwise uninjured from Simon’s grip; you still give him a tip, for the shock and trouble.) 

The whole trip home is tense. Simon can’t look you in the eyes, and even when you both walk into your flat, he heads straight for the kitchen, preparing to clean and wash the vegetables.

He rolls up his sleeves and opens the tap, rinsing carrots and potatoes, along with some of the lettuce you managed to pick up for half off. 

(Something stabs at your heart seeing him curl into himself even more, but Simon will talk when he wants to—never before or after. 

So, you walk towards him instead, wrapping your arms around his waist as you rest your cheek against his back.) 

He stops moving, and the water continues running. 

(You can hear his heartbeat, feel each slow breath he’s taking.)  

Simon doesn’t tell you of the sleepless nights, of the terrors that plague his waking mind more than nightmares do. He doesn’t tell you that he sees you in his spot that very same day, on that same marble floor—your own pool of red against the very same white that your chrysanthemums bloom into. 

“I’m okay,” you whisper against his back, landing kisses on each of his shoulder blades. The fabric of his hoodie is soft and thick, but he feels you through it. 

“You always do a good job of keeping me safe.” 

Your words layer on him like tactical gear, arms tightening around his abdomen akin to the belt that holds his ammo. 

“Let me take care of you now,” you close your eyes, voice a little shaky, pleading, “okay?” 

Simon holds his breath. 

.

Your chrysanthemums sit in a vase by your kitchen sink, water droplets catching onto the petals and leaves. 

Simon sneezes every time he washes his hands, but he’s the one who put it there—

“S’called exposure therapy, love.” 

(And who are you to argue with a man on a mission?) 

—along with the cut-resistant gloves he stores in a drawer near your kitchen tools. 

From the corner of his eye, he watches you drag your chef’s knife to fillet a chicken breast. He keeps his gaze locked on your every movement, fingers twitching as if they itch to reach for you. Pain tingles at the side of his chest, a faded remnant of how it felt when the wound was still fresh. 

You fillet the breast successfully, and he releases a breath.

Simon has keen sight and he uses it to his advantage—sniping, scoping, watching. He notices the sharp edge of the open cupboard door over your head and reflexively lays his palm over it, cushioning the impact when you hastily move to the side.

If you notice, you don’t show him any signs.

Tonight’s menu is honey glazed soy chicken, a recipe you’ve been wanting to test out. He’d offered to help but you insisted that he sit back and relax; and of course, in typical Simon- fashion, he only partially heeds your advice. 

He sits back and relaxes all right, but on the barstool by the kitchen island, ready to spring into action whenever you need him. 

And he sees it all—that near-mishap by the cupboard, how dangerously close your fingers are from your chef’s knife; your cut-resistant gloves are ready-to-use in the drawer next to your garden tools. He still keeps that small blade between your mattress and bedframe. 

Old habits die hard, the aftereffects of near-death moreso, but Simon is a man on a mission, and when he watches you hiss away from the brief ‘pop!’ of oil splattering from your pan, he stays right where he is, convincing himself he can leave you to handle it. 

You’re okay. 

This is progress. 

It’s a start.

a/n: this turned out a lot more serious than i intended, but i enjoyed picking simon to see how he would act in a period of adjustment back to regular life, especially after something potentially traumatic. i find simon an incredibly difficult character to write because he carries so much with him and i could go on about this, but the tldr is: i think he's become desensitised to a lot of things, which is why i don't think he's afraid of wounds or knives no matter how much he's been hurt by them. i don't imagine him being afraid of dying either, because it's what they do—it comes with the job. i do think though, that his close call with death here shifts his fear to the idea of loss, particularly, losing you. and as a protector, he finds himself responsible for that.

thank you notes: to @soumies my gawd!! for helping me with dialogue and proofreading, practically beta reading this entire thing!! you are the heart of this fic 🥺 simon would not be simon in this without you!! love u love u love u!!!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[proposalanonaita]

FINE.

The date is fast approaching (seven and a half weeks left), I've had sufficient quantities of Malbec, and I'm realizing that whoever suggested that writing my vows would be MUCH more harrowing than talking about my feelings to internet nobodies.....had a fair point; I should at least attempt to put it all to words before I write the real drafts.

Ugh.

I should probably start by stating that I'm WELL aware of who I am. Rest assured, I know that I'm stunningly abrasive. And controlling. And petty, conniving, misanthropic, or whatever other adjectives you've been calling me in the tags (yes, I DID read those, and it IS weird of so many of you to be calling for my divorce. I thought you were supposed to be nicer than I am?).

All this to say, I've always been cognizant of being an acquired taste. Partly because I've always BEEN an acquired taste. I tone it down in public, and in most of my personal relationships, but I am, down to my core, a Mean Mother Fucker.

With partners before my fiancé, I had to make myself more palatable to stay together. The men I dated were FAR too nice, and snipping with them at all felt like I was a heavyweight champion facing off against a toddler. So I reigned it in. It worked, but no matter how well things were going on paper, I didn't feel like I was myself with any of them.

I was even less myself with The Shithead. I'm NOT getting into the entirety of that particular tire fire here, you little freaks already know FAR too much about me and I won't have you tagging the gory details of the worst part of my life with #bob the builder/fuzzy wuzzy or whatever you're into.

He was horrible to me, I turned dangerously timid, I'm lucky I had enough Mean left in me to get the fuck out. He's changed enough by now that I considered inviting him to the wedding, it was bad enough back then I'm very glad I didn't. Enough said.

...I'm talking quite a bit up here because I still hate having to say any of the next part. Call me an emotionless villain for that if you want to, I am far too employed and 30 to care very much.

Ugh, ugh, ugh.

So.

The thing is, there are people that KNOW me, and there are people who LIKE me. My parents know me, and I've never doubted they love me, but that's not LIKING me as a person. That's a contractual obligation of birthing me. My friends like me, some even like me when I'm catty, but I need to be careful to hold myself back, at the risk of losing them. At best, people loved "me", not ME.

For decades, this was just the way the world was. It was a fact of life- The sky is blue, I'm secretly unlovable, the Earth goes around the sun.

And then, against all odds, I found my fiancé, who manages to do both.

He sees ALL of me. Every square inch, every fleeting thought, every horrible little quirk of my rotten personality. And THEN, as if that weren't bad enough, he turns around and ENJOYS it all. He's not just tolerant of my least palatable traits, he's delighted. The more I show him, the more he likes.

It's awful. I'd say he stole my heart, but that sounds too pleasant. It's more like my heart is a cockroach he could squish at any moment, and I trust him not to, and I'm just supposed to wake up every morning and do the dishes and go to work as if this doesn't mean we're clearly orbiting Saturn. The sky is PURPLE now. What the fuck.

He could at least do me the favor of being completely, 100% perfect, because then I could blame his total lapse in judgement on that, but NO. He's a BASTARD.

I'm engaged to a big sweaty idiot who annoys me on purpose. He's terrible with his money. He tries to take me on HIKES, and JOGS, and CAMPING TRIPS. His taste in every single art form known to man is GARBAGE, he's constantly leaving his dirty socks on the floor, and he's such a bad driver I'm amazed he still has a license.

I've told him all of that to his face, and I've MEANT it, and he's just called me a bitch and asked me what I want for dinner. He knows that I'm unlovable, agrees that all those parts of me are in here, and then loves me anyway.

He loves me. He LOVES me. He loves ME.

I don't know what I'm meant to do with it all, but there's clearly SOMETHING wrong with his brain, so I guess I'll have to keep him, if only for his sake.

[theoneandonlysemla]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @skyrim-forever @chiqita @heavy-metal-dick

Tagging: @dirty-bosmer @elavoria @friend-of-giants @firefly-factory @hircines-hunter @illumiera @labskeever @ladytanithia @moriche @pocket-vvardvark @rikkimora @rakaiawriter @sheirukitriesfandom @sulphuricgrin @tiredela @vanilleeistee

I had thought to be able to share a smutty WIP Wednesday snippet but somehow everything takes so long in writing and so I'm not there yet. Depending on how far I'll come this evening, there will be a thirst Thursday or a smutty Saturday? We'll see. Anyway, I want to end this chapter and with it the entire story of A Taste of Death. Can you believe that I thought this would be like a 40k words story? Something short? A novella? Ah, as it seems I need to practice some more drabbles when I'm done because I can't shut up.

I think the last snipped that I shared was Ria and her wormy man standing outside and understanding, that her brother will come back to get her out of her stinky boi's claws. Well, he did come back and brought some friends to kick Manni's butt but uhhhh... that does not go so well:

And that's where I'm stuck now and will try to work with, lol. After that some more nasty and horrific smut (monster fucker edition) and then I'll wrap this up? Can't really believe it. The chapter is currently at 14600 words and I'm a little afraid that I might hit 20k with it... Whatever is wrong with me, worms in my brain I guess.

[lethalbreadkills]

smirk. oc height chart except its missing three brand new ones i made about 12 hours after finishing this drawing

twister. what the fuck is wrong with them. this fucker FOLLOWED A TEAM back upstairs once through sheer will and scared the shit out of everyone up top once. they just like. hang out places. what the fuck are they doing here. the higher ups try so hard to contain them and it does not work. ??? No ones quite sure what their latch is and even WITH the latch they still shouldnt be this lucid. theyre so weirdly functional that everyone assumes them to be a threat and theyre treated as very dangerous despite mostly just lurking ominously and scaring the shit out of toons all over. they dont talk, they dont really interact with anyone meaningfully, they jsut.. do their little jingle and lurk and smile and watch. nobody likes it.

trudge is trudge. weirdly lucid?? why. ?????? also noted to be possessive of items/reseafch nesrby its capsule no one really knows why. it also has a very strong attachment to a toon to the point of protecting them from other twisteds, and has been shown to move, though no one is sure how.. ? Best theory is that it can teleport between capsules like glisten can with mirrors. sometimes if you try to pick up an item near it it will try to shoot you. its 50/50 whether it happens like that but its not good either way. not the most lucid aside from that. sometimes will stay out longer than normal and just . stare at you. its very offputting.

circi.

snip snap is trips goob. looking desperately for his sister. he is so angry and so fucking cunning. targets scraps that arent trip, and also poppys, sometimes rodgers, and fellow goobs. hes well known to not be baited and save his grabs. its weird. he will drop all attention from whatever toon he was chasing originally if he sees a scraps. it is Over for them he will target them for an entire round if they manage to run for that long. he also can talk but not well. he can scream if he tries hard enough. his vocal cords are beyond fried from the worlds stupidest gunk (ichor)

shimmer

tick tack is knick knacks goob he is so joyous. rarely goes on supply runs he helps sort out supplies brought up and is basically a therapy dog to a lot of toons

scott, despite his usual cleanliness habits is often seen covered in ichor more and more commonly, and goes on solo supply runs a lot. he brings back a weirdly large haul every time. whenever sent in with a group he performs worse, and seems to regain his almost germophobic need to be clean of ichor and gunk.

luxi

knick knack!! brights lovely wife. goes down on supply runs often, usually covered in ichor but makes sure to clean herself up after every run with brights. will often help tick tack with whatever job he happens to be doing if shes not needed elsewhere. not a higher up, but well trusted among the community.

sleeve ! a bubbly, competitive toon thats … not seen a lot ?? no ones really sure where the guy came from or how many there are, as aside from an introductory poster, theres no evidence he was ever in the show.

prin !

andromeda, the very small child of circi and via. lives with and is cared for by opal now after her birth parents abandoned her. loves veebee!

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Wip Whenever

Got tagged by @skyrim-forever @sanza-17 @nyarevar @lobo-inu @firefly-factory @saltymaplesyrup <3

tagging @sulphuricgrin @thescrolls-haveforetold @scholarlyhermit @viss-and-pinegar @archangelsunited @pocket-vvardvark no pressure tagging as per usual.

I've done a bit recently on both the Yani painting and chapter 19 of Serious Mistakes so I'll post a bit of both.

Art first.

(Click for full) Yani's got a face! I'm happy with how his eyes turned out. I gotta start on his face scaring next.

POV sad, fight prone smuggler who barely speaks Redoran Dunmeris properly makes eye contact with you from across the corner club.

Next we have a chunk of writing that i'll put under the cut. It's a dialogue scene between Josh and his niece, the Urshilaku Wise Woman circa 4E 199. This is during a healing session (roughly 1000 words).

“When did you get cut?” She frowned, pointing at his shoulder, “It looks recent, and the stitches have broken, why didn’t you tell me about it when I was healing the cut on your temple?”

Teldryn sighed and glanced at his shoulder, noting the small droplets of blood that welled along its surface, “Was fighting off an ambush a few days ago an got a taste of the fucker’s sword. The ah…outlander patched me up.”

“See, she likes you,” Ki smiled as she uncorked the potion and handed it to him.

Teldryn shook his head as he brought the potion to his lips and took a drink, grimacing at the bitterness of it, “Nar she just found me half gone in a cave. Means nothing.”

He could feel his cheeks flush as he finished the potion, feeling the pain that was radiating throughout his body slowly lessen. Gods, why was he having this conversation now… with his niece of all people? The fact that she was grinning at him the way she was only served to enhance his embarrassment.

“Oh, I see how it is,” She teased, taking the empty glass vial from him and placing it to the side, “Teldryn you are allowed to be happy.”

“It’s not—” Teldryn stammered, pouting a little, “I don’t— It’s complicated, Ki.”

“Dae’ata, you say that about everything,” She sighed, “She seemed sad when you left dinner last night.”

“I ah…” He sighed, dragging his hand across his face, “I didn’t exactly make the best first impression…or second— third. You know how I’m a fuck up.”

Ki frowned, reaching over to better examine his shoulder, “You put too much pressure on yourself.”

“If I don’t then I fuck up, Ki,” Teldryn frowned, “Or Nerevar fucking escapes an starts running amok. Which is what happened.”

“Nerevar doesn’t like new people, I know,” She replied, moving off the bed again and moving towards her bag, “I think I can heal that gash enough for you to not need those stitches. If you can just sit up.”

Teldryn did as instructed, pulling himself up and resting his back against the carved bedhead. The position sent an uncomfortable tugging sensation through his pelvis.

“I do not like that you are still making that face,” Ki frowned, sitting beside him again. She passed him a still steaming mug of what smelt like black kaveh, and he was thankful for the warmth of the mug between his palms.

“I think tilting it outwards pulled something or…I don’t know,” Teldryn mumbled, shaking his head, “It feels like knots in there.”

“Well, there should be a lot of scaring if my predecessor’s notes are anything to go by,” Ki sighed as she brought a small set of sheers to his shoulder and started snipping at the remaining threads, “And I can feel a lot of resistance in it when I was moving it around. The fact that you can still walk without assistance on a good day really is a marvel.”

“Your aunt was as talented as you are with this sort of thing,” Teldryn smiled, taking a sip of his kaveh.

Ki shook her head, biting on her lower lip, “I am still trying to understand what gave her the idea to just cut you open and heal the bone from the inside.”

“I ah…I don’t really remember much of it,” Teldryn mumbled, his gaze falling to his lap, “but apparently nothing else was working because of the Corprus.”

Ki nodded, carefully pulling out each stitch from his shoulder, “Sometimes I wonder whether I should replicate it, try and heal some of the scaring internally.”

“An subject yourself to the ooze that’s in there?” Teldryn grumbled, “Nar it’s not necessary, dumu. I’m fine.”

“It is a thought,” she sighed, taking a sip of her drink. “I guess I want to see you riding guar again, as in the stories.”

Teldryn chuckled, trying his best not to strain his aching muscles too much, “I think I’m a bit past ever doing that again. Besides, I wasn’t actually all that good at it, was more Erra’s thing.”

“Still, I wish I could have seen it,” She smiled warmly, readying her spell in her hand, “I mean in a way that I could remember.”

“I remember Erra taking both of us for a ride up to the coast,” He smiled to himself and tried his best to relax as Ki cast her spell, “He strapped you between us an I swear I was so afraid the whole contraption was gonna fall over—”

“It didn’t though,” She cut in, her eyes meeting his, “If I recall the stories correctly, you stopped me from being a mudcrab’s lunch.”

“Yeah, but I don’t trust myself with kids, you know that.” Teldryn sighed, shaking his head, “I mean you know what shit’s like with Adren. I fucking suck at the important stuff.”

“Hey, that’s not something you could have fixed,” She frowned, her fingers lightly moving across his skin, stitching the gash together under her fingertips, “Even seers cannot see everything, and you cannot help not knowing about him until you were out of exile.”

“You know he helped me out with this whole Tong business,” Teldryn mumbled as he took another sip of his drink. The revelation was still so strange to him, the two hadn’t quite been on speaking terms since the boy’s mother passed just after Red Year. The fact that Adren had taken it upon himself to get his name cleared…maybe there was still a chance?

“I thought you said the outlander did?” Ki raised her eyebrow at him, her fingers slowly moving down his arm, his wound slowly scaring over as she healed it.

“She spoke to him when she was in Skyrim,” Teldryn sighed to himself, “Apparently, he’s why I was released into the Free-Winter’s custody. Managed to convince them I wasn’t a murderer with like…evidence an shit.”

“I do not think your son hates you as much as you pretend,” Ki sighed, “I do, however, think that he is as stubborn as you, dae’ata.”

“Yeah, but like don’t tell him that,” Teldryn grinned, “I… I’m proud of him though, even if he doesn’t actually want anything to do with me.”

“I think he might come around eventually,” Ki sighed as she dismissed her spell, “Obviously he does not wish to see you harmed.”

[ultra-raging-ghost]

"I get to decide what organisms live or die chat im just saying it [...] i saw its life line and i saw it needed to be cut and i did snippety snip thats all im saying" BADBOYHALO YOU FUCKER

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Black Light 7

Warnings: namecalling, violence, other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You back up as the men enter your house. It feels a bit like an intrusion but you're welcoming them right in, aren't you? Besides, your mother would kill you if she got home and the couch was still there. It's an in and out job. Oo, thinking of it like that makes it feel dangerous, like you're a spy. Or a hit man.

Well, you're not the one doing all the work.

August lets out a heavy breath as his eyes rove subtly around the space. He barely keeps from knocking over an oval frame with his hand as he passes the corner table and he turns to glower down at your graduation photo. Admittedly, your make up had been a bold choice for that one.

The two men approach the couch as you stand back. Lee tisks as he eyes it up. He grabs the middle cushion and pulls it off, then the next, and the last. He leaves them on the floor as he approaches one end of the couch. August mirrors him with a dull gaze, unimpressed by the task before him.

"On three," Lee directs.

"Just lift the damn thing," August growls.

The man lurch the couch up with less effort than you expect. Wow, so strong. You stand aside as they angle it around and through the wide archway. You give a nervous smile to Lee as he nods his head at you but the other man refuses to look in your direction.

"Oh, I can get the cushions," you scurry past and flit into the living room.

You grab two cushions and try to manage the third but they all flop to the floor. You try again, and again. You sigh as you hear an annoyed growl and you settle on just grabbing the two end cushions.

You go to the door as the men twist the couch to get it onto the porch. Their advance is slow and you wait behind August, his size even more obvious the closer you are. You get an idea but think better of it. He wouldn't appreciate the impromptu pillow fight, would he?

"Hey, what's taking so long?" Hottie's voice comes from behind you.

"Oh, uh," you turn to face her, "they're just tryna--"

"Not this jackass," she flips her sunglasses up and stomps down the hall, "hey fucker! You stalking her now? Fuckin' creep--"

August gives a confused hum and cranes his head over his shoulder. You keep Hottie at bay with the cushions, herding her back as she attempts to elbow her way past you. You move side to side, blocking her.

"They're just taking the couch--"

"Easy story, they're casing the joint?"

"Casing the joint?" August harrumphs as he gets past the doorframe, "dumb girl."

"Hey," you spin and smack him with a cushion, "she's not dumb, you are!"

"Don't do that," he warns.

"This is my house and she's my friend. Take the couch then, you big... you big.... lug!"

"Lug?" He scoffs as he tilts the couch, Lee grunting as he guides it down the front steps.

"Don't threaten her," Hottie storms forward, bumping into your shoulder.

"Go take some more molly," August snarls.

"What the fuck did you say?" Hottie barks and you block her again.

"Fucking girls," August sneers as he comes down to ground level.

"Leave em be," Lee tuts, "we got the couch, let's get on."

"You better," Hottie retorts.

"Now, don't be eggin' him on, little lady."

"I don't fucking buy it," Hottie blares, "this isn't a fucking coincidence--"

"Please," you turn to her, "they're leaving."

She looks at you and her anger slowly softens to regret. She shrugs, "fine."

"Alright," you exhale and spin, skipping down the steps with the cushions. "Here."

You run over as they get the couch in the truck bed. You hold out the cushions and August turns with a scowl. He snatches them, nearly taking you off your feet. You recoil and set your heels. Hottie rushes over with the last cushion and whips it at his face.

"Don't forget that one, dickwad," she snips, "now get the hell out of here."

He snorts and throws the cushions in with the couch. He takes the last one from the ground and hurls it over his shoulder so it lands with the other.

"Gladly," he rolls his eyes.

Hottie grabs your arm and urges you back. August shakes his head and struts up the side of the truck as Lee shuts the back. He nods at you, "good to do business with ya ladies."

You can see the dimple in his cheek, as if he might laugh. He goes up the passenger's side and gets in, the motor rumbling to life as August cranks into gear. Hottie retreats, still latching on as she moves you out of the way of the truck's tail as it veers away from the curb.

You pout as you watch the couch bounce with the trucks motion and you puff out.

"Ugh, what a butt," you frown.

"That's putting it lightly," Hottie crosses her arms, "why didn't you come get me?"

"I.. I don't know. They were just taking the couch."

"Hmm," she looks down the street once more, eyes narrow and words unsaid written above her brow, "do me a favour, if you see that jackass again, run in the other direction."

"Yeah, don't think he's coming back," you shrug, "I like to think someone's insides don't always match their outsides but that grumpy puss is testing me."

"Oh, and if you do see him sniffing around, call me," she heads back to the house and you spin to follow her.

"Oh trust me, I got no room for him on my dreamboard."

[koisuko]

Imagine:

You save Soap's life after a near death experience, but at what cost?

tw: death, blood, guns, mw3 spoilers, sad shit, violence, angst, gn reader, reader insert

Never has a mission gone this haywire, never have you felt your heart pounding against your chest in rhythm with the beeping of the bomb behind you. The burning hatred for Makarov growing brighter with every tick of the timer, this wild goose chase becoming increasingly more exhausting. What if he gets away again, what if this bomb is just another diversion for a much bigger scheme? Bullets whizzed passed your head, nearly missing you mid peak from over a crate you took cover behind, your hands sweating profusely from beneath your gloves as you took out another Konni solider. "Copy- Bear. Cutting the wire..." the sound of snipping sparked a sudden sense of impending doom, squeezing your eyes shut quickly to await the blast that never came. You glanced over at Soap, the wire cutters firm in his grasp. "Got it! That bought us some time!" he added, his face so calm and focus unbroken. It amazed you how he handled this situation with such grace and stoicism, as if this was just another mission, a daily occurrence for him.

Your comms clicked before Ghost's frantic voice reached your ear piece, "Price, be advised: Makarov is in the chunnel- He's heading your way!" you groaned with frustration, turning to glance at Price as you spoke, "remind me again why we didn't let Soap kill this fucker last time?" Before he could answer, you ducked, hearing the clang of a bullet ricocheting off a metallic surface, "SOAP—! Get your gun up…!" Price ordered over the gunfire, raising his gun to purge the Konni police rapidly approaching. "It'll blow if I let go, Captain! Y/n, cover me!" Your brain went on autopilot, rushing to his side with your gun held high. You took out as many Konni as you could, several bullets imbedding themselves in various objects just inches from you. The bodies of both allied and enemy soldiers began littering the concrete floors of the subway, bullet holes scattered across the walls in all different directions.

With the last Konni police down, Price made haste back to the snake camera while you remained a cover to the two men. "0-7 to Six - We're punching through now!" Ghost conveyed over comms. The beeping became more frantic, causing a peak in anxiety while you kept watch in front. Soap and Price exchanged various key numbers to aid in defusing the bomb, "Copy— good work— This bomb has two fuses! We need to cut both at the same time. Red wire, y/n come help me with this." You nod in response, kneeling beside Soap only to be cut short with a rapid set of footsteps from behind. Before you could turn, your body collided with the cold concrete floor. A sharp burning pain rippled through the flesh of your shoulder.

Even in your pained state, you darted your eyes around to meet Soap. He was on the floor a few feet from you, bleeding from a gunshot to the shoulder, similar to yours. Your attention averted to Price, the rat Makarov stood over him with a gun pointed to his head. “Never bury your enemies alive,” he uttered, a twisted smirk playing on his features that you despise so much. You needed to act fast, pushing yourself off the ground to attempt to potentially save Price’s life. Soap beat you to it, slamming a knife into Makarov’s shoulder with a grunt.

If you were honest, you weren’t even thinking. Everything seemed to have slowed down, as if a bubble formed around the scene for prolonged decision making. Yet, you didn’t even need to decide, your body acting for you in a blind protective instinct. It happened so fast, but so slow, with bits and pieces coming together in a faded memory. Sound seemed to become muffled around you, tunnel vision taking a hold of your sight. You had one goal in mind, one clear whisper in your head egging you on, save him.

Price lay nearly unconscious on the floor, watching the scene unfold helplessly as actions moved faster than his battered mind could comprehend. The gun was poised, aimed at Soap’s head, dangerous pressure on the trigger. This was it, Makarov was going to win, he thought. How could the man he wanted to kill so badly be this close to him, yet still leagues ahead. It all took a turn, when from the sideline came you, slamming yourself into Makarov and successfully knocking Soap to the side, where he collided with a nearby crate. Unfortunately, fate can be cruel, if one does not go, another will take its place. In a sick turn of events, Makarov turns the barrel and pulls the trigger, this time directly through the flesh of your throat. Your body was discarded to the side like a mere doll. “Y/n no!” They both seemed to yell simultaneously, but to you, they were simple whispers.

Ghost and Gaz arrive on the scene a second too late, opening fire at the Konni while a half conscious Soap and Price return to their senses. They both turned to look at your limp form, watching you briefly convulse from the blood spurting out of your neck with each fading pump of your heart. Faint choking sounds could be heard under the gunfire in your desperate attempt to cling to life, to take just one breath, before finally falling silent. Price wasted no time in grabbing his pistol, taking aim at the retreating form of Makarov, only for a train to put a barrier between them. “Bloody hell, y/n!” For the first time, you could hear a subtle crack in Ghost’s voice. Soap was speechless. He lost someone he loved so dearly in a matter of seconds. Kneeling down beside you, he stared at your face. Your once vibrant eyes now a dull lifeless hue, glossed over with a grey tint of vacancy. Those lips he longed for, now held a shade of blue, and your skin becoming a deathly pale. Your face painted in heavy red liquid, your final moments spent drowning in your own blood. The room now emanated a heavy stench of death, so thick it nearly made him gag. “This is all my fault,” he whispered in a voice laced with pure grief. He placed a tender hand on your ice cold cheek, the voices of his comrades blocked out by the overwhelming sorrow inside him. He prayed to take your place, wanting so badly for the claws gripping his heart to relent. Oh god, the agony you must have felt, the burning sensation in your lungs being the last thing you experienced before death took you from him. He couldn’t help but clutch his stomach in hopes to ease the nausea building in his system. Beside the body of his friend, lover, and comrade. Silently, he mourned.

The bomb was diffused, they had once again defeated a grand plan of Makarovs. But at what cost? “All stations - this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralized. Bomb is safe…” Price looked down at your body like a father who lost his child, “one KIA.”

—

The team gathered on a cliff overlooking a pristine lake. The sun beginning to set over the horizon, casting a golden ray upon the landscape. The view would be breathtaking, if it weren’t for the reason they had come here. Your favorite spot, they knew it was. From all the stories you told them of this place, of how much it meant to you. You had even planned to take Soap there, take them all there, you promised you would. A promise you would have kept if it weren’t for your untimely death to the hands of your enemy. Even in the afterlife, in your place among the stars, you held no regret for how you died. You saved him, saved the man you loved most, you saved Soap. “They were the best of us,” Price said, his voice low. “The toughest,” Gaz held his hat to his chest in respect, his eyes closed as he listened to the gentle tune of the birds song surrounding them. “They would have fought the world bare handed,” Ghost never once breaking eye contact where the sky meets the mountains. “They had a heart made of gold,” Soap’s voice broke as he spoke, looking up at the sky as if speaking directly to you.

He reached down to his bag, the reason they were here becoming reality. For a second, he held the urn to his chest, taking in a deep breath before holding it in the center of the group. They all collectively placed their hands on the cold metal, before one by one they spoke one last time. First, was Price, “who dares wins..sleep easy soldier,” then Gaz, “see you down range, friend, we’ll take it from here,” and Ghost, “Rest in peace, y/n.” Then, it was Soap’s turn to speak, yet the words caught in his throat. He nearly felt the tears track down his cheeks, pleading so desperately to hold it together and stay strong. Why couldn’t this have just been a fucking nightmare? When will I wake up, he thought. He took a shaky breath, before letting his deepest feelings flow, “I’ll miss ye, my love.”

They watched as the wind carried your ashes, spreading each particle into the water below. Perhaps, the wind will carry your soul with it, to the next life.