This content is protected against AI scraping.
One guy comes to mind when I see ‘guns.’ Have some evil husbands being cute. Both these guys belong to krakaheimr.
CWs: They’re way too evil to be this cute. Oh and gunplay I guess.
***
Derringer kneels over his husband, burning-blue eyes at half-mast while he runs the barrel of his Mauser alllll over Wheels’ body.
Charles is so damn beautiful. He’s the colors of fire–the glowing red hair, the flame-blue eyes, the gilded white-pink of his skin like burning paper. And right now every square inch of him is focused on Wheels.
Wheels ought to feel nervous. Years as a soldier hasn’t endeared him to having the barrel of a gun pointed his way. But in Charles’ hands… Oh he feels beautiful.
He knows what most people would think, if they saw him naked. He’s skin and bones and gnarled scars. His hip bones and ribs stick out unappealingly. Some of his scars aren’t just ugly; they’re downright disturbing.
But Derringer traces every solitary line of him with that gun, taking his sweet damn time mapping him with it, with that point of life and death and a fixation so absolute it’s like he’s devouring everything the barrel of his gun touches. And Wheels feels worshipped. He feels like a god, being fed on every life that gun and the hands that wield it have taken.
Mentions