#Asset Carnage

[controlled-winter]

Collective names: James, Soldier, Солдат.

You are allowed to: Give Commands. Speak about source. Conversate.

You are not allowed to: Use pet names. Claim yourself as a Handler. Try to better us.

Confirmed handlers are able to post on this account. 2 confirmed handlers.

Post tags that will be used to sort:

[ #Handler Speaks. ] Handler-made posts.

➤ [ #Handler posts ; Handler Sting ] Handler Sting posts.

➤ [ #Handler posts ; Handler Liminal ] Handler Liminal posts.

[ #Ready to comply. ] Asks.

[ #James Barnes. Unknown ] James posts.

[ #Bucky of the 107th ] Bucky posts.

[ #Asset carnage ] Asset posts.

[ #Soldat at the Ready ] Soldat posts.

[ #Purr Princess ] Alpine posts.

[ #Below 0 Wynter ] Wynter posts.

[fulokis]

It’s been a while since I’ve actually had a wall clock and while the noise is bothering me a bit right now (Sensory overload) It reminds me of when I was a kid and couldn’t sleep so moved to the couch in the living room near the clock

[catcze]

Oh fuck what about Modern AU with Bodyguard Wriothesley ?? Like you're the youngest child of a pretty wealthy family, and when Wriothesley gets assigned to you, he expects to have to deal with family drama, a push and pull between relatives over assets and large sums of money, and a bratty, snobbish trust fund kid who still hasn't left their college party years behind. But instead his first meeting with you happens in the kitchen of the much-too-large house, with a smear of chocolate on your cheek, laughing and joking with the house help while you bake something. Cookies, he later learns, for him. To welcome him and thank him for being your bodyguard.

He quickly finds out that you've no interest in taking anything your siblings and relatives own. You're happy here, living in this house with no one else but the staff and the numerous rescue animals you've taken in. You're... unbothered by all the carnage wrought by others, content to take care of this place of yours. And as weeks and months pass by with him by your side, he finds that he's becoming less of a bodyguard and more of your companion. You teach him how to bake some of your favorite pastries, you bring him along and introduce him to the plants in your garden and the puppies on your lawn. You even brought him around one afternoon to buy a birthday gift for Sigewinne, too shy to attend her party in person but wanting to gift her something anyway.

And inevitably, Wriothesley falls for you and your laughter on warm afternoons in the kitchen. He falls for the way you talk to your dogs like they can talk back. He falls for the way you grab his hand and squeeze whenever you get excited over something.

Quickly and without him even knowing, Wriothesley falls head over heels in love with you.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [2]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

If I cannot be loved, I must be feared.

Simon Riley doesn’t consider himself a violent man.

Practical, perhaps. Purposeful.

The life he has lived has invariably demanded a brutality from him; a sanguinary ruthlessness, one that he would never foolishly deny he has the capacity for. He had told himself, in his bitter youth, that his barbaric appetite for carnage and control was not innate. Not a sticky black disease webbed in his genetic code, inherited from his cunt of a father, or his cunt of a father before him.

No, instead, his savagery is an incidental asset. An arbitrary talent. Of course, he only uses it when it’s urgently called for, only when no other option presents itself to him.

It was only by chance that in his adolescence he stumbled into the underworld of blood sport and fight clubs, only a fluke he discovered his gift once he started pocketing mounds of cash from countless victories in splattered basements. And it's only happenstance that he found himself a career that necessitates his proficiency, that relentlessly rewards him for it – he can’t help what he's good at, after all.

So, he assures himself - not violent.

Not the kind of violent his father was, anyway. Violent in the sense of haphazard bloodshed, the kind of violence with flagrant collateral. No, Ghost has lines he won’t cross. People he won’t hurt. His fists, his blades, his bullets aren’t hurled indiscriminately; he is scrupulous in his sadism. Not a rabid cur, he doesn’t growl with pointed canines at anybody who intersects his path – he’s well trained. Meticulous. Keeps himself muzzled, tethered on a short leash.

Still, he can’t help froth at the jaws when he’s given the opportunity to play his hand, to boast his brutality. Can’t help but relish in the savage fortuities that his profession provides him, permission to lay waste to the men his mission briefs instruct him to.

Only preys on the evil, he says. Only maims the kind who deserve it.

You, standing tremulously in the open door to the bathroom, you’ll be his prey tonight.

You, as informed by his commanding officers, as described to him by his intel, will deserve it.

You, the very kind of degenerate oligarch filth he scorns so deeply, utterly undeserving of the magnitude of wealth and power you have unjustly acquired without merit - will need it.

Even if you haven’t had an acting hand in in your husband’s machine of depravity, at the very least, you’re a repugnant, iniquitous whore; happy to receive and spend mountains of blood-dripping money for a spread of your honeyed legs, apathetic to its murderous origins, uncaring who had to die to buy you that fucking negligée.  

That sliver of blush pink, so sheer, so short - you might as well not be wearing it at all. A cotton-candy veil, translucent enough to allow the yellow glow emerging from behind you to carve out the shape of your silhouette; the image of a renaissance muse with the contour of your waist, the swell of your hips. The chantilly hem barely grazes the highest point of your thighs, not quite covering the fragile lace of the knickers that conceal your pernicious cunt from him.

It’s almost a sick joke.

As if you’ve been planted there as some test of his fortitude, a trial of his moral compunctions. That voluptuary sway you have on his restraint, just by standing there, with your fingers hesitantly clutching a glossy Beretta, keeping obediently it pointed to the floor; it riles him. Repulses him. Infuriates him.

The pistol makes a dull thud as it tumbles to the dense carpet, your claw still shaky as you hesitantly part your fingers to release it.

“Умная девочка,” he growls, as he flips his night-vision goggles off his eyes, clasping them to his helmet with a click. “Clever girl.”

He makes sure you understand him when he patronises you, putting his near fluency in your language to some use – all the while, he wants you to know where he has come from. To know that he’s not another competitor nor accomplice of your machiavellian prick of a husband. That he’s a foreign arm of justice. Your retribution. Your punishment.

But he’s taken aback, when your syrupy voice glides from your nervous lips, in a language he didn’t expect you to speak.

“What do you want.”

He stalks towards you, slowly, maliciously, lowering his gun and straightening his hulking back to loom even further above and over you. You’ve seen his skull, now, the painted mask that wilfully camouflages his humanity. He can tell, relishing in the widening of your pretty eyes at the sight of it. Your reaper. Your fate.

His objective is to make you cower. To make you question his intentions. To intimidate. To threaten.

Should be easy.

With a vindictive boot he kicks your Beretta, sending it skidding noisily across the marble floor of your ensuite.

“Not a bad accent,” he grumbles at you, mocking, carnivorous eyes swilling the sight of you as he closes in. Exerts every effort to avert his sights from wandering, sinking, from your skittish countenance to the pillows of your oligarch tits, cupped behind their restraining triangles of sheer pink lace.

A disturbed crease furrows in your brow, you stumble onto your back foot as he menaces over you; you’re poised to bolt, light on your little bare feet – but he readies himself for the chase.

“Are you here for Victor?”

Your velvet tone is more austere than he would have anticipated, a cadence of hoarse impatience belying the endearing panic engraved in your features. Catlike eyes flit between his, as though mining into the windows of his mask, puncturing his irises and burrowing within. Maybe you hope to find something in there, in those pinprick black openings, now that they’ve dilated in light of your prying.

He answers with a single shake of his head, a sharp and cocksure suck of his teeth.

“Comrade’s got him already,” he gloats, deeply coarse voice resonating from his throat, an arrogant grin audible in his words while concealed by the thick knit of his balaclava.  

He lets you sit with that news, expecting a tearful exhibition of some histrionic spousal grief, at the very least. But, no, you remain steadfast in your quiet courage. Unnervingly indifferent to the possibility that your husband had been coldly assassinated, a mere few feet from where you had been preening yourself in the ensuite mirror.

Fitting, he thinks, that an avaricious, gold-digging slut like you is entirely unfazed by the sudden and savage death of your malefactor husband. You’re probably glad of it; if Ghost weren’t here to terrorise you, maybe you’d be beaming with glee, knowing his exorbitant wealth would trickle down into your manicured little fingers.

But your husband isn’t dead yet, perhaps to your dismay – instead he has been wrapped up with duct tape, suffocatingly tight, and carted off by the Sergeant with a sack over his head. Probably on their way to exfil. Efficient, that Scottish sergeant. Focused.

Unlike Ghost. He likes to play with his food.

He justifies it, though, knowing a bit of terror will loosen up your lips for later. After all, they have questions for you. Demands of you. And there’s nothing like a squealing, pleading, sobbing wife to pry open the shut jaws of an obstinate prisoner – that is, after other, uglier methods fail to extract the intel he desires. He quietly hopes that it comes to that.

So he prods, head stooping down to callously address you.

“I’m here for you.”

Your cautious yet analytical glare jumps down the length of him, before you surprise him, again – tempting your fate with a temerarious retort.

“I’d sooner let you shoot me. Чертовски уродливый укол.” Fucking ugly prick.

He cocks his brow, sniffing irately as he adjusts his low ready grip on his gun; he raises it just slightly, a malignant push of its vertical barrel into your soft belly. Reminding you of its presence, its size; the length of your entire torso, from mound to forehead. Reiterating its willingness to shred your ripe flesh, your cowed bones with its lead rounds.

“Tempting.” He snarls, as gravelly as cruel.

There’s the tiniest movement in your legs, a minuscule shift in your muscles, your agitated eyes dart past him just briefly – Ghost is seasoned in the hunt. The unconscious change in your breathing pricks his ears, from heavy and quivering to shallow and pointed; a small nibble on the meat inside your lip, a fluttering of your eyelashes as you scan for an escape route. His perception is honed and inhuman, predatory vigilance akin to a stalking wolf, he can smell your next move, it oozes from you like sweat.

So when your weight shifts onto your front foot, prepared to bolt, he lets you.

It’ll tire you out, a healthy chase. It’ll terrify you, and exhilarate him.

He watches insouciantly as you dart to his left, almost condescending in his apathy, as he makes no effort to snag you, no attempt to ensnare your body and trap you with a hook of his heaving arm.

No, that would be too easy. You dash past him, elbowing him in the side of his shielded ribs as you flee.

He listens with perked ears to the sound of your bare feet pattering against the carpet, the silent whisper of your negligée brushing against the doorframe of the suite.

You’ll figure out eventually that there is nowhere for you to run. That there is nobody left to save you. Your options are extremely slim – he made very certain of that. Escape your fortress and brave the Russian midwinter, and endure the agony of your bare flesh freezing black in your pitiful excuse of a nightdress. Or, face him. Which, he concedes, in your eyes may well be a more horrific fate.

He has knowingly been keeping his intentions ambiguous. And a woman that looks like you, in a piece of fucking fabric like that, must be excruciatingly familiar with the kind of intentions most men in this position would have.

No, Ghost isn’t that barbaric, temptation notwithstanding.

He just wants you to believe that he is.

So with heavy feet, he stalks you.

Taking measured steps, he follows the trail of your sweet perfume, your vanity betraying you once again as it lingers in the air behind you, leaving a conspicuous path of jasmine and silk down the extravagant hallway.

His boots tread over the Persian runner that spans the length of the hall. Velvet. Ostentatious.

How much did that cost you?

Disdainful glares observe the hideously gaudy and indubitably priceless paintings that hang on the walls, framed by ornamental moulding, taller than him. Florid. Tasteless.

How much did you spend on those?

How many roubles did you spend on all this garish fucking décor? How many lives did all of it cost?

Can you see the blood on that avant-garde sculpture when you look at it?

Do you see the redness of that blood emulsified in the oil paint of those hideous paintings? Does it stain the wall behind them?

Do you see the coagulated mess when you remove them, to replace them with newer ones?

His jaw clenches involuntarily with the disgust that swallows him. Sucking cold air vexedly through his nose, he slings his rifle over his back, freeing his hands for the catch.

His blood, viscous and dark, thumps in his temples, prickling cold under his skin; like Pavlov’s dog, he salivates at the quiet noises that barely echo from elsewhere in the mansion, the sound of you scuttling away from him. He hears your frightened panting through the walls, soft little squeaks like a hunted mouse.

“Any luck, L.T.?”

The gruff Scottish voice emerges through the crackling speaker of his radio, dampening the thuds of his bestial heart, dispelling the blood red that encroaches his vision. If only slightly.

His thumb goes to press the talk button. He contemplates how honest he will be.

“Having some trouble.”

He makes no effort to speak quietly. He wants you to hear him advance on you. He wants you to wonder hopelessly which corner he might turn, through which door he might check.

“Don't do anything I’ll have to defend you for.”

Ghost grumbles deeply as he exhales. Soap is keenly aware that he is purposefully taking his time with you. You could only ever cause him trouble if he allowed you to, after all.

“D’you think I’m that much of a brute?” Ghost retorts, growl doused in facetiousness.

“Only when you want to be, sir.”

He jerks his head at the echo of a quiet thud, the chime of crystal glasses vibrating on impact.

Dining room.

He’s silent for too long, though. Soap follows up.

“We’re waiting for you, mate. It’s fuckin’ cold. Get a move on, will you?”

“Won’t be long, Sergeant.”

“You'll have plenty o’ time with her when we’ve got ‘er in captivity, eh?”

He hears a stifled squeal escape you, through a single wall. He’s found you. No need to answer Soap – the boy can wait.

With smug nonchalance he strolls the corner, in no rush, he steps through the flamboyant archway into your dining room, vulturous eyes squinting to scan for you in the shadows.

Banquet hall might be a more apt label for the sheer magnitude and glitz of the room, soaring ceilings bordered with ornate floral plaster, moonlight glowing through the towering windows reflecting in diamonds off the polished parquet floor. He imagines you must have hosted and overfed many of Zakhaev’s snivelling accomplices at that very teak dining table, that could easily seat sixteen.

He wonders what their Soviet maws might have snarled at you through their greedy teeth as you bent over that table to top up their chalices. He wonders which cut of your meat they would have liked. He wonders if your husband would have served you up for them if they asked. He wonders if they ever dared to.

Your shadow reveals your whereabouts, dead still and peeking across the floorboards through a second archway, in the wall to the right.

Not very good at hiding, are you?

He sees you flinch at the deep sound of his boot on the wooden floor, closing in on you once again. His ready hands clench into reactionary fists at the sight of you standing motionless in the grey moonlight, arms tight by your side, frozen solid like you might have already ventured out into the subzero night.

Only as he approaches you, does he see what you’re stuck on.

One of your mercenaries.

Ghost thought he had executed him, with a stealthy blade to the throat, a crude slash from jugular to jugular. A ragged incision into his windpipe to ensure his silence as his life drained out of the gaping wound.

But the prick is still alive, by the sounds of it, the unpleasant music of his wet choking; the squelching and popping of him sucking air through the hole in his throat, impeded by the flow of fizzing blood.

It seems to have alarmed you, the sight of the slaughter, sending you into trembling shock as you fail to break your sight away from the twitching corpse.

“Y-you–”

He’s uncertain if you’re addressing him, as you stutter so winsomely, that brave little show you put on for him earlier now crumbling delightfully at the recognition of your fate.

“You’re – why did you…” you stammer, before drawing in a steadying breath. “You’re a fucking animal.”

Ghost releases an ireful sigh as he lurks to stand behind you, tugging a pair of cable-tie cuffs from one of the many pockets on his thoroughly outfitted tactical vest.

With a careful spin on your heel, a floaty dance of your negligée, you face him. Glowering up at him through wet lashes, lumps of mascara stick to your cheeks like tar, flushed from your eyes by a spate of tears.

Now you’re emotional.

That convulsing, blood-drenched cadaver is real enough for you, is it?

It must be easier to compartmentalise, easier to dismiss like flicking spilt salt over your shoulder, when the bloodshed you’re responsible for is mourned miles and miles from you.

No, that carnage can never reach you, can it? Not while you’re in your fucking fortress, lazing on a velveteen chaise lounge, painting your toenails with that glossy coat of cherry red as if it were the very blood your regime spilt.

Well, here it is. The kind of brutality you’ve been sheltered from, safeguarded against, blissfully ignorant of.

You pampered bitch.

He can’t help but be disappointed you’ve given up, you’ve let him gain on you. His muscles, his bones, his teeth, were ready for a hunt, aching for the catch. His carnivorous body had primed him for a breakneck pursuit through the halls of your mansion, and he now felt viciously unsated.

He wanted to hear you shrieking, pleading to be spared, squeaking like a bitten rabbit when he finally caught you in his jaws. He wanted to be the one to stifle your squeals with his gloved hands, gargantuan weight crushing the air from your weak lungs, thwarting your attempts to flee. He wanted to relish in your squirming, fighting, kicking underneath him, and he wanted to watch the flickering light of resistance in your darting eyes be snuffed out by the futility of your escape.

Yet even as you evidently surrender, still quaking with frigid trepidation, that glimmer still glows. A stubborn little flame.

“Are they all dead?” You murmur, defeat weeping through the monotony of your dull voice, hoarse from exertion.

Ghost grants you a solitary nod, a flick of his head. “They are.”

He observes as you sip in a slow, quivering breath, not parting your wary lour from the window of his mask – still reading, still digging, still burrowing.

“Are you taking me somewhere?” You cautiously probe, your sweetly soft tone a likely effort to temper the ferocity of your hunter. “Or are you just here to hurt me?”

A gritty huff of laughter jumps from his chest, muffled by the densely knitted mask that sits over his nose.

With a languid hitherto gesture of his fingers, his head bowed from his towering shoulders, he answers you.

“Both.”

You oblige him, you clever girl. Lifting your timid hands and holding your wrists together for him, you make it easy for him to take you.

He slips the loops of stiff black plastic over each of your pristine hands, tugging the tails though the head and tightly ensnaring your wrists. His dark eyes bounce to your twisting face as you wince, the shrill zip of the teeth jerking through the pawls rings piercingly in the silence of the room – music to him, torment to you.

“Will you make it quick?”

He finds himself dissatisfied by your resignation, your stoic defeat; as though you were so disillusioned, so expectant that this fate awaited you, that you had long girded yourself for it. It deflates him, your capitulation, your impassivity – leaves him high and dry.

From a pocket on his utilitarian trousers he unveils a fabric sack; thick black cotton with a drawstring closure.

“No.” He responds dully, as he tugs the bag over your head, finally veiling your probing eyes. With gloved hands he holds you by the crux of your shoulder, thumb gripping tightly over the base of your throat. He tightens the drawstring of the sack under your jaw, constricting it around your neck. Just snug enough to be uncomfortable, to impede your swallowing, to dampen your breathing.

“Fucking pig.” You seethe through the fabric.

Grasp of you not wavering, he yanks you toward him, you stumble over your bare feet as he cranes his head so it hangs beside yours, mouth by your ear.

“Don’t make me gag you.”

He faintly makes out the sound of you scoffing in silent contempt. “You won’t.”

Standing upright, he tilts his head in bemusement. “Won’t I?”

“You want a challenge, don’t you? That’s why you let me run, isn’t it?”

He’s flummoxed for the moment, speechless, only allowing an inaudible grunt of dispute to escape him. 

“Like a little fight, do you? You sick fuck?”

He’s careful in his reaction. Prudent. Controlled. Refuses to let you believe that you’ve read him like a book.

No, instead, he toys with your conjecture.

Sinister, guttural, he growls,

“Maybe I do.”

[sapphicseasapphire]

Once upon a time, there was a Princess and a Knight.

There were others as well: Champions hailing from the far corners of Hyrule, innocent civilians, soldiers for the crown…

And a world ending evil.

The kingdom of Hyrule knew of their impending doom, they knew of the Great Calamity that threatened their lives. And so, the Princess prepared to protect her people by offering her prayers to the Goddess Hylia, giving every last ounce of herself in order to unlock the sealing power that she supposedly possessed.

Around her, the kingdom of Hyrule made its own preparations. Ancient automatons were discovered deep in the heart of the land and, piloted by the Champions, would be an asset to the Hyrulean Army. Guardians would act as foot soldiers, Divine Beasts would deal a heavy blow.

All in all, the kingdom hoped. They were well equipped for the battle ahead of them. The Princess’s knight wielded his sacred sword with confidence. The Champions piloted their Divine Beasts with valor. The Princess continued to pray for a power that would never come.

It would end up being their downfall.

Faceless bodies, nameless faces, all lost to the maw of the Calamity. The Champions had perished, their weapons becoming deadly prisons. The soldiers had fallen, slain by the very Guardians meant to protect them. Though, in her desperation, she tapped into the wellspring of power within herself and managed to save herself, it was not enough. In her lap was her knight, and he was not breathing. She had lost.

She had lost everything.

The blade of the Master Sword, tarnished in blood and muck where it rested in her knight’s limp fingers, reflected her tears as she cried over his lifeless body. All was silent, save for her sobs and shaky pleas. She begged the Goddess for forgiveness, for her knight to magically start breathing once more. She cursed Hylia for allowing this to happen, for ignoring her all these years, for taking the lives of so many.

The Goddess had ignored her in the past, and she had no qualms ignoring her now.

For the first time in her life, surrounded by the skeletons of corrupted Guardians, by the lifeless forms of the fallen, the princess was alone.

She was truly alone.

After the battle, the princess was discovered by the Sheikah, who ushered her to safety. The Kingdom was lost, buried somewhere beneath the ruin and carnage that surrounded her. She brought her knight with her, one last escort, she told herself. The princess could not bear to leave him there, alone with the emotionless automatons that had stolen his life away.

She walked beside him as he was carried from the battlefield.

When it was safe, she laid her fallen knight to rest in a quiet forest near his hometown, where the mountains had shielded the village from the worst of the Calamity and the sea breeze rustled through the leaves on the trees. The static sound was a comfort to the princess as she placed a blue and white flower onto the mound of upturned earth. Six feet under an unmarked grave lied a young man- just a boy- who deserved better. He had defended her until his very last breath, cursed to bear the responsibility of wielding the Blade of Evil’s Bane, destined to fight an impossible battle.

It was always going to end like this.

The princess did not have time to mourn. She entrusted the Great Deku Tree with the Master Sword, her heart aching with the knowledge that the sacred blade would no longer be wielded by her brave knight. Hyrule would have to wait for the cycle to begin anew, but in the mean time…

She had a job to do.

With nothing left to loose, the princess marched straight to bones of Hyrule Castle, where the beast of Calamity Ganon circled ominously above. With her sealing powers finally available to her, the princess was ready for one final fight.

But there’s an intrinsic magic in the balance of nature. The more religious Hyrulean citizens might even say they see Hylia herself in the glorious orange and pink sunsets, in the gentle hum buzz of the forest, the rolling majesty of waves. Life thrums under one’s feet if they walk too far off the paths across Hyrule.

It is no secret that there are spirits that roam the wilds. A select few claim to see lively children of the forest, playful little gremlins with the face of a leaf. More commonly seen are spirits called Blupees, mysterious, their eerie blue glow visible to everyone in Hyrule. No one quite knows their origin, but it is said that they’re the result of pure earthly magic bursting at the seams with heavenly light.

And such light, such divine grace, needed a place to go. It worked its way into the fallen knight’s lifeless body, slowly but surely revitalizing him. Some might say Hylia herself cradled him in the palms of her hands and breathed shimmering life back into his lungs.

The process of revival changed him fundamentally, though it only took a month at most. The knight was robbed of his memories, his body becoming almost unrecognizable. His hair became ghostly white, his skin flowed a gentle bluish hue. He had become a forest spirit with no recollection of the Hylian he once was.

Hyruleans citizens might occasionally see him in dense forests or scorching deserts. He wandered about the lava pools of Eldin for a time. Aimlessly wandering the wilds. Those that saw him called him the Child of the Mountains, believing he had a connection to the elusive Lord of the Mountain that he so closely resembled.

Years passed, and the Child of the Mountains was spotted less and less often. A century after the rise of the Calamity, no one remembered the knight that had fallen in battle. No one noticed the upturned earth of that unmarked grave. No, the nameless knight was lost to time.

The Child of the Mountains remained the topic of folklore all across Hyrule, an otherworldly presence that was so rarely spotted. But things began to change for the forsaken kingdom. Divine Beasts stopped their rampaging, towers and shrines went from vicious orange to soothing blue. Still, no one connected the dots until Calamity Ganon itself was defeated and the fabled Child of the Mountains was spotted after the battle bearing a familiar blessed sword.

He disappeared completely after the war was won.

Somehow, the princess had survived the century long battle against the malice, and she had been quick to order a search for her knight. But that’s the thing about spirits: if they don’t want to be found, there’s just no finding them.

Still, the princess would not give up on him. Not again. She’d seen him, briefly, after he’d slain the monstrous Calamity. Her knight was still in there, she was sure of it. She will stop at nothing to bring him home.

. . .

Some notes!

• Wild is kind of sort of immortal. He can’t die unless he’s killed. (He’s been alive for a century and is vibing)

• Wild spent the entire century between waking up and fighting Calamity Ganon just… wandering in the woods like a lost child. Freaks out the locals but eh, he doesn’t really care.

• Of all of the Links, Wild is the least… human. He has no memory of ever being Hylian. All he knows is the wilderness.

• It sounds like bells and chimes when he walks, just like a Blupee!

• LOVES shiny things! Distracted very easily

• Mostly nonverbal. He communicates mostly with his antennae, though he doesn’t really have anyone to communicate with. He can speak telepathically with other spirits and the Great Deku Tree.

• Flora never expected him to come back. He was dead for good. But when a spirit with the same face as her fallen knight suddenly arrives at the castle after a century to kill the thing she’s been fighting, she was in disbelief. She recognized him which freaked him out and he ran away.

• He’s been wearing the clothes that he was buried in this WHOLE TIME.

• Subject of Hyrulean folklore, everyone has different thoughts on what he is. They all know he’s a spirit. But is he friendly? A protector to the people? Guardian of the wilds? He’s seen pretty rarely and encounters are short and quiet. Sometimes he’ll stare at the person, sometimes he’ll try to fight them, sometimes he’ll just run away.

• Chaos gremlin

• I love him very much

Original Character Sheets!

Sky’s Origin!

Time’s Origin!

[admiral-mason]

Ultra-Impact Part 3

Idea based on @valeriele3's Live Stream post.

Forgot to mention this in the last posts (I've edited in though), but reader is Gender Neutral (GN)

Warning: Violence and gore. Also Hakita saying things that he likely has never said.

0-2 0-3 << YOU ARE HERE 0-4

PRELUDE /// THIRD WEIGHT OF TWO WORLDS

TWO WORLDS ARE BINDED THROUGH A SINGULAR SCREEN.

A complete and utter destruction of the senses.

This is the best way to describe the current event: V1 blasting the absolute hell out of the 3AM Among Us Potion Knights of Favonius with his arsenal. Peeking from behind a rock at a distance, you watched V1 blast a swordsman Knight in the face with its shotgun before parrying an arrow from another and shooting him with the revolver.

It then proceeded to ground slam into a small group of them before knuckleblasting them, leaving nothing behind but guts and blood puddles on the floor (and you wincing silently). Then, Amber manages to land an arrow on V1; unfortunately, it harmlessly bounces right off and V1 turns its camera-like head right at her and swaps to its Sawn-On shotgun. As you slowly looked away, flesh squelching and bone breaking accompanied the outrider's screeching screams of agony.

In the head of the battle, you attempted to gather your thoughts and deal with the pain in the right arm thanks to Amber's arrow. Is this how it felt to witness Ultrakill in real life? You never expected weapons such as the Knuckleblaster and shotgun to create ear-piercing noise that no Earth weapon matched.

You also noticed how V1 never used any explosive damage; not even projectile boosts, despite its ease of accomplishment. In fact, its current actions force the Knights to focus on it and not you. Perhaps Teyvat sent it here to guard you in this Impostor SAGAU world. Your arrow pain dwindled quicker than normal too; probably another random little power gimmick.

However, your time to dwell on such thoughts ran out when noises best described in the onomatopoeia "BRRRRRRRTTT" followed by the sounds of penetrated flesh resounded in the air. Peeking over your rock, you witnessed V1 blast the last of the Knights including Kaeya with its nailgun.

Looking at the carnage V1 left in its wake, you noticed something bizarre.

Instead of laying limp, the blood and flesh of the dead knights began fading away into glowing red dust.

Much of [streaming platform] buffered and suffered an outage for a good couple of hours, with the cause of the sudden shutdown leaving even the site's administrators and management team fumbling in confusion.

Coincidentally, many users reported that their instances of the game Ultrakill suddenly crashed and refused to boot up afterward despite their computer and Steam page acting normally. Hakita put out an official statement regarding the matter:

"Okay, I will be real. I can't do anything to the game on my end either. I can't edit it, open any files, get assets, hell even all of my videos on my YouTube channel are missing without reason. So for now, all we have access to is this Discord server."

(Some people thought that he did this after a petition to reconstruct V2 exceeded twice its supporters)

A few people watching your stream coincidentally noted that it suddenly ended without explanation before [streaming platform] died.

The combination of these events spurred mass panic on the internet; Videos theorizing that some foreign nation or 'master hacker' committed a cyber attack to steal valuable information ran rampant on Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, you name it. Meanwhile, users on [streaming platform] took to platforms such as Reddit and Discord to share their perspectives on what happened, with a select few even touting that God had shut the sites down as a warning to humanity's current sins.

Thankfully, the anomalous instances reverted and disappeared in a few hours, except for your account on [streaming platform]. Instead of displaying your past streams, it simply displayed a single live stream:

THE FIRE IS LIT.

It bore a thumbnail shot of what appeared to be somewhere in Genshin, looking at a small camp with a tent, a campfire, and a pot boiling over said campfire. The chat slowly started with one or two messages before rapidly exploding with "what is this" or "what happened" responses or something along those lines. Then, two familiar figures showed up on-screen:

It was you and V1, and the latter carried you in a bridal style.

Of all the things you expected to do in life, having V1 bridal-style carrying you wasn't on the list. After it killed all the Knights of Favonius, it took your right arm and inspected the area injured by the arrow before swiftly pulling it out much to your discomfort.

After you gritted your teeth and grimaced in response to the sudden pain, V1 made a small dent in one of its arms allowing its blood to flow onto your wound. Miraculously, the blood let the injured area grow back and your pain rapidly dissipated leaving you both amazed and bewildered.

During this time, you noted how V1 managed to fit its three left arms all placed on its side; a sort of circular device connecting the arms to the torso allowed them to cycle between one another.

V1 then let you go and handed you a revolver; specifically, the regular Sharpshooter revolver. "For me?" You asked the supreme machine, pointing to yourself as you did so. It simply nodded in response and gestured for you to take it. You did and put the electric gun in your right pants pocket, hoping no misfires occur.

Once that happened, V1 suddenly scooped you into its arms before dash-jumping away with you deeper into the forest. Oddly enough, the smell of a soup or stew grew ever stronger the more distance you two covered in the woods. After a couple of minutes, V1 put you down at your destination.

The robot brought you to a campsite with an open campfire and a pot over said fire. It's safe to assume that the pot contained the soup or stew that currently emanates the smell. A crude tent seemingly stolen from an adventurer stood behind the fire.

The last noteworthy object in the area caught your attention: a black-and-white splotched Terminal. Located right next to the tent, the terminal displayed your Twitch chat on the left side and its main screen on the right. Once you stood in front of it, it printed out:

"GREETINGS, GODFATHER. PLEASE TAKE SOME TIME TO INTERACT WITH YOUR FOLLOWERS IN THE OTHER WORLD."

A camera then revealed itself above the screen and you knew what you had to do. Stepping in front of the camera, you waved. "Hello? Chat can you see me??"

And then, the floodgates busted wide open.

Adm!ra1-M4son: Oh my god GUYS OUR BOY'S ALIVE

johnifer: Holy shizzle drizzle crick crack he's fucking alive

valeriele3 donated $5.00: "Oh my god! Are you okay??"

"Yeah- I'm fine. Thanks for the donation by the way even if I have no idea how to use it right now..."

V1 then proceeded to make itself known as well. Moving you a bit to the side, it waved both of its hands seemingly eager to introduce you to your fans. The chat went wild again.

hiraya: omg is that V1??

LiNk29: Nah man bro got isekaid with the gopro...

BeeseChurger: SOMEONE SEND THIS TO HAKITA RIGHT THE FUCK NOW

Yuormethor: On it chief.

Simply put, this strange terminal allowed you to see your Twitch followers again, which was nice. V1 then left its spot in front of the terminal and checked on the pot. Sure enough, when you moved on over to it, there was a soup with radishes and tomatoes as its main ingredients. V1 likely got them from theft, but you didn't care- food is food after all.

The robot used a ladle in the pot to scoop some stew into a wooden bowl, which it then handed to you along with a spoon. Taking in its aroma, smells of radishes, tomatoes, and some mint filled your nose and you slowly took a small sip.

(A/N: Guess the soup.)

The soup's taste bore both a tart and sweet flavor, with a little bit of refreshment with some added mint. As you savor your first meal in Teyvat, your chat watches you do so.

kpfjillion: give me that fucking soup

XxcSHARPxX: Give this man peace for the Impostor SAGAU shit he's gonna come across lmfao

hiraya: he'll be fine! I'm sure of it.

After the fifth sip, you heard mechanical footsteps behind you before they stopped. You turned around and saw a familiar adversary V1 fought, and the two of you stared into each other's gaze.

"Well, nice to meet you in person, godfather."

V2.

Taglist: @valeriele3, @bunniotomia, @feetusdeletussthenyeetus

[c-53]

The difference in how all of the ai handle Mjolnir is very amusing.

Leela does everything in her power to assure you are being sent where you can do the most good. You’re her only ally left, and she wants to keep you safe and as well armed as her limited capabilities can allow, but does think you are just as ready to sacrifice yourself for this victory as she is.

Durandal considers you his unkillable one man army. His most powerful and most valued asset. He revels in sending you into the worst of it, setting you loose where you can do the most damage, and hand feeding you the tools to make the carnage possible. You’re entertaining, and he makes it VERY clear every other asset he has is disposable EXCEPT for you. You’re his favorite

And then Tycho has absolutely NO faith in you and is like ‘2 clips of pistol ammo should be enough, you’re just going to be hiding behind my Hunters anyway. I hope you die. You better not die. Oh shit um you’re all I’ve got left.. uh. Favor for a favor?’

[sheppi-isometrics]

⚔️ Tyrant Lich enemy token on Patreon

This token is available for free at our patreon :3

The wizard king Tar-Baphon was powerful necromancer with hunger for greatness. His gluttony knew no end: the world itself would serve him, alive or dead.

His brutal ambition brought winds of carnage with every conquest, which resulted in the attention of the gods. In the battle on the Isle of Terror he was killed by the Living God, Aroden, and was buried and sealed in that island, capital of his kingdom.

However, Aroden wasn't aware of the necromancer's plan. The only path for immortality required a special step in the ritual of un-death: being killed by a god. This above is the reason of the mystery in the location/identity of The Wyspering Tyrant's phylactery or soul cage. Plus another mystery in Aroden's death, that became the dead god Pharasma's top secret that nobody knows or can't know.

By supporting us on Patreon you will get access to more than 400 creatures, maps and assets! Complement your campaigns with hq hand-drawn tokens and start building the adventure of your dreams with our isometric and 2D assets 🏰!

[sweetlittlebabyboy]

Mate: Caleb/Bruce

@alpha-and-omega-toys

Gotham City. One of the most dangerous cities in the world. For as long as Caleb liver there, he never felt safe, but now it’s worst. The city is known for it’s population of werewolves. There are three types of wolf: Alpha, Beta and Omega. Betas are common. Alphas are rare. Omega is the most rare. The city has been depleted of omegas over the years. They all fled to protect themselves and their young. The city was now over flowing alpha wolf crime bosses and their beta foot soldiers. They were all at war with each other because they were all fighting over the same thing; Caleb Anderson.

Caleb was a young and beautiful boy. Baby faced with auburn red hair. He was now the most precious asset in Gotham. Why? Because he was an Omega. He was young and highly fertile. He was the last Omega in all of Gotham. He was more precious than gold. That’s why Joker, Two Face and Penguin, the three most deadliest alpha wolves were after him. They all wanted to claim his womb for themselves. However, none of them claimed the prize. In fact, the one who did wasn’t a werewolf at all. He was a vampire; an Alpha Vampire. His name was Batman.

Batman was the mortal enemy of the wolves. They were at constant war with one another. While the wolves fought for carnage and gore, Batman fought order and democracy. The Dark Knight fought to save Gotham City, and he even kept Caleb safe for a time being. The vampire showed the orphan kindness and generosity. Caleb had never experienced such kindness. It made the boy feel things. Strange things.

After spending quite some time with the dark vampire, Caleb was eventually taken to his lair. The Batcave. The boy saw the cave in all it’s glory. It was incredible, but what Caleb really wanted to see was the face behind the mask.

“ Can I see? Your secret is safe with me.”

[oatsa-the-humanoid]

Surviving the Trials (part 1)

Days had merged into weeks, weeks had merged into months, and months had merged into an endless supply of an unknown amount of time. 

My fellow Reagents and I (Paul, Marie, and David) had almost refused to leave the sleep rooms during “Bring Your Baby to Work Week.” We had seen the carnage that was brought in daily through the medical window, and that was far enough to tell us to stay away from the Trials. Reagents with missing limbs, Reagents with blood and holes all over their clothing, and dead Reagents whose injuries were so vile that the doctors didn’t dare remove their shrouds. 

David was especially terrified of the Trials. He had heard the rumors of this so-called “Bambino” through the Reagents that had somehow survived, and he hasn’t been sleeping since. His eyes bore dark circles and he grew gaunt from a lack of eating. He knew it was a matter of time before the doctors forced the four of us into a Trial against our will.

Paul and Marie were the most experienced Reagents out of our group. What scared me the most is that the two veterans didn’t dare volunteer to go into the Bambino Trials even once. Something “just didn’t feel right” as Marie put it.

Marie was the oldest of our group. She had long, gray hair that went slightly past her shoulders and deep wrinkles on her forehead. As “old” as she seemed, she was a pretty good fighter, very strong, too. I’ve seen her fight off multiple pouncers at once with such a rageful strength that was genuinely terrifying to witness come out of such a brittle body. She even managed to get a couple strikes off on Coyle, which I found impossible.

Paul is very fond of Marie, not romantically, but almost as if he was her son. He may actually be her son, but whenever I asked about it, he shrugged off the question by bringing up some alternative topic. Paul was more fond of the trials than all of us combined. He used them as an excuse to throw bricks and bottles at some unfortunate Expop. He always went into the Trials when he was upset, so he could use them like a Rage Room. However, he never dared to actually finish a Trial. He was too terrified of the main assets of the Trials, especially Gooseberry. He almost got gored by Futterman’s vicious drill way too many times to count. He eventually swore to himself that he would never finish a Trial again unless his life absolutely depended on it.

I, like most others, was not fond of the Trials in any aspect. I found the Trials to be grotesque, unholy experiments made for the pleasure of the doctors and Murkoff officials. I was almost bold enough to swear that I would never finish a Trial again like Paul, but that was until I overheard some discussion between the guards of the sleep room. I heard them mention that they were going to force my friends and I into a Trial. That we had been leeching off their sleep room resources for long enough and that we needed to work for our meals. 

When I heard this news, I was petrified. I brought my three friends into my room during the “Sleep Hours” and told them about our unfortunate turn of events. They couldn’t believe their ears, especially David. 

“I TOLD YOU!” He yelled, crumbling into a chair and weeping. “I told you they’d do this. I freakin’ told you.” 

We were all in distress at this information. We tried our best to comfort each other in my quarters by talking over the situation.

“Well, hopefully they pick a short Trial, maybe even one without this ‘Bambino’ fella,” Marie said quietly, rubbing David’s back. 

“You could even stay by the shuttle if you want. We won’t mind.” I replied.

David wiped the wetness from his eyes.

“I’m sorry for crying, it’s just that I’m so worried. The chances of us living, all of us, are…so damn slim.” He frowned and looked at me.

“Janie, maybe we should…make a plan? Just…some sort of groundwork. Something to help get an edge.”

“It’s hard to do that when we don’t even know what Trial we’re gonna’ get.” Explained Paul. “I think maybe if we stick together, we will have a better chance of survival.”

“Yeah,” I whispered, mainly to myself. “But what if we happen to get separated?”

My question was rhetorical, but it lingered on our minds. We sat in silence for many, dreadful minutes, keeping our eyes on our twiddling thumbs.

“I love you guys. You are some fine fellas.” Announced David after a while. “You guys really have been the light in my dreary life.”

“We love you too,” whispered Marie, giving him a crinkled smile. “Everything’s gonna’ work out. I promise.”

I hope you guys enjoyed part 1 of the little story I'm making about Outlast Trials! Let me know if you wanna' read more!💚

If anyone has any tips on how to properly post stories on Tumblr, please tell me. I beg of you. 😭

[vaniri]

Profaned [Enver Gortash x Dark Urge]

After satisfying her dark urges with blood and carnage, Durge feels the need to visit Gortash. She knows where to find him, she comes to him almost every night. She gives herself to him, on his desk, letting him defile her body and poison her mind. Her Father is obviously not very happy about that.

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Rating: E Category: F/M Word Count: 2 722 Warnings: blood, violence, mentions of death… it’s Dark Urge, you know what you’re getting yourself into

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Big thanks to @ugh-my-back for beta-reading ❤️❤️❤️

(AO3 link in the comments)

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It was one of these nights when the opportunity to plunge her dagger into the flesh of an innocent and spill their blood presented itself, and her dark urges were howling to take up on it. An easy prey - a lonely man who had one cup too many at the tavern, too drunk to care who he was going to bed with - but satisfying nonetheless. Her blade was quick, her hand steady, mind focused on turning a mere lower city peasant into a work of gruesome art. A pretty corpse, eviscerated and brutalized beyond recognition, left on the street to be viewed and admired.

With her urges silenced and Father pleased, she took one final look at the bloody mess at her feet, ready to retreat to the Temple. But she was not satisfied yet. The moment her blade had started stabbing and blood had spouted from the man’s wounds something stirred deep inside her, a need that any amount of blood spilled and corpses mutilated could not satiate. A desire to be touched, filled, tainted. Unadulterated carnal lust.

There was only one man in this wretched city that could quench her thirst and lucky for her, he was always more than happy and willing to defile and ruin his favorite bhaalspawn. All she had to do was pay him a visit.

She knew that the first place she should be looking for Gortash at such a late hour was his workroom at the Steel Watch Foundry. His beloved playground, the temple of his brilliant mind and unrivaled genius, as he called it. This man sure thought very highly of himself, and not undeservedly, but he was just a man, constricted by the limitations of his mortal body. Limitations he stubbornly tried to ignore. Like, he had a very bad habit of overworking himself to the point of literal passing out on his desk.

She passed through the foundry yard completely unnoticed, effortlessly evading the Steel Watchers patrolling the site. It was always ridiculously easy to remain unseen and she mentioned to Gortash several times that maybe their perception and surveillance abilities needed some improvement. But more likely they couldn’t spot her because she had her skills. And a lot of experience in avoiding them. She also had a hunch that Gortash programmed them specifically to not stop her. He would rather keep most people at a distance, but her presence was always welcome and greatly enjoyed.

She slinked into the building and moved through the main hall. From the balcony leading to the back of the foundry she could see Gortash’s precious slaves, the Gondians, working downstairs on assembling yet another Steel Watcher for the Lord’s army, and some visibly bored banites, supervising them. No one paid attention to her presence and she was very grateful for that. Most of Gortash’s high-ranking subordinates knew her and, more importantly, they knew how unwise it was to stand in her way. But these ones looked like mere lackeys, meaning they would surely try to stop her. Her Lord hated when she made a mess in his playground. And he hated losing his assets even more.

She found him exactly where she expected him to be at this hour, and how she expected him - in his workroom at the back of the building, at his desk, poring over some notes. There was a lot of papers scattered around him, both on his desk and on the floor. He was so engrossed in reading that he didn’t even notice her enter the room, despite her not being particularly stealthy about it.

She stepped down the metal stairs, soundlessly, like a prowling predator, eyes set on tonight’s prey. She was closing in quietly, her moves slow and deliberate, like she was afraid he was about to flee the moment he spotted her. He would never run from her. Gortash was probably the only person out of her congregation not scared of her, despite knowing what she really was. A vicious murderer, cold-blooded assassin, perfect tool in her Father’s sinful hands. A monster.

He would never see her as such.

He was so oblivious, so unaware of her presence, so defenseless. A perfect quarry. Her dark urges were roaring, begging her to draw his blood. And she wanted it too, she wanted to hurt him - not to kill, but for pleasure. She yearned to see red stripes on his olive skin, ached to smell his delicious blood, taste it when he was pounding her dripping cunt…

“Enver.”

He raised his eyes from the paper he was currently reading and locked them with the figure standing in front of his desk. He looked like snapped out of a trance, disoriented and still a bit absent, slowly coming back to reality.

“My favorite assassin!” His concerned expression turned into joy when he realized it was her. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.”

“I figured.”

“What brings you here at this late hour?”

“So you know what hour it is? You’re overworking yourself again, sitting here doing gods know what, probably skipping meals and your night rest.” He was definitely not resting properly, or rather at all, his bloodshot eyes and dark circles under them testified to that.

Not to mention his disheveled hair, rumpled shirt stained with machine oil, and days worth of stubble. He had an image to maintain and would never show publicly looking like that, meaning he probably hasn’t been outside for days.

“You look like shit.” Deliciously wrecked, she wanted to say. “How long have you been here? It’s unhealthy how obsessed you get with your work sometimes, you know?”

“Am I hearing concern in your voice? So you came here to check up on me and make sure I’m taken care of?” He taunted her, a smug smile plastered on his face. “I’m flattered, my dear.”

“You know what I want when I stoop to look for you in this hole.”

She circled his desk, dragging her nails across its surface. She was like a wild cat, ready to pounce, eyes never leaving her prize, now sitting comfortably in his chair. He was watching her with anticipation, as if expecting her to jump at him any second.

“Maybe I do. But I want to hear it from you.” Another smile tugged at his lips when she stopped in front of him. Despite his current position there was no doubt that he was the one in charge here, his voice full of confidence and authority. “Why are you here?”

His warm palm caressed her inner thigh, encouraging her to utter out what he already knew.

“I need you to fuck me.”

“Need? Gods, I love when you’re so direct.”

His hand rested on her thigh completely still now, so close to where she wanted it so much yet so tantalizingly far. He was teasing her, she knew that, waiting for her to make a move, tell him what she desired. Or better, beg for it. But she was in no mood for his games, so she took his hand and guided it up her leg, looking at him with a warning in her eyes.

His fingers finally brushed her crotch, then again and again, with more pressure, and that was not enough. She needed to fully feel him. So she swiftly unbuckled her leather pants and shimmed out of them, exposing her beautiful legs and black underpants, covering her already wet entrance.

“Impatient, aren’t we?”

“Do me a favor, just shut up and put that lovely mouth of yours to a better use.” To show him what “use” she had in mind exactly she sat on his desk and spread her legs, shooting him an inviting glance. And to make sure he caught her meaning, or maybe just to assert temporary dominance, she put her hand on the back of his neck, with the clear intention of guiding his face between her legs.

She didn’t have to encourage him any further though. He tugged her underpants aside and gave her slit a languid lick, then buried his tongue between her slick folds.

Gortash had many talents and giving head was definitely one of them. His technique was immaculate, every stroke of his tongue precise and calculated. And he knew all too well how to make her squirm. He focused his attention on her clit, fondling the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue while his fingers played with her folds and caressed her entrance. But he never let her enjoy herself too much, stopping his ministrations every time she was close to coming, that bastard. She grinded against his face in a desperate attempt to get more friction, but he kept her still. She pressed her nails into his scalp to remind him who he was dealing with and coerce him to give her what she wanted, but he was relentless.

He was the tyrant, he was the dominant one. He was to decide when she was going to come.

“Fuck it, enough!” She yanked his hair, forcing him to leave her pussy and look at her. He looked like a mess, with his cheeks flushed and her juices dripping down his chin, breathing heavily like he just raced to his estate in the upper city and back. His eyes were clouded with lust and she knew that her time in charge was over, now he was going to have his way with her and use her as he pleased.

And that was exactly what she wanted.

He got up and claimed her lips, pressing his firm body against hers. She could taste herself on his tongue when he was kissing her hungrily, and she felt his hands caress her sides, roam up and down her back and finally grab her ass. And yet, all she could focus on was his still clothed cock, pressing against her thigh. She took pride in how hard she could make him without even touching him, just by letting him kiss her and eat her out.

She wanted to feel his body under her palms. Her skilled fingers unbuttoned his shirt without even looking, button after button, and swiftly shucked it off, letting it fall to the ground. Her hands explored his broad chest, his toned stomach, enjoyed his body hair tickling her skin. And Gortash could finally take a moment to play with her breasts. He cupped them eagerly and rubbed her already erect nipples, making her moan into their steamy kiss.

Her mind was foggy with arousal, her cunt throbbing and begging to be filled. She grinded herself against him, hoping to prompt him to finally fuck her. She felt his dick twitch in response in his trousers, but Gortash wasn’t done playing with her yet.

“You are mine.” He purred in her ear, his fingers stroking her neck like he was about to choke her. “And you will be patient.”

When his hand finally found its way to her crotch and his fingers rubbed her folds she nearly came on the spot. He played with her slickness for a while, careful to avoid her clit, and when she was nothing more than a whimpering mess, writhing under his touch, he finally freed his cock and thrust into her, burying himself deep in her heat.

He grabbed her waist for better grip, his thumbs digging painfully into her skin, and rammed into her cunt with full force. Every thrust of his hips was composed and confident, just like he was, hitting that right spot inside her that made waves of immeasurable pleasure spread through her entire body. He knew exactly how to make her shiver with ecstasy, how to make her think of nothing else but him, yearn for him, sin for him. He pounded into her and she rolled her hips in response, desperate to get even more of him, nothing else but his name falling from her lips, like a prayer to a god she was forbidden to worship.

Every second of his unholy flesh touching her was a profanation of her sacred body, every thought of him a blemish on her perfectly shaped mind. Every thrust of his hips felt like a blasphemy against her Father and even now she could feel his ire. She was a disappointment, degrading herself squirming and moaning under that filthy banite. So unbecoming to someone of her lineage. Before she met him she was an ever-obedient child, fulfilling her Father’s will in earnest and never daring to cross him. A perfect tool ready to bring this world to its knees in his name. Now she knelt before a mortal man. It was hard to believe that she desired Gortash more than Bhaal’s vicious love. More than she feared him.

But she couldn’t change what she was, she couldn’t escape her purpose: the sole reason of her existence was to execute Father’s will. He demanded her to take Gortash’s life, to prove her undying devotion and slaughter that man upon his altar. And she would, like she had promised many times before, but not yet. She will slit his throat when everyone in this plane lays dead, leaving the two of them the last people alive. He will die right before her. With her.

The thought of his blood spouting profusely from his wound, staining the altar and pooling on the Temple’s floor made her shiver with excitement. Her dark urges awoke again, demanding her to hurt him, mark his skin, draw his blood. And she couldn’t fight it, not with his cock slamming into her cunt with an obscene slapping noise, and him groaning and panting in her ear.

Her hands itched to tear his flesh apart when her claws scratched his broad back, leaving red streaks on his beautiful skin. He moaned and she kissed him hard, him being so vocal drove her absolutely insane, and bit his lower lip. His blood tasted divine on her tongue and she lost herself in the sensation, lapping at the warm liquid. Gortash clearly enjoyed it too, his dick throbbing fiercely inside her a being proof to that.

He was close, she could feel it. His pace became uneven, his groans desperate, thrusts frantic. She loved to see him like that, losing his usual composure, becoming a servant to his carnal desires. He came with her name on his lips, spilling his warm seed deep inside her clenching cunt, holding her close against his body.

She came moments later, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

No matter how violent their sex was, the aftercare was always gentle and affectionate. She cupped his cheek and he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling tenderly. He kissed her forehead, her brow, her nose, and then landed a soft kiss on her lips. She could still taste his blood but her thoughts stayed clear, as her urges were finally satiated and asleep again.

“As much as I love when you take me on your desk, we should make a rule to fuck only on your bed from now on.” She broke the silence when he finally pulled out of her and helped her get her underpants back in their place.

“What? Why?”

“Because maybe then you would be there regularly.”

“You’re not dropping it, aren’t you?”

"Is it that hard to believe that I really care that you don't overwork yourself to death? Who would fuck me this good then?" She added quickly, pulling her pants on.

“Ah, so you only need me because sex with me is great?”

“I need you alive to stand by my side. Just like you need me.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes. “We have a world to take over and rule together, remember? None of us could do that alone.”

He kissed her again and she promptly kissed him back. It was slow and passionate, full of affection and reverence, and something she also felt every time she thought about her destiny and not having to face it alone. Gratitude for having each other.

It was his unspoken promise to remain at her side and never leave her alone. Together, they will conquer. Together, they will rule. Together, they will stand against the world.

She could feel her Father’s fury.

[baldursfate]

Durge x Gortash: All Comes Crashing

Introducing my Durgetash fic, inspired by Larian's original concept of Ketheric being redeemed and joining your camp to help take down the other chosen. In this fanfic, not only is Ketheric redeemed under moonrise, but so is Gortash. Your favorite baddies team up with Durge and Co. to take down Orin (who has made off with both her's and Ketheric's netherstones) and the Dead 3.

So without further ado, I present Chapter 1.

Chapter 2

The party had been split while traversing under moonrise, the cartilage and flesh twisting into a maze. Tav had become isolated from her companions, and roamed the colony in search of the motley crew. Each sphincter opened into new, unrecognizable chambers, all as hideously barren of company as the last. Intellect devourers scrambled around her, but other than the zombies she had faced no adversaries. She had tried to be discreet in her exploration given the lack of back-up.

She continued on, pulling at the clasps of a cartiligenous chest, falling backwards as it opened with a wet suction. She rifled through, hoping there was at least a spare potion or two that might come in handy. She suddenly heard voices from around the corner. She counted the foot steps, elven ears fine tuned on the breathing, the conversations, the heart beats. There were at least 4 individuals behind the veil of flesh, and although she was outnumbered, Tav prepared to attack. It wasn't until she heard, uttered in a mocking tone, the phrase "Forgive me father, for I cannot help but admire the chosen..."

Tav reached into her pocket, grasping the note. She was sure that was her handwriting, and perhaps these cultists had something to do with the post script scribbled below.

"How dreadfully romantic, and such a tragic end. I could make good coin if I sold the tale to a bard. The ladies at the brothels would faint from such angst." A woman, middle aged from the inflections of her voice, Tav noted. "Such a shame Balthazaar had to snitch to the general, no good necromancer. I was just beginning, my pet would have survived countless more vivisections. I hadn't even the chance to touch her reproductive system. I was awfully curious as to how Baahlspawn churned out such vile litters at an advanced rate. No matter, perhaps I shall get to examine Lady Orin when she meets her end. They say my pet has returned, you know." Another voice, deeper, male, resounded out from the neighboring chamber. "If your pet couldn't do her in before, what makes you think that husk would succeed this time? I'd be careful talking about the chosen like that. There are many here that vye for your position, 'mistress of souls'" "Vye, cry, die, it matters not what they do. Once I secure my pet, I shall be rewarded by the Absolute. No more conducting in this squalor. As much as I appreciate the general's assets, I do very much like to leave the viscera on the table."

At the mention of a table, a memory assaulted Tav's wrecked brain. A man with ebony hair and an easy smile. A knife piercing her abdomen as the face melted into pale skin and a maniacal grin. The sound of ribs popping as they were torn from her body. The headache, the stone table strung with carnage. Her innards without.

With a gasp, Tav was back in her mind. A pale sweat broke out across her forehead, and she knew she needed to find her friends. As she stood from the floor, her foot caught on a stray ligament, and she tumbled out into open view of the cultists. They immediately drew their weapons, and before Tav could act, she was knocked unconscious by the hilt of a blade.

[misteria247]

I find it kinda funny how in a lot of the Lupin III animes, a lot of times Zenigata is often times played up for a comedic effect. Or that other policemen that work with Zenigata never really take him seriously because he's always getting screwed over by Lupin and his gang. So much so that it makes you forget that Zenigata is literally the best of the best in the world of law enforcement.

Pops has arrested several hundreds of criminals within his career and has influenced and helped a lot of people with his kind actions. He's also a master at Judo and can wreck someone's shit pretty quickly with zero effort. Not to mention that he's the only one who's able to keep up with Lupin, as well as predict what his next moves are and is the only one who's managed to arrest him several times throughout the entire series.

Adding onto this, other criminals who aren't Lupin or his friends always fall to the Inspector's skills. Cuz he's so damn good at his job that they're not a challenge him at all in the long run. Basically Zenigata is the king and he rarely ever loses, if at all.

Unless it's Lupin.

Like it's so easy to forget that beneath the usual emotional, kind and goofy Zenigata we all know and love, is actually a god damn powerhouse of a man who's a literal unstoppable hurricane. He's the ICPO's best detective they've ever had in their ranks.

It's why Zenigata is the only one that Lupin pays attention to and takes seriously as a rival. Cuz like Zenigata, Lupin's the best of the best. He's the world's greatest thief, an unstoppable force that leaves carnage in his wake. He's left several policemen and detectives and inspectors in the dust because they couldn't pin him down nor keep up with him. Lupin's literally ruined people's careers in the law enforcement department just by outsmarting them.

And then there's Pops.

Pops, the only cop who was able to keep up and keep in step with Lupin and his moves. Pops who's the only detective whose ever given Lupin an actual challenge in his usual heists. Who's the only one besides Lupin's partners, Jigen, Goemon and Fujiko, that's still able to take Lupin by surprise outwit him when he least expects it.

They're both masters at their crafts, the top class in their respective areas and careers. No one else is able to match them when it really comes down to their skills, talents and assets.

No one except for each other.

Like dude it's interesting to think about it, like if one of them were to quit or go missing or die the other would be incomplete. Because at the end of the day, the reasons why their jobs are worth it and makes them so enjoyable, is because they have the other there to heighten up the excitement. A rival that makes the experience of heists and adventures worth while. If one of them wasn't there, then it wouldn't be worth it.

[rahiwatching]

Ravenous - Additional Dark Hunter Entry, Dictated by the Shadowed One

On occasion, Toa have fallen from grace and joined the ranks of my Hunters. Sometimes, even a lowly Matoran has proven their worth and become an asset to the organisation, but never before has a Turaga ever come under my employ. Until Ravenous that is. But then again, Ravenous is no mere Turaga.

Energised Protodermis is a coveted substance for the Brotherhood of Makuta, and one that I have endeavoured to keep out of their claws whenever possible in my thousand year long war against them. So when word of the discovery of a new pool reached my chamber, I dispatched my closest Hunter in the field to secure it. Unfortunately, a group of 6 Turaga had also discovered the pool, and objected to my claim upon it.

Knowing their pitiful abilities were no match for my operative, they fused their bodies and minds to form a Turaga Nui, and in the ensuing battle both Turaga Nui and Dark Hunter fell into the pool. The Dark Hunter was destroyed by the Protodermis, but that was not the destiny of the Turaga Nui, who emerged from the pool to find their fusion had become permanent.

The delusional creature actually rejoiced at this, seeing it as a reward from the Great Spirit for their unity, and believing that this new power meant that their shared dream of returning to a life of heroism could now be fulfilled. But, they forgot that Mata Nui sleeps, and in a such a restless sleep as his, a dream can quickly become a nightmare.

Fusions, by their very nature, take a great deal of energy to maintain. It is why they are usually so short lived. This new fusion was about to find out that breaking this norm has its consequences.

Half way to the nearest settlement, the Turaga Nui became hungry.

When it reached the village, that hunger had turned… Ravenous.

By the time a second party of Dark Hunters had been dispatched to investigate the first’s disappearance, they found a village littered with the dead, every Matoran killed and drained dry of their life energies. In the centre of the carnage they found the Turaga Nui, its hunger temporarily satisfied but its mind driven mad with guilt over what it had done. Like so many others before it, the being now known as Ravenous could never return to the life it once knew, and so found its place amongst my Hunters.

Powers:

Ravenous has limited control over the elements of Plasma, Ice, Earth, Iron, Lightning and Psionics, but makes up for their reduced power with the wide range of possibilities that 6 separate elements provide.

When kept well fed, their combined millennia of battle experience makes them a formidable foe to my enemies, and their ability to utilise the powers of the noble Calix, Huna, Kakama, Sanok, Akaku and Kiril separately or in combination makes them an incredibly adaptable operative.

But if starved, Ravenous becomes an unstoppable beast, tearing through enemy ranks and devouring felled opponents with a savagery that even makes some of their fellow Hunters take pause.

Status:

I tend to place Ravenous on missions that keep them engaged with the forces of the Brotherhood rather than against Toa or Matoran, lest what is left of their moral code intervene with a mission that in their former life they may have found unsavoury.

I have just dispatched them to an island south of Odina to prevent the Brotherhood from establishing a foothold there. Finding their force of Rahkshi destroyed and the Kraata within reduced to withered husks should give the Makuta pause for thought in our next engagement…

[noa-de-cajou]

Various mentioned characters here belonging to @corneille-but-not-the-author , @soupedepates , @thal-ent , @hel-phoenyx and @azeler

The following text contains domestic abuse and references to suicide.

It started with a storm. Yet when I lowered the spyglass, the sun was shining high in the sky, irritating my eyes and skin. It still does as I rest my arms over the boat guardrail.

“Are you sulking, Leo?”

I glare at Kalerich. His little remarks are really starting to piss me off.

“I'm taking a break. And I'd appreciate if you didn't pollute it with unwarranted comments.”

“Well someone sure is in a bad mood.”

Maybe I wouldn’t be if this hadn't turned out to be such a disappointing turn of events. The duel started off great, Brynja got the advantage surprisingly quick, despite the storm raging on louder and louder.

Then he unleashed the Carnage. Fascinating magic, really. But that's when I knew Brynja wouldn’t make it. Even I wouldn't be able to fight this off, so how could she?

It would have been handy if she had killed Kaizarz, but it was unlikely from the start. If I could at least see the monster he really hid, what really lurks inside… If I could see with my own eyes that this oh-so benevolent monarch isn’t so benevolent after all…

But then they stepped in. The other four, those little pests, barging into a fight that wasn’t theirs to win. Domhildr and Tyrfing’s first intervention was nearly useless, but of course even Oli and Meili had to get involved.

A hug, a few words I couldn’t hear, and it was over. Just like that.

Why? Why were you so intent on bringing him back?

He threw your friend on the floor and knocked her out. He crushed Brynja’s throat. He damaged your boat. He would have killed you. He broke the hand you weakened just so he could.

You saw it.

Yet you pulled him back into his mask. Into some fake, meek version of himself. Why?

Why does he get to be pulled back into himself, why does he get forgiveness after everything he did, even though he has nothing to give?

Why does he get all of this, and I didn’t? Who stopped me when I needed it?

No one. There was no one to fight off the monster. There's no one to stay if they don’t have anything to gain or if there is no fear to keep them in place, no one.

Because I made it so no one cared.

…

Jealous, Leonova?

No. Not at all.

It's only a brief respite. The monster is bound to come back anyway.

Not everyone is like you.

Shut up. Shut up.

What infuriates me too is how they still healed Brynja after she hurt their king, after she stabbed him in the back, after she almost doomed them all. And how they didn't let me get her. I could have healed her. I could have healed her throat. But she didn’t looked like she wanted it.

… That, I can understand. I've seen what the sirens do. Even I wouldn't stoop that low.

But what’s the point of being free if it's to end up like this? Voiceless? Powerless?

I already know that she won’t come back to me. Not even for protection. She’ll go back to the Kraken Coast and I'll be left with nothing gained from this.

All those years on my ship, and I didn't even get to say goodbye.

That doesn’t matter. She was a tool. An asset. You would have gotten rid of her, eventually.

Right.

You won’t miss her, will you?

No. That’s fine. No one stays, anyway.

It didn't mean anything.

Rescuing Brynja didn't mean anything.

Losing against Tyrfing didn’t mean anything.

Sleeping with Domhildr didn’t mean anything.

Dancing with Oli didn't mean anything.

None of it matters, none of it.

Ungrateful. All of them.

My eyes hurt.

“I’m going back to my cabin.”

I start to walk away, Kalerich grabs my wrist. Gods, what now?

“I can see you're sad, Leo, don’t just walk away. There's no point in trying to hide it from me.”

Stop. Stop it. I’m not sad. I am not. I’m angry, and pissed, and frustrated, I'm certainly not sad.

“Let go of me, Kal.”

“Leo-”

Stop. Stop pretending you care. You wouldn't even stay with me if I didn't force you to. And you never stopped me from doing what I do. You have no right to look at me this way.

I tear myself away from his grip and start walking down to the inside of the ship. I hear his footsteps behind me.

Why won’t you give up

He grabs me by the sleeve.

Why aren’t you

“Leo, please, could you just-”

Gone

“I said let go of me!!”

My hand flies.

I blink and there’s four scratches across his cheek. Blood trickles down his face. His eyes have widened a little.

Who hurt him? Who dared?

I did.

No. No. No. He’s my brother. He’s all I have left. I can’t… I shouldn't… I would never…

I can feel his blood under my nails.

“Kal… Kal, I’m…”

Are you happy now?

There's no way he’ll stay after this.

No, no, this isn’t what I want, it isn’t-

I try to wipe the blood away. He grimaces. He’s in pain. I hurt him.

You hurt him.

Again.

“I’m… I'm sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I'm sorry- ”

You keep messing up.

You’re not careful enough. You weren’t careful with Misha either.

Kalerich wouldn't leave me. Not like that.

You didn't think she'd do it either, did you? How many times have you checked his room for a rope under the bed?

If you keep this up, the noose will tighten around his neck too.

And you'll be truly alone.

There's tears on my face.

“I’m sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-”

“Leonova.”

He gently takes my hand and pulls me towards him, wraps his arms around me.

“It's fine. I’m all good. It’s nothing. You’re just upset. You didn't do it on purpose.”

… He’s right. I didn’t mean it.

“Don’t cry. I’m not going anywhere.”

I hug him back. Right. He's not leaving. Because we're siblings and siblings stick around for each other.

Which is why you need to bring her back and fix your mistake.

Kalerich holds me wordlessly for several minutes before letting me go.

“When do you want to leave, Leo?”

“... Tomorrow. I’m sick of this place.”

“Okay. You go rest. I’ll go tell the crew.”

“... Kal?”

“Yes?”

“You're not going to leave me. Right?”

“No. Never.”

He smiles at me.

Isn’t that smile a bit cramped?

Must be my imagination.

“Until death do us part, right?”

Yes. Until death do us part. Only then will we be free of each other.

The mere idea terrifies me.

He lets me go.

“Go lay down. I'll be right back.”

He walks back out, and I get to bed. It’s fine. I'm just tired. Maybe I've overexerted myself. It's not worth getting worked up about a bunch of strangers, is it?

History may sing their names, but I won't. They're not worth remembering.

The only names you need to remember are theirs. Your mother. Your sister. Your family.

I think about Domhildr. About the customs so dear to her. I remember the nursery rhyme some of the fairy sailors would sing. To remember the dead. Always remember the dead.

But I don't want to remember.

I want them back.

Screw those nursery rhymes. Screw their stupid passiveness.

I’ll overcome that death you’re so afraid of.

In the meantime, I need to forget you. All of you. And your stupid faces.

...

I hope I can.

[aimmyarrowshigh]

Lent From Tomorrow (today was too small for us) by aimmyarrowshigh

archiveofourown.org/works/48337372

1942. The war in Europe drags on. Genius omega Steve Rogers despairs ever being able to help the Allies - until a British beta offers him a unique opportunity: break codes, and stop the Nazis in their tracks. Recruited from his humdrum solitary life in Brooklyn, Steve finds himself embroiled in the secret world of Washington intelligence. As he pours through code, unearthing valuable intel that saves thousands of Allied soldiers' lives, Steve makes a remarkable, horrifying discovery: a hidden code specific to something called The Asset. Wherever the Asset is mentioned, casualties follow. In an effort to stop the carnage, Allied commandos track down the Asset and bring it to DC... where Steve discovers it isn't an it at all, but a damaged, distressed, and destructive Alpha who smells like everything Steve's ever wanted and can never have. Frustrated by the Asset's inability to communicate, Steve launches himself into cracking the code of what makes this Alpha tick, and what he discovers will change the world.

This is the best thing I've ever written, and I've been working on it for two years this week. Happy birthday in T-minus 90 minutes, Steve. I really hope that you all enjoy it and love small smart Steve as much as I do!