#Operation: Ash and Shadow

[sml8180]

Phoenix has a new mission following their recovery after Operation: KBOOM; Zor has yet another plan to take over the world, and it's their job -as usual- to stop it. Along the way, they encounter a number of familiar faces from two very different times in their life.

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Friendly reminder that comments and reblogs fuel me to continue writing!

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Just giving a heads-up here (it's also in the notes at the end of the chapter), but the rating of this story will be changing when Chapter 16 goes up, popping from T to M.

Similar to Chapter 11, there's several fun facts at the end of this one! Highlights include: a short history lesson in glow-in-the-dark watches (and their dangers), the somewhat random, mostly useless thing(s) I learned while writing a last-minute scene addition, and how many times I changed how a character would be described because I couldn't decide

[marvelseries19]

RETURN TO YOU

Chapter Four - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: You’re finally found. After years lost and alone, a faint signal is enough to bring someone to your island. You're brought home, weak, scared, and unsure if it’s real.

A/N: Finally, the moment you've been waiting for. I'm not entirely sure if this should be the end. I kinda have more ideas to tell, but maybe I'll post those as like one-shots or something. I wanted to thank you guys for letting me know that you liked it. I don't think I've ever had this much engagement on my fics. I really appreciate the love this one has had.

On another note, in the last chapter, I asked if you read this, and by this, I meant these messages, I leave here, not the chapter. So, once more, do you guys read these messages?? Also, as always, any questions, requests, ideas, and feedback are all welcome. Enjoy :)

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries and such.

Word count: 4.4k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The low hum of the SHIELD operations room barely registered as Maria Hill leaned over the dim console. The soft, rhythmic blinking on the screen in front of her was steady, consistent — unmistakable. A signal. Faint, primitive, but deliberate. Her fingers flew across the keys as she opened a secure channel.

"Get me Director Fury," she said, her voice low but urgent.

The line crackled before his voice came through, rough and clipped. "What have you got?"

Maria didn’t look away from the screen. "A signal. Old-school. Someone stripped a Quinjet transponder and spliced it into basic field tech. It’s broadcasting on an early SHIELD frequency — nothing sophisticated, but it’s clean. Repeating."

"That’s a long shot," Fury replied.

"Not if it’s her," Maria said, and there was something unshakable in her tone. "And I believe it is."

There was a pause. She could almost hear him weighing it in silence. Her eyes stayed on the blinking pattern, steady as a heartbeat.

"It’s the captain."

Fury’s silence stretched again — longer this time, heavier.

"You always did trust her instincts more than anyone else," he said eventually.

"She earned that trust," Maria murmured. And she remembered — the smoke, the fire, the chaos.

Kandahar.

—

The sky was dust-streaked and orange, gunfire painting the air in bursts. Agents scattered, wounded, shouting. No one had orders. The comms were fried. And then you appeared — ash-streaked, limping, blood on her sleeve, and calm in her eyes.

“We lost comms!” someone had yelled. “Do we pull back?! Where’s the fallback point?!”

Maria remembered how you didn’t hesitate. She remembered the way you moved — forward, always forward — as if gravity bent toward your conviction.

"With me," you said. That was all.

Two words.

And twenty agents followed you without looking back.

Maria hadn’t said it aloud that day — but someone else had. A younger recruit, clutching his rifle and running to keep up: “Captain’s got us.”

The name stuck.

—

Maria exhaled softly, her eyes never leaving the console. "She pulled twenty agents out that night. Half of them wouldn’t be here without her," she said quietly.

"Is she still alive, Hill?" Fury asked.

"She sent that signal," Maria replied. "I know it's her, and that’s all I need to know."

"Take a team," Fury ordered. "Get her back."

Maria was already on her feet. "Already working on it."

She shut the console off, leaving the weak, blinking signal behind — but only for a moment.

She would follow it. All the way to the end.

—

The quinjet dipped below the clouds like a shadow cutting through the sky, its engines whisper-quiet over the dense canopy below. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting streaks of gold and fire across the endless stretch of green.

Maria stood near the loading ramp, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon as if she could will the trees to part and reveal a miracle.

She’d barely slept on the flight over, fingers tight around the datapad that showed the narrowing coordinates. Each pass of the satellite brought them closer. Each sweep of the low-band signal narrowed the window.

Still, it felt like a dream.

Three years. Three years with no trace. Three years of dead ends, quiet funerals, and trying to help Natasha through a grief Maria shared but didn’t dare speak aloud.

And now this.

A single echo. A half-broken signal from a beacon no one was supposed to remember how to use.

She hadn’t told Natasha. Couldn't. Not yet.

Hope, Maria had learned, was dangerous when it burned too bright. And she wouldn’t be the one to light it unless she was sure. She had seen firsthand what it did to her friend , how it tore her apart each time a lead turned out to be false. Maria needed more than a faint signal to give Natasha false hope.

The quinjet hovered over the narrowed location, nestled between cliffs and jungle, and the team fast-roped down in practiced silence. Maria followed, landing with a solid thud against the uneven earth.

It was still. Too still. But the readings didn’t lie. Someone was here.

She signaled for the group to split. “Fan out. Sweep the perimeter. Eyes sharp. Weapons down unless you see a threat.”

A chorus of affirmatives crackled through comms.

They moved.

Not far away, tucked in the hollow between two rocks and overgrowth, you stirred.

The sound had been faint — a low thrum, like distant thunder.

It came again, closer this time.

You sat up slowly, your body protesting every movement. Your limbs ached. Your head spun. Your skin had taken on the leathery feel of too much sun and too little water. The weakened body you lived in now barely resembled the one that once trained at SHIELD’s academy. The one that flew the quinjet with quiet confidence. The one that could disappear without leaving a trace.

You had survived. But barely.

You blinked hard, pressing your fingers to your ears.

Voices.

Were those voices?

You crouched low, instinct taking over even as your knees buckled beneath you. The sound of boots brushing leaves. A sharp rustle of brush being moved aside. You bit the inside of your cheek.

It’s nothing. You’ve imagined things before. You’d seen shadows become people. Branches become outstretched hands.

But the voices were growing louder now. Clearer.

“Check the cliffside—Hill’s got east.” “There’s a trail here—looks like something’s been walking through.” “Signal strength increasing. It’s close.”

No. No, that was real. That wasn’t just your mind trying to comfort you again. That was real.

Still, your body didn’t move. Not yet.

You sat frozen, heart pounding, as footsteps closed in.

And then—

“Hey!” a voice called. Not a hallucination. Sharp. Solid. Commanding. “I’ve got something—!”

Then another voice. Lower. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Stand down, it’s her—God—” The foliage parted, and there she was.

Maria.

Your mind couldn’t process it all at once. She was wearing tactical black, hair pulled back, eyes scanning like she didn’t dare believe what she was seeing.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything—but nothing came out.

Maria dropped to her knees, her voice thick and trembling. “Hey, hey—it's okay. It's me. I’ve got you.”

You blinked again, too weak to flinch as her hands gently framed your face.

Her breath caught. “Jesus… you’re really here.”

You tried to speak, lips cracked, throat dry. Only a rasp escaped.

Maria shook her head, a soft curse under her breath. She slipped an arm around your shoulders, guiding a canteen to your lips. “Don’t talk. Just drink.”

The water stung going down, but you drank like you hadn’t in days.

Because you hadn't. Rainwater could only last for so long.

Maria kept holding you, one hand steadying the canteen, the other pressed lightly against your back as if reassuring herself that you were solid. Real. Not another ghost.

And then she whispered, almost like she didn’t want anyone else to hear, "I'm so sorry it took this long.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You didn’t want to cry. Not yet. Not when it felt like the moment could vanish if you blinked.

But Maria didn’t rush. She stayed there with you in the dirt, surrounded by jungle, brushing a hand gently through your tangled hair.

“You’re safe now,” she said softly. “We’re taking you home. I’m gonna make sure of that. And I’ll tell her—I’ll tell Natasha.”

You didn’t know if it was the relief or her voice, but that’s when the sob broke free.

And Maria, strong as ever, just held you tighter.

The team moved quickly once they found her.

You were conscious, your body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline as they guided you through the undergrowth. The sight of the quinjet waiting on the shore hit you harder than expected.

Your steps faltered.

The air caught in your throat.

It looked almost exactly like yours—the one that went down in flames, the one that left you stranded and alone. Your chest tightened, breath hitching, muscles locking up as memories flashed behind your eyes. Fire. Smoke. The sound of metal tearing. The impact.

You stopped walking.

“Hey,” Maria’s voice was calm and soft. She stepped in front of you, eyes steady, hand gentle on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re taking you home.”

You shook your head weakly, barely audible when you said, “I can’t… I can’t get on that thing. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” Maria cut in, her voice rough with emotion. “After what you’ve been through, it makes perfect sense.”

Your eyes were glassy, full of apology and fear you couldn’t quite name. “I want to go. I just… I can’t.”

Maria glanced at the medic nearby, nodding once.

“We’ll help you sleep through the ride, okay?” she said, already crouching down with her. “No pain. No panic. You’ll wake up at the medical facility. Safe. I promise.”

You gave her the faintest nod, your fingers still gripping Maria’s sleeve like an anchor.

Maria stayed close as the medic prepped the injection, gently brushing damp hair back from your forehead. “You did so good, alright? You held on. We’ve got you now.”

The sedative took hold quickly, easing your breathing as your eyes fluttered shut. Maria caught you carefully as she slumped forward, guiding her into the medic’s arms and onto the stretcher.

And as the engines spun up and the quinjet lifted into the sky, Maria sat beside you, phone already in her hand, staring down at Natasha’s name on the screen.

It was time.

The quinjet hummed around her, steady and familiar. Maria sat strapped in beside the stretcher, her eyes drifting to you every few seconds — as if making sure she was still there, still breathing, still real.

You looked so small.

So fragile.

And it shook Maria more than she wanted to admit. This woman, who once sparred with her until both of them limped off the mat laughing… This woman who had stood beside her through firefights and missions no one else could have survived… Now she lies wrapped in blankets, sedated, ribs visible under her skin, lips cracked from dehydration.

Maria swallowed hard. She stared at the screen for a long second before finally pressing the contact.

The call connected after two rings.

“Maria?” Natasha’s voice came out sharp, tight. Tired. Like she’d been running or not sleeping again. “Is something wrong?”

Maria’s breath caught. “Natasha…”

Something in her tone made Natasha go completely still on the other end.

“We found her,” Maria said softly.

Silence.

“I need you to meet me at the SHIELD medical facility in New York. We’re bringing her in now. She's alive, Nat. She's—she's not in good shape, but she’s alive.”

Natasha didn’t answer at first. Just a breath — hitched, broken — and then, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve got her right here with me.” Maria looked over again, lowering her voice instinctively. “She held on. Three years, and she never gave up.”

There was a long pause. When Natasha spoke again, her voice cracked.

“I’ll be there.”

—

The city blurred past the tinted windows of the SUV, but Natasha barely saw any of it.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Every red light felt like a personal attack. Every second that passed without her at that facility made her heart pound harder in her chest.

You were alive.

Alive.

It didn’t feel real.

She had imagined this moment too many times — always in dreams, in cruel fantasies her mind would conjure when sleep finally took her. But this wasn’t a dream. Maria had called her. Maria had sounded shaken. That never happened.

Alive.

Natasha’s breath caught again, her throat tight with something she couldn’t name — hope, disbelief, fear. She didn’t even realize tears had started to run down her cheeks until they hit her jaw. She didn’t wipe them away.

Three years.

Three years of not knowing. Of waking up and reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Of closing her eyes and hearing your laugh, only for silence to greet her. Of rage. Of grief so heavy it felt like a second skin.

And now… you were back.

But at what cost?

She kept replaying Maria’s voice in her head. Not in good shape. Those four words sliced deeper than anything else. Natasha had seen the aftermath of war. She had seen what being stranded did to a person, physically and mentally.

What if you didn’t remember her? What if the pain of those years had buried the part of you that knew her name? What if the reunion she’d dreamed of — clung to — was nothing like the reality waiting for her?

The driver turned sharply, and Natasha gritted her teeth, leaning forward.

“How much longer?”

“Five minutes, ma’am.”

Not fast enough.

She closed her eyes. Forced herself to breathe. One hand unconsciously reached for the ring still looped through the chain around her neck — your ring — warm now from her skin.

She didn’t know what she’d find when she walked into that facility.

But for the first time in three years… she had something to walk toward.

You.

—

The quinjet touched down with a soft thud on the rooftop pad of the SHIELD medical facility.

Before the engines had fully powered down, the med team was already waiting — gurney prepped, portable monitors ready, gloved hands reaching for the ramp before it even dropped.

Maria stood to the side, out of the way but not detached. Her jaw was clenched, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if holding herself together. She hadn’t said much since the sedation. Only that she’d call Natasha again once they landed. But she didn’t need to. The call had already been made. Natasha would be here soon. She knew it.

The second the hatch opened, the team surged forward.

You were still unconscious — sedated, peaceful in the worst way. Your skin looked pale under the harsh facility lights, your body far too light as they transferred you to the gurney. The bruises, the cuts, the ribs pressing too close to the surface — it was all too visible now.

Monitors were clipped to your finger, an oxygen mask gently pressed to your face, and soft commands echoing between the medics: “Get her on fluids, stat.” “We need a CBC and a full metabolic panel.” “Chest X-ray, abdominal ultrasound.” “She’s dehydrated; start with normal saline, keep it slow.”

The medics disappeared down the hall with you, swift and practiced, the sound of their shoes a controlled blur of movement.

Natasha had just stepped into the hallway when she saw them roll the gurney past.

She stopped mid-step.

Time halted.

You.

There. Real.

But not awake. Not smiling. Not whole.

Her hand went to the wall to steady herself. Her breath left her in a sharp, silent exhale. She couldn’t move.

Maria stepped in beside her, watching the hallway where the doors had just swung closed behind the gurney. “She’s stable. Vitals are holding. They’ll take care of her.”

Natasha didn’t speak. Her eyes hadn’t moved from that door.

A nurse came around the corner holding something small and delicate in a gloved hand. She looked between them before gently addressing Natasha.

“She was wearing this,” she said softly, offering the chain.

Natasha reached out slowly, her hand trembling as she took it.

Your ring. Still looped through the chain she gave you three years ago.

She held it tightly in her fist, pressing it to her lips like a prayer.

Maria watched her quietly. “She survived,” she whispered, more to herself than to Natasha. “She actually survived.”

Natasha’s voice cracked when she finally spoke, low and hoarse. “She wasn’t supposed to.”

Down the hallway, machines beeped. Doors swung. A medical team did everything they could to stabilize you — rehydrate, monitor, and evaluate. You didn’t stir, but you were alive.

That was all that mattered.

For now.

It felt like hours.

The sterile hallway never changed, but Natasha hadn't moved from that same spot. She leaned forward in the plastic chair, elbows on her knees, fingers still curled around the chain holding your ring. The weight of it was nothing — and everything.

Maria had stayed close, pacing occasionally, making a few quiet calls, but mostly giving Natasha space. There were no words left to say.

Finally, a doctor emerged from behind the double doors. He looked tired but calm.

“She’s stable. Fluids are working, and her bloodwork came back cleaner than we expected. Malnourished, yes. Exhausted, definitely. But no infection, no internal injuries beyond the obvious bruising, and a few injuries that didn't heal properly, but nothing to worry about. We sedated her gently. She might wake up soon.”

Natasha stood the moment the doctor nodded toward the room. “Can I see her?”

“Yes. Just for a few minutes, and keep it quiet. She’s been through a lot.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She was already moving.

—

The room was dim and quiet, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound. You were there, lying so still under the soft white sheets, a faint oxygen tube at your nose, IVs at your side.

Natasha stopped at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t ready. She’d pictured this moment a hundred different ways over the past three years. None of them came close.

You looked like you and not like you — thinner, paler, yet tanned, your hair longer and tangled in places, and skin marked with sun and wear. But it was you.

Carefully, Natasha stepped closer, lowering herself into the chair beside your bed. She didn’t speak. She just watched. Studied your face. Every part of her wanted to reach out — but she couldn’t bring herself to disturb the fragile stillness.

She opened her hand. The ring glinted dully in the light.

“I never stopped wearing it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Never took it off. Not once.”

Her fingers curled gently around your hand, the one not bound by tape and tubing. You were warm. Not cold. Not gone.

“I should’ve been with you,” she whispered. “I should’ve—”

But she couldn’t finish.

Her breath caught, and for the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff let her shoulders fall and her head bow beside the woman she never stopped loving.

She stayed like that. Until the rhythm of your heart monitor seemed to slow into something steadier. Familiar.

Until maybe — just maybe — she felt your fingers twitch beneath her own.

Natasha’s eyes remained fixed on you, but her mind had drifted. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there, nor how many times she had muttered those quiet, broken words — promises, apologies, confessions — to the room, to the air, to you.

The weight of everything she hadn’t said was finally crashing down on her, more than she could have prepared for. The years without you, the months of pretending she could go on without even knowing where you were, the guilt that had gnawed at her every waking moment, the hopelessness she buried deeper each day. It had always felt like she was waiting for something — waiting for the call, the news, anything that would bring you back into her world. She couldn’t breathe without the thought of you, couldn’t focus on anything with your absence hanging like a shadow.

But here you were, lying in front of her, fragile and yet still alive.

Alive.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the ring, the very symbol of everything she’d almost lost forever. The years had worn away at its luster, but it still gleamed, faintly — a promise. She had thought she’d never see you again. She thought she’d have to carry this unfulfilled promise forever.

And yet, here you were.

Her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let fall. She wasn’t going to cry. She couldn’t. Not here, not now, when you needed her more than ever.

"I promised you I’d come for you," she whispered, her voice rough. "I promised."

She held the ring in her hand as if it could reach you — as if it could bridge the gap between her pain and your absence. She was scared, more than she cared to admit. Scared of how you might feel when you woke up. Scared of what you might remember. Scared of how fragile this moment was — of how fragile you were.

Her hand moved slowly to the side of your bed. She didn’t want to disturb you, but she couldn’t stop herself. The need to be close to you was overwhelming. The need to feel that connection — that spark of life that had once been so familiar, so undeniable between you.

“I couldn’t live without you,” Natasha whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I won’t let you go again.”

For a moment, she simply sat there, eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of your breath. The world outside the room seemed distant and cold — nothing mattered except the space between her and you, the fragile space that had once been filled with shared laughter, quiet mornings, and stolen moments.

The steady beep of the heart monitor seemed to echo in her mind, a reminder that you were here, that you were real, that you were alive. But what was left for the two of you now? Could things be the same after all that had happened? Natasha didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn't—wouldn't— let you slip away again.

The door creaked softly, and Maria stepped in, her expression quiet but understanding. Natasha didn’t look up. She didn’t want anyone else in this moment, but Maria’s presence was a grounding force — a reminder that Natasha hadn’t been completely alone through all of this.

“She’s going to be okay,” Maria said, her voice gentle but firm. “She’s a fighter, Nat.”

Natasha didn’t respond, her eyes never leaving you. She wasn’t ready for anyone’s reassurance. Not yet.

Maria waited for a moment, then sighed softly. “I’ll give you some time. Just… don’t do this alone. Not again.”

But Natasha didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how to explain the ache in her chest, the heaviness that had been there for years. There was no way to put it into words.

She only nodded silently, her gaze never wavering from your sleeping form. And in that silence, Natasha finally let herself hope again. Not just for your safety, but for something more. Something she had almost forgotten how to believe in.

She wasn’t alone anymore. Neither of them was.

—

The first thing you felt was the weight of your own body. The heaviness of skin and bone sinking into the sterile softness of hospital sheets. The dull ache beneath the surface of everything. But more than that, it was the quiet hum of machines, the faint beeping of a heart monitor, and the sterile scent of antiseptic that confirmed it — you weren’t on the island anymore.

You were safe.

That realization alone felt unreal.

Your eyelids fluttered, the light above muted through lashes you struggled to lift. The world came back to you in pieces — sound, then shape, then color. The sharp clarity of a cold IV line in your hand. The warmth of a blanket pulled up to your chest. The dull echo of a familiar voice.

It was the last one that made your heart stutter.

Natasha.

She was sitting beside you. Tired. Still. Her posture held together by force alone, like she hadn’t moved in hours — maybe longer. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her entire body leaned ever so slightly toward you, as if afraid you’d vanish if she didn’t stay close.

You blinked slowly, and her eyes found yours in an instant.

The breath she let out was shaky. You saw it — the moment she shattered just a little more but also held herself together just enough to stay strong for you.

“…hey,” she whispered. Her voice was raw, barely a sound at all. But her eyes were full — of grief, of relief, of everything she hadn’t dared let herself feel until now. “You’re here.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. You tried again — your voice rasped and cracked, dry and weak.

“…Hi,” you whispered.

Tears welled up in her eyes immediately. Natasha leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, her hand brushing your arm like she needed to touch you to believe this was real. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. Maybe years.

“I didn’t think…” you started, the words struggling to form.

“I know,” she said, voice tight. “Me neither.”

Your eyes darted around, and that’s when you saw it — sitting on the table beside a vase of white flowers, looking oddly solemn in the sterile light — was Red. Your Red. The coconut you once talked to when you were losing hope, when your voice was the only one on that island. Someone had even propped it up with a little folded towel beneath it like a throne.

You stared at it, blinking again, and then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.

“Red made it?”

“Maria made sure of it,” Natasha said with a hint of a smile, though her voice was still breaking. “Said she’d have murdered her entire team if they left him behind. Apparently you muttered its name after they sedated you.”

Your throat burned. Everything hurt. But Natasha’s presence eased something inside of you that had been coiled tight for years. She looked at you like she was scared you’d disappear if she blinked. And you looked at her like she was the first warmth you’d felt in forever.

You reached for her hand, slowly, shakily. She took it before your fingers even fully stretched toward her.

“You waited,” you said softly.

“I would’ve waited forever,” Natasha whispered back.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full — of all the words you didn’t need to say, of the pain that was finally beginning to thaw, of the bond between you that had never broken, even after everything.

Even after all this time.

You closed your eyes again, not to sleep — just to rest. Just to breathe. Just to be.

With her hand in yours and Red by your side, for the first time in a long time… you believed everything might be okay.

----

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127 @ima-gi--na-tion @sunny-poe @artemisarroxvolkov @hotcocoandonuts @scarletsstarlets @splatashaswife

[diejager]

BEGGING I WAS LEFT ON A CLIFFHANGER FOT THE MONSTER AU 141 😭😭😭😭😭

pretty pretty please 🙏🙏

Only Human pt.2

Pairing: Monster Task Force 141 + König & Horangi x reader

Cw: canon-typical violence, hate, xenophobia, mention of racism, blood and violence, injury, fighting, protective 141, trauma?, anxiety, tell me if I missed any. wc: 6.3k

Only Human Masterlist

Previous

You still wonder, to this day, why you were needed on the Task Force. It worked like a well-oiled machine when put to the task, nearly unstoppable in the face of enemies. Although you were prideful to call it your home, you felt lacking compared to them, all much stronger, fiercer, and nimbler than you in every aspect, separated by miles of distance. One thing, however, that you could wield with an iron fist was your human nature and people’s fear of newly implemented hybrids. The public expression from governments about welcoming them into their ranks and their society without staying hidden under the pretence of being sick or behind a veil of secrecy. 

You, after seeing how many Joint Task Forces and other Teams treated the 141, decided to deal with the introductions, the medium, the pacifier, between every team. Humans tended to react differently to another human than to a hybrid, they were nicer, less brutal and honest (a kind that held little spite). Laswell seemed more agreeable to your idea when you first came up to her with it, having seen the hate sent to hybrids she worked with. She encouraged you to be the first to interact or stand beside Price when he greeted human soldiers. Price, unlike Laswell, was reluctant at first. His instinct of protection and possession of his hoard made him less open to such ideas, especially if it brought you some, if any, backlash from other humans (humans are cruel, they shun what they don’t understand, they fear it and push to control it, if not, they destroy it. The need to control every aspect of their life made humans ruthlessly unremorseful and unsympathetic to other causes.).

As a tight-knit TF, some decisions are taken in votes, by hearing what the others thought of the idea or plan and his one was harsh. Ghost was hard-pressed on keeping you between them, the little, fleshy human of their Task Force (the youngest) and to let them deal with xenophobic glares while keeping you protected. Alejandro was similarly worried, but he knew the outcome of letting you speak first or accompany Price. He was torn. The others, Soap, Gaz and Rudy, seemed onboard, with the kind of why the fuck not? kind of look on their faces. Soap especially, he’d be able to stick close to you without having to hover over you like a protective guard dog. 

Seeing the votes in your favour, he let it pass, and no sooner had they needed to meet a second team - human soldiers - for the next deployment. You stood beside Price when he strutted down the walkway, shoulders broad and back straight, an image of a strong and fearless leader with his draconic tail flailing lowly. He, as intended, greeted them first, rank and name before he presented you, his little human helper with humans. They’d taken better to speaking to you, being spoken by one of their own rather than a hybrid. He saluted you more amicably and more sincerely:

“Pleasure meeting you, Hunter.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Captain.”

Although it wasn't without its setbacks, the operation went well, you had been able to come out mostly unscathed, leaving a few enemies on the brink of death for Ghost to savour. He was most thankful, a part of his body dissolving into the finest mist as they washed over the living bodies sprawled on the ground. You watched on, mesmerised by the uncanny way Ghost’s body absorbed the bodies of others, flooding the area with his shadow while you stayed unbothered, in the same condition as he first started. His darkness reached your neck, covering you in a soft cover of warmth as he ground the bodies to ash and dust. His skin was cold, but his powers were darkly hot, burning with the embers of hell, of a dead soul coming back for revenge and evilness.

Beyond the fact that your idea worked, you liked feeling useful to them, having a semblance of usefulness in a team of extremely competent beings. You felt with first greetings from then on, smiling and saluting to the leading figures of the groups you’d work alongside. It lessened the weight on Price to appease and pacify the new additions, he’d be able to fare better with the operators now that they had a different welcome, a different kind of greeting. It played into the minds of wary men that a human was the one to greet them, that one of theirs was leading the hybrids for them. You played the perfect example of a soldier for any xenophobic bastard. 

Ghost, while still feared, received fewer glares than he usually would, occasional ones from daring or bold soldiers holding a lower rank than him, but he appreciated your attempts at making them more comfortable. He’s used to the negative reactions, had been since his childhood, but you seemed to make him feel like he deserved better, like he shouldn’t be glared, spat and scoffed at.

Soap, Rudy and Alejandro looked like human men in peak condition, if only for Soap and Alejandro’s glowing eyes and heightened strength and agility. Rudy was somewhat human, he looked and acted like one, down to the DNA, but with the title of cadejos vessel came powers. Perhaps not as strongly affecting as the rest of the hybrids, but he had subtle changes in his molecular making. 

Gaz had stares coming left and right, daggers sent his way for having wings and talons he couldn’t will them to disappear, to recess under his skin and wear the appearance of a human man. He felt the heaviest blow by both not being able to cover his gifts and the colour of his skin. Although you wanted to proclaim that your new age came with more open-minded people, you knew that it simply couldn’t fix hundreds of years of standards in a few decades. People would still judge others by the tone and colour of your skin, they’d still hate the different and the strange; just like they hated hybrids. So you kept to his side most often after your introductions, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close, letting him embrace you with a protective wing and a grateful smile.

You mostly worked hand in hand with human-filled teams and spear-headed human-led operations. So you were shocked, frozen to your core, when you saw a tiger haetae hybrid beside a tall, veiled operator walking down the cargo ramp. The hybrid, a tiger variant from the black-striped, orange tail that flickered slowly in a warning to any approaching beings. Dark glasses and a mask covered his face, his jacket and vest riding to the edge of his jaw, covering any skin from showing, though his lower back was left uncovered for the comfort of his swaying tail. He was neither short nor tall, he was tall enough to be slightly over the average height, but his teammate dwarfed him.

Perhaps his enormous height was an aspect of his monster half, or maybe he had the perfect genes to hold such a frame. He too, like his haetae operator, hid his face under a veil with maroon tears painted under his eyes. Like Ghost, he was covered head to toe in equipment and clothes, a jacket, a vest, gloves and black paint around his eyes. Whoever this was had both height and mass, burly arms and broad shoulders eclipsed by a slim waist and equally, disastrously thick thighs. On their left arm were flags, one from South Korea and the other from Austria.

They were the only ones to walk out, the only ones to approach you. Then your TF only had two new faces to work with rather than a whole team. You were tempted to say it would be easier, you waited until they stopped for Price - Price only - to greet them since they wouldn’t need a human to negate any aggressiveness between human and hybrid - or so you thought. They moved in synchrony, Price stepping forward to cover you with his body, his back facing you as he crossed his arms. Ghost and Alejandro had moved next to the captain, covering your sides. Alejandro had crossed his arm in a similarly menacing way, and Ghost stood still, body rigid but ready to strike at a moment’s notice; both were glaring ahead. Soap and Rudy took their places behind the colonel and the lieutenant, arms glued on their sides, weapons within reach with menacing stares towards the Korean and the Austrian. Gaz’s wings grazed you, soft feathers wrapping themselves around you and pulling you into his chest, acting as a protective cocoon for you. 

“What-?”

They moved so quickly and efficiently that they seemed to suddenly appear in place, back straight and protective. Protective of you. Hybrids, from what you’d heard from couples and families, were possessive of their own, caring and extremely wary of other hybrids they hadn’t formed a bond with. Your TF was your pack, they were all tethered to each other through the familial bond they formed over the years. Then you came in, small and weak with your human self into a den of lions, thrown to be subjugated to their loving mercy and sinfully strong personalities. 

The team of six hybrids encased you, barring the KorTac specialists from seeing you. Monsters and hybrids could sense one another - from what you heard - and they reacted instinctively. You saw their bodies tense as the two approached your team, muscles strained under the compacting anxiety and possessiveness. You could neither see over their shoulders nor feel what was happening, they stopped farther from you than you’d expected and you couldn’t see their feet. 

The only sign you had was your captain’s gravelly voice welcoming them, his tail swaying like a cat’s tail, a slow, cautious motion. It - knowingly or unknowingly, seeing as Price acted on a mix of instincts and worry - wrapped around your ankle, clinging tightly to your boot-clad leg while a rumble rattled his chest. Steam rolled from his lips, billowing over the top of his hat in a show of power and warning. You hoped they wouldn’t take this negatively. They worked hard to curb the harmful rumours of 141 being beasts in human skin, acting like blood-thirsty and ravaging monsters that cared for nothing but themselves. 

Although you couldn’t see them, the Austrian could, his towering height assured that he could see over almost any human, monster and hybrid alike. He was curious about the way they protected one of theirs as if you were weak. He cocked his head, green eyes gleaming red as he stared silently at the small mop of hair between them. What made you so important? What made you such a protected soldier? He couldn’t sense you like he could the others, their scent and magic masking yours in a violent torrent. 

Unlike him, his friend couldn’t be bothered with the show of protection, he’d enrolled for the money and wouldn’t be deterred by much. He was a tiger haetae, honourable to a certain extent and proud. He might be shorter than the hybrids around him, but he was as vicious and talented as the next. He, however, was slightly curious, but he wasn’t paid enough to inquire or worry about the doings of 141’s pack.

It went as well as anyone would expect for the 141 with the added help of two military, hybrid operators from an elite PMC. As the combat medic of the TF, you followed them from behind and moved to the middle when you entered the building. You’d usually be at the back, being a medic, but you were a combat medic, having seen and participated in complete ops dealing with infiltrations and hostage rescue. You were an integral part of every mission. Now that they had a medic on hand, the wounds the men suffered could be treated in place rather than wait for the long ride home with the possibility of letting infection take root in the gash and watching it fester during hours in the carrier. 

They had a habit of getting shot and slashed, a tad bit reckless in their ways but still effective. The stress of risking infection or the impossibility of reaching a medic after a mission was lessened, Price would still be able to live a few more centuries before his hair turned grey with nerves and his face wrinkled with frowns. You were a treasure beyond the fact that you were extremely helpful and insightful on your own. Your hands were steady and your demeanour calm and collected (albeit fidgety when put under too much pressure and fiery when someone looked at them differently.), you were a beauty, someone they needed to nurse and protect. 

“I warned you about standing so close to the explosion!” They watched you berate Soap, cheeks puffed and lips pulled in an adorable pout. You went on a list of things he could’ve done better and safer than the decision he made, hands pulling the bandage around his arm, your bag set beside you. 

“How was I supposed ta know?” The werewolf grumbled, giving you his best version of his “puppy dog eyes'' while he slouched back, trying to sit as comfortably as possible on the hard seats of the aircraft carrier. 

“You’re a demolition expert, you’re supposed to know, Soap.” You hissed, tightening the wrap and smoothing it over so that it would hold. Your hand dipped into your bag, pulling out a few alcohol wipes for his face. With a jerky motion of your hands, you broke the seal and started patting his bleeding cuts from shrapnel and grazes from bullets. He winces with every dab, fidgeting in his seat while you disinfected his wounds, wiping away the dirt and blood before deeming it clean enough to move to the next one. “You also have a habit of setting things on fire.”

Although you mumbled it so quietly, the others heard you clearly, laughter rumbling out of the others while they watched Soap being scolded by the youngest. You never feared reprimanding them for an idiotic act that would result in having you tending to them, it was something they appreciated, the familiarity and comfort you had with them. They weren’t monsters, hybrids or anything with you, they were your family. 

Seeing you so at ease with them had König and Horangi curious, most would cower or segregate themselves from other hybrids. You especially, seeing as you were the only human with them, they thought it’d be normal to see you shrink onto yourself and ignore the world around you while you waited to return home. Yet here you were, berating a werewolf for cuts and bruises that would heal in the following days, his metabolism prevented infection and permanent scarring unless it was too deep or deadly. They’d simply add to his rugged handsomeness.

König wondered if you’d show him the same amount of compassion and ease when you tended to his wounds - if he ended up having any at all. Would your hands be soft like his mother’s when cradling his arm? Would you whisper soft nothings to him while you cleaned his gashes with antiseptics? Would you also scold him for being reckless? He doubted that. Granted, he was extremely reckless and lost himself to the adrenaline pumping through his system when he entered the field, but he always came out unscathed. As a percht hybrid, his extreme enhancements made him practically numb to pain and sensations, with the small exceptions of a few primarily driven emotions or natural reactions to certain stimuli.

Perhaps, if your efforts were thwarted by his immense height, you’d hold and tend to him as softly as you did with the others, running your fingers through his hair and cradling him against your chest. He thirsted for something mundane, something so human-like that he would be reminded that he wasn’t completely a monster. He missed the softness in people’s gazes or the carefree way they spoke to and with him. He missed being reminded that he - too - was a living being with their rights. You could be the start of a regular life - as regular as a mercenary could have.

Even Horangi, who had vehemently stated to König that he could care less about the small, weak human in the operation, gave you the merit of being strong-willed and confident enough to stand beside them. He, the ever prideful and strong hybrid he was, deemed you competent for a human. Your usefulness started with your quick reactions and impeccable skills in your field and stopped when you couldn’t save someone, which had yet to happen. He was intrigued by the workings of your TF, how they managed to score a single human and an amicable one at that, strong and fierce, yet gentle and compassionate. If he’d grown up with someone like you, would he have turned out the way he did? 

He simply watched from his corner beside König, through tinted glasses his eyes followed your movement, memorising everything you did for your brothers. They felt like imposters in your small, seven-men group, seemingly standing awkwardly in their little corner. 141 had shown a bit of aggression towards them in warning words and deadly glares when they assumed you didn’t see them, hissing out threats to ensure your safety among them. Not only were they confused by the dynamic, but they weren’t told anything besides “Back off” and growls. 

After patting Gaz’s knee, giving him an oscar winning smile with gleaming eyes that were received with enthusiasm, you packed your things in your bag and moved to the next patient. You skipped Price, Ghost and Rudy, crouching in front of Alejandro. Rummaging through your bag and handing him a clean wipe for his dust-covered face, the soot clinging to his cheeks. He expected you to sit by your locked rifle after checking them, but you continued walking. You were heading towards them.

He knew König left the ground unscathed, clean of anything but dirt and blood, which meant he was the one you were heading towards. Hand on your pouch and a steady step backed up by a determined expression, you stopped before him. He tilted his head, a silent question. You blinked dumbly, holding out your hand to him, your small fingers backing him to give you something.

“Can I see your hand?”

His hand? He hadn’t thought much of it as he rested it on yours, palm upwards and gloveless. He saw it then, the small cut that bled red, small enough to be neglectable, but long enough to still be bleeding. He hadn’t felt anything from it before or after boarding the aircraft, he must’ve still been riding the adrenaline rush from the fight. He wondered how you knew he hurt himself.

Your fingers curled around his palm, holding it firmly as you lightly dabbed the inflamed skin with a sterilised tissue, being careful of the flared sides of his torn flesh. Under the blood and dirt, his skin was pale and swollen, the area having demanded his body to react to the potential bacteria that would worm its way into his system. You threw the bloody tissue aside and got an antiseptic wipe, being careful to not irritate his wound. Your care was gentle and patient. To a being like him, a hybrid and KorTac op, gentle and patient were foreign words to him. None were gentle to hybrids and none were patient with mercenaries. 

Even as you wrapped the gauze and bandage around his hand, you gave him all your attention, sweetly cradling his hand between yours and nursing his gash with utmost care. It felt alien, the soothingly soft care of a medic. Other medics would’ve stared at him with disgust or hate if he walked near the infirmary, or they were rough and uncaring towards his needs. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled, the sudden realisation of his silence in the face of a benevolent angel and the rush of embarrassment that flushed his neck hotly. He stared dumbly at his hand when you left, placed on his thigh with the white bandage staring right at him. The warmth of your hand had sunk into his skin, the feather-light tenderness of your fingers painted in his memory and your smile and determined expression stuck to him. 

Even as he let his mind wander and body thirst for another taste of your gentleness, he could feel the burning stares of the other men. König with his curious and envious gaze, wanting to feel the snippet you offered Horangi, wanting your hands and stare at his giant figure. The 141 with their protective and warning glare, resenting him for taking a few minutes of your attention from them. You’d moved on your own, making your decision to help him with his small wounds as you did with them, he hadn’t forced you or compelled you to treat him.

Perhaps there was more than money and experience that was worth in this joint operation. 

When the success of their first mission reached the prying ears of the General, he’d given them a few more joint ops - paid by the United States pockets, of course. Horangi and König were given temporary rooms in the barracks, in the same corner as the other hybrids and you, but far enough to show that they were excluded from them. Fortunately, they wouldn’t share the room, tigers were protective of one’s territory, and a percht hybrid - as rare as it may be - was documented to be hyper-possessive of their things, especially so for someone like König. 

Horangi didn’t ignore you anymore, wanting to start a conversation when he passed you or staring at you from the other side of the room until you waved at him, letting him know he could approach you. He worked relentlessly to close the gap he had made between you, wanting to attach himself to the one good thing he had. Yet he had to be cautious, any indication of him being a threat to you would make your team act out in unison, pushing him back and covering you like they did the second he descended the ramp. 

Ghost would hover over you, his body moving the darkness around him to seem more menacing. Ghost always glared at him when you turned your back to the Brit, his brown eyes swirling with the promise of death and devastation. Ghost wasn’t a physical hybrid, as Horangi had learned, but he had no qualms about keeping a hand on your hip or over your shoulder, acting as an imposing being that showcased his claim on you so publicly. It filled the Korean with envy and anger, he wanted to touch you as easily as the wraith did, he wanted a claim on you like the Lieutenant did, and he wanted to hold you close. 

If not Ghost, it’d be Rudy or Gaz crowding you. If you were in the rec room, Gaz would usually be there with you. His arm thrown over your shoulders, pulling you into his side while his wings curled around you two, dark brown feathers ruffled to look menacing but comfortable to your touch. With the way he sat, slouching and legs spread across the sofa, he took all the available seats on the cheap, brown couch. When Gaz caught sight of him, he’d purposefully moved to take up more space, showing just how much one of the nicest of the 141 ostracised him. Although when someone from his TF, he’d move aside, giving space to the man to join them. 

If you were walking around the base, Rudy - or Rudolfo as Horangi was forced to call him - would be by your side. Rudy had an arm wrapped around yours, seemingly like a military couple out on a casual walk, or he had his hand on your back, acting as the protective lover. Rudolfo’s smile was always wide and adoring when Horangi saw him walk you, exchanging words and making you laugh. It stung Horangi in an inexplicable way as if someone was knowingly sentencing him to death without any proof of his accountability. Rudy, the second nicest guy, also made glaring passes his way, pulling you closer to his side, directing you away and staring coldly at Horangi.

It rubbed him wrong, all the silent glares and insults at him to push him farther from you, but he was Horangi the Tiger haetae. He made his calculations, he was as smart and as resourceful as he was patient. Give it a few more missions together and they would loosen enough to let him swoop you off your feet. You were his source of comfort, of love and gentleness, he had to protect it. 

Unlike Horangi, König actively sought you out on the base, following the trail of your scent and the soft noises of your voice and heartbeat. He was like a dog on your trail, nose sniffing every bit of air for you and ears strained for any noise you’d make. His senses were stretched thin to find a moment with you. He was as animalistic as a hybrid could get, leaning towards his monster to help him with his ops and trials. 

You piqued König’s curiosity, making him wander the halls like a lumbering monster in a dark veil and glaring, red eyes. He saw how you treated big and dangerous monsters like the dragon hybrid you had as a captain, a respectable man, as soft as you treated the rowdy and rough werewolf and gracefully dangerous nagual. König wanted to feel your softness on him, your small hand grasping the tight muscles of his shoulders and back, kneading the tension away with grounding massages and stretches. You were their doctor, you cared enough to join them in the field, so you’d naturally be willing to mass the pain out of his body, no? 

He wanted moments alone, where he could speak his mind without fear of being interrupted or pushed away for his imposing stature and aura. He wanted to place a hand on your waist, to feel the plush roundness of your stomach and the firm contour of muscle on your thighs. He wanted his voice to carry easily in the void of silence, where his voice could be heard by you from a small whisper. He wanted your eyes to focus on him, solely, as if he was your world. 

He found it rather irritatingly difficult to find such moments. When he followed your scent through the halls and down to the medic's office, he’d find Captain Price crowding the room with his powerful musk of Ashe and fire - of metal and iron. Although Price was much shorter and lesser ranked than König was, he held the power of age and wisdom, an unfathomable strength that lay solely in draconic beings. This eternal power that none could rival apart from Eldritch beings, most cower, whimper and hide from dragons. He wore his power and wisdom on his sleeves, a warning for everyone, him and his KorTac operators included. König might’ve been reckless, but he wasn’t a fool, fighting headfirst with dragon seamed chaos and devastation. So, as any hybrid did, he backed away, an old dragon was dangerous, but a crippled one made it even more perilous.

When König tried to find you in the rec room, you were held in the tight embrace of a possessive wolf. Soap had you straddling his lap, facing him as he nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck. He purred and kissed your skin, making you squirm and giggle, but then Soap’s eyes gazed upwards and grew cold and unruly at König’s appearance. A proud - dare he say, cruel - smirk curled the corners of his lips. That was when he realised what the sergeant was doing. Soap, in the open, was scenting you, rubbing his musk over your neck, where - if you were another sifting hybrid like him and Alejandro - would’ve been your scent gland. It was a blatant show of possession. He nipped at your throat, drinking in your yelp and hiss, your back arching and moving to push him from biting too much. It filled him with rage.

If you weren’t with either dragon or werewolf, you were with Alejandro, the Hispanic scenting you as much as Soap did, but he did it with more finesse and subtlety. He would draw your hair back, the gland on his wrist grazing your neck and ears, imprinting you with him. Alejandro would hold your hand, fingers neatly intertwined with yours, his face laying on your shoulder as he spooned you in his lap. He purred and whispered sweet promises that had you nodding and smiling like a child on Christmas. He oosed of pheromones, filling the area with his scent and in turn, covering you completely in him. König watched with envy as Alejandro read to you, cradled between his thighs and falling asleep, his, Soap and everyone else’s musk laying a possession over you. 

König’s a determined person when he put his mind to it, willing his beaten and bloodied self back to camp, or his sleep-deprived and insomniac-ridden mind to concentrate on the enemy. He was a battering ram, he pushed forward forcefully, however hard he had to, all to reach the end goal. This time, it wouldn’t be the head of his target, or the capture of an asset, this time, it would be you.

They both wondered, with how close your TF was, what was the dynamic. Was it a pack that shared the same lover? Was it a pack that had formed such a close connection to a human that you were deemed an integral part of the pack? Or were you the child they watched over and protected?

The next few missions 141 and the two from KorTac went on were as successful as the first, the cooperation of two ruthless mercenaries and a hybrid, specialist group made these tasks easy, near child’s play for them. Along with the aspect of having a medic on hand, it let them run wild, play along the edge and act more recklessly than they normally would. Having Horangi and König for so long, made them become a standard in the base, seeing them walk among the shorter and weaker humans. That also meant they had seen their fair share of xenophobic soldiers with balls bigger than a dragon’s and an ego the size of an Eldritch creature. 

Every hybrid and monster was used to their hateful glares and sneering venom-dripping words. Ignoring them had become easier after the first year of enrolment. Horangi and König were, however, not used to someone defending them with their most honest heart of gold with earth-shattering words. 

The first time they’d seen you defend your team was right after a mission, haunches, lumbering bodies descending the carrier’s ramp with their bags slung over their shoulders and addled with fatigue after a week of deployment. Young, power-hungry sergeants who’d let their ranks get to their heads had slid before them, head held high and shoulders held wide. Every single one of them knew that the moment the sergeant’s mouth opened, nothing good would come out of it. Perhaps degrading insults or back-handed sneers.

When the first sentence slipped from the man’s tongue, you pushed your way between them, barrelling into the man who’d insulted them. A deep frown was etched into your lips, brows creased so darkly into you that it cast a dark shroud of anger over your face. If König hadn’t known that you were a human, he would’ve thought that you were a being of darkness. 

“You dim-witted bastards-!” Was the first word you let out, your usually soft-spoken self with gentle hands spewed acid at them, threatening to burn their skin. 

Dim-witted, indeed. Old, conservative assholes who thought they were better than the rest with their pro-human propaganda and xenophobic acts against hybrids. Horangi had expected you to continue your scolding, wringing the sergeant dry with your words, not your hands. You used your hands, fingers curled inward, thumb over the curves of your bones and decked the man. It shocked them both, you were smaller, shorter, human and seemed weaker than the men, yet here you were, sending him toppling on the floor, his friend gaping and pouncing on you. Only to be met with your foot to his crotch. 

“You bet your ass you won’t get any medical attention after this,” you hissed.

Although your words sounded improbable since you weren’t the only medic on base, you had built a connection through the system, every medic knew you and heeded your words. If one didn’t want a man healed, you and the rest wouldn’t help him. If you wanted a man to suffer, the rest would watch on with you. Medics were themselves, a tight-knit couple that helped one another. So your words were more than a threat, it was a promise. 

“Until I see your sorry asses on your deathbed or grovelling, none of us will lift a finger for you. Bleed and beg all you want, but you aren’t getting help.”

You acted with an iron hand, sending the rest to the ground, moaning and groaning, cradling whatever part of their body you’d hit. They wondered why Ghost hadn’t moved, and neither did Gaz or Rudy, the most protective ones. When König glanced down at Ghost, he saw pride in his eyes, dark curled on sadistic pleasure swirling in his brown eyes. When Horangi gazed at Gaz and Rudy, he saw simple amusement, their mouths threatening to curl in a smirk.

All of them had known you’d act this way, erratic and violent rather than calmly scold them and stomp over their ego. You were strong-headed and blunt to them, making them bow to you, like lesser men to a lady, a queen, a goddess. 

Horangi had experienced his own protection from you. After the men had loosened enough to trust him and König, he could walk beside you and hold a simple banter, albeit awkward at the start. You were much more violent this time, reaching for the downed man while hissing and screeching after you sent him to the floor with well-aimed kicks. You were like a gremlin, small and lively. He understood your anger, they’d called him racist things, calling out his Asian roots and hybrid characteristics. 

Horangi had to hold you from going off on him following your promise of neglecting his medical needs. It worked, though. The first group had searched to plead, to apologise and beg for medical attention. You’d sent them away with a small note lifting the ban for medical help. You were as ruthless with people as they were to enemies. 

Any other encounters with hot-headed men and women that glanced at them weirdly were met with a varying amount of anger and disgust from you. Horangi understood why 141 held you so carefully, so tightly in their hold. Why they worshipped you like a priest would do with his goddess. It was a sense of camaraderie that had evolved into love, affection dripping from their pores. 

König received a bit more attention for his size, the threatening nature of his ouster coupled with his brute figure, made him a subject of fear and rejection. That hadn’t stopped you from wanting to approach him, had it? Going as far as calling him cute when he stuttered while broaching the subject of him liking certain things. For a burly man with the height of a giant, he was nice to sit next to, his quiet but anxious stature when he wasn’t deployed made it easy to talk to. He might sometimes let his instincts drive him, but they were all well-meaning, wanting nothing but goodness for you. 

His turn came in quick succession, he was shunned and ridiculed left and right. It never helped that he would shy from others, preferring his little corner that made the room look stranger and claustrophobic (not that he let them walk all over him, he growled and glared, standing tall with the promise of lashing out or eating them. Even when humans feared König, they still attempted to rile his anger.). But with you, he wasn’t by his lonesome, he had someone to rattle on about the things he liked to do, or the things he wanted to do. His shoulders were relaxed and mind calm, free to speak his mind about the goriest and the sweetest dreams he had, his speech unperturbed by his anxiety. 

Unlike the others, König stood before you as an impenetrable wall of muscle and fat when you raised your hand at an insignificant pig. Why would he let someone so disgusting touch you (even though it was to hit and kick the man, he would do it for you instead)? He guarded you as if they were insulting you rather than him - though it was the reverse - and glared down at anyone with dreadfully scary eyes. Like the devil that had risen, he sent them running with their tails tucked between their legs. Although he was the one that had gotten rid of them, he was always so proud of you, holding you close to him and gushing about your brave and inspiring actions. 

He saw how the men in 141 looked at you, he wanted to be a part of it, to be able to freely nuzzle your face and hold you like Soap would, to cradle you in his arms and carry you around the base. König wanted a piece of your heart, to be able to show the world he held it in his hands, caring for it between his big, calloused fingers and soft affection. He might be dangerous, he might be deadly, he might be reckless, but if you let him, you would be his world like you were to the others (Horangi would agree, they spoke about it on their own.).

Next

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Masterlist 2

Key:

Fluff ☕️

Spice 🍵

Angst 🫖

Smut ✨

Requests: OPEN

Note: I do write for a lot of people, if you request something I will try to fulfill it! I'll also update this as I go, but please enjoy my work! 💜✨ dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Masterlist 1

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Call of Duty

John “Bravo-6” Price

Underneath it All ☕️

The Captain’s Omega ☕️

Home Sweet Home ☕️

Steady As You ☕️

The Calm In Their Storm ☕️

Big Enough ☕️

A Kettle on the Stove and a Hand on Your Belly ☕️

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

"You’ve Got This, Love" ☕️🫖

Through His Eyes ☕️

Lazy Mornings with You ☕️

Just As You Are ☕️🫖

Where You Go, I Go ☕️🫖

Not Yours To Push ☕️🫖

Lazy Mornings and Love ☕️

Watch Over You ☕️🫖

Coming Home ☕️🫖

Nowhere to Run ☕️🫖

Nowhere to Run Part 2 ☕️🫖

A Perfectly Imperfect Love Story ☕️

Just Knock ☕️

Sparks to Garrick ☕️

Johnny “Soap” Mactavish

Snowed In ☕️

Between Loyalty and Love ☕️🫖✨🍵

Sunlit Mornings ☕️

Bound by Instinct ☕️🫖

Bound by Love ☕️

The Regulars Should Have Known ☕️

Deadly Devotion ☕️🫖

Soft Spot ☕️🫖

Dead Stare, Loud Mouth ☕️

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Whiskers and Kittens ☕️

A Cut Above ☕️

Carved into my Heart ☕️

Between Loyalty and Love ☕️🫖✨🍵

Bound by Instinct ☕️🫖

Always Asleep ☕️

Bound by Love ☕️

Deadly Devotion ☕️🫖

Special Delivery ☕️

“I’m So Proud Of You” ☕️🫖

First Date ☕️

The Threads to Something More ☕️

Safe With You, Always 🫖☕️

Far, Far Away ☕️

The Calm In Their Storm ☕️

Soft Spots ☕️

Soft Spots Part 2 ☕️

Forever and always ☕️✨

Spoiled Rotten ☕️

Unexpected ☕️

Little Shadow ☕️

His Whole World ☕️✨

You Said You’d Handcuff Me ☕️✨

Boys On Their Worst Behavior ☕️

The Best Surprise ☕️🫖

The Boys

Parenthood Prep with the 141 ☕️

First Time Meetings ☕️

The Phantom of the 141 ☕️🫖

An Angel ☕️🫖

An Angel Part 2 ☕️🫖

The Phantom of the 141- Chosen by Love 🫖☕️

A Game Night to Remember ☕️

141 Movie Night of TERROR 🫖

Wherever I’m With You 🫖☕️

Night Owl ☕️

Arguments to I Love You’s ☕️🫖

Stolen Clothes, Stolen Hearts ☕️

The Coziest Night of Them All ☕️

Ocean’s Embrace ☕️

Operation: Prank Wars ☕️

Small but Mighty ☕️🫖

The Great Task Force 141 Hide-and-Seek Champion ☕️

Anxious No More ☕️🫖

Rolling for Romance ☕️

Achoo! ☕️

At Their Mercy ☕️🫖

When It Builds Up ☕️🫖

You Work For Me ☕️

König

About Damn Time! ☕️

Hold My Hand or I Will Fall (On Purpose) ☕️

Loud and Clear, Always Yours ☕️

The Walking Dead

Daryl Dixon

Safe Haven ☕️

Through the Ashes ☕️

A Firecracker’s Fury ☕️🫖

Never Been Safer ☕️

[vegan-peppermint]

In which Toby is kidnapping the reader.

Toby never wanted to hurt you. He's just young and stupid, too eager to prove to those creatures lurking in the shadows that he is cut from the same cloth as them.

It's been no more than two years since the fire swallowed his life whole, since the faceless figure first started treading on the edges of his mind. Every day spent in that eerie house, under the watchful eyes of his so-called "mentors," pushed him further from the boy he used to be. Tim's unbearable presence didn’t help—Toby had even toyed with the idea of doubling down on his pyromaniac tendencies.

Then The Operator spoke his name—his name alone. It wasn’t just a command in Toby's mind, more like a one-way ticket out of being a second-class proxy, lesser than the other two. This was his first solo mission, a validation of all the time and effort he'd poured into this twisted world. A reward.

You.

He at least had the courtesy to stalk you first. He tracked your habbits down, watching your work from across the street or joining you on your bus ride home on particularly uneventful evenings. He has been creeping closer, gliding from shadow to light and back into the dark- just like Hoodie had thought him.

Toby never wanted to scare you, that's why the first thing he did after parking the car in front you your house was going to the convenience store down the street. He'd seen you buy this particular brand of chocolate many times before. He hoped once he handed it to you it would bring an once of comfort amidst the circumstances.

The fact your hands are tied behind your back and your mouth stuffed didn't cross his mind then.

You were nothing like the others, he observed. You didn't scream or cry- hell, didn't even bite. He wanted to be grateful for such an easy capture, but -for fucks sake- you stared. Stared with gloomy, empty eyes past him into some far-off, unreadable place. Shaking his head in frustration, he muttered to himself dissaponted he ended up with the creepy chick, before slamming the the trunk door down, leaving you blind in the cramped space.

The drive to the mansion was uneventul for Toby, giving him plenty of time to let his mind wander. He hadn’t asked why you were wanted or what his boss planned for you—it didn’t matter to him then. But he couldn't help notice how you were rather easy on the eye. Maybe it was the isolation, the pent-up frustration and loneliness but a thought crossed his mind; what harm could it do if Slender let him borrow you for a little while? He chuckled darkly at his own thoughts, already imagining your surprise when, after a few days surviving on scraps in the manor’s cellar, he'd hand over the chocolate he’d picked up. You’d probably think he was your savior, fall right to his feet.

And if you would still be devoid of any reaction, he'd fuck your face into a pretty nice expression.

The old Mazda pulled into the driveway, its engine puffing and huffing, similar the old man Toby had swiped it from. Tim and Brian were already outside, blowing smoke and ash into the brittle winter air, their jackets hanging loose against the chill. The car's strained chug faltered as it rolled to a stop, steam curling from under the hood. Without waiting for Toby to fully park, Tim burried his cigarette into the frozen ground with the heel of his boot, his sharp gaze fixed on the boy as if he didnt expect him to ever return. Brian exhaled a plume of smoke, letting it drift lazily into the night.

"Back already, Tics?" Tim snarled, looking back to his friend. "What you say, Brian- think he's got her?"

The hooded man didnt respond but stepped closer with hesitation.

"Obviously I g-got her, got her," he smirked proudly getting out the driver's seat. "Hardly a challenge, really" he added, tilting his head back so high he might've been mistaken for a certain snouted animal.

"I gotta admit, that's a pretty impressive first job," Tim said, clapping Toby on the back as they approached the trunk. Brian hummed in agreement but kept a few cautious steps behind.

"What d-does Slender even want-t with some goth bitch?" Toby asked, gripping the key with newfound confidence and turning it smoothly in the rusty trunk lock. The red, corroded door creaked open with a deafening shriek, the sound swallowed immediately by an even louder silence.

So heavy was the quiet, Brian was certain he heard Tim's grin vanish, and he Toby's posture shrink. The trunk was empty.

A collared dove cooed mockingly as it flapped past their heads.

"A witch, Toby," Tim finally exhaled. "She's a witch."

"Yep, a witch, thats exactly what I was gonna say..."

[probablyasocialecologist]

We search for God on this land. Theologically, philosophically, we ask: Where is God when we suffer? How do we explain his silence? But away from philosophy and existential questions. In this land, even God is a victim of oppression, death, the war machine, and colonialism. We see the Son of God on this land crying out the same question on the cross: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why do you let me be tortured? Crucified? God suffers with the people of this land, sharing the same fate with us. As Mitri Al-Raheb wrote in his article “Theology in the Palestinian Context,” which appeared in an Arabic book I edited: “As for the God of this land, he is not like all the gods... His land is plowed with iron... His temples are destroyed by fire ... His people are trampled underfoot, and He does not move a muscle. The God of this earth is hidden from view. You search for His traces but do not see them. You long for Him to split the heavens and come down to see. To listen, to be compassionate, to be saved. The God of this land does not repel brutal armies, but rather shares one fate with his people. His house is demolished. His son is crucified. But his mystery does not perish. Rather, he rises from the ashes, and with the refugees you see him. He walks, and in the dark of the night he raises springs of hope. Without this God, Palestine remains a scorched land ... it remains a field of destruction. But if God tramples its foundations, he will only make it a holy land, a land in whose hills the good news of peace resounds.” Beloved, in these difficult times let us comfort ourselves with God’s presence amid pain, and even amid death, for Jesus is no stranger to pain, arrest, torture, and death. He walks with us in our pain. God is under the rubble in Gaza. He is with the frightened and the refugees. He is in the operating room. This is our consolation. He walks with us through the valley of the shadow of death.

[sevi007]

"Who you were meant to be..."

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Tales of the Abyss fanart - done! Some insights on the symbolism and a closeup under the cut:

I put a lot of thought into the whole "Scion of Lorelei" prophecy while I was playing the game. If I remember correctly, the prophecy was not public knowledge but only a select few higher ups knew the entire content of it. Still I couldn't help but wonder - what if there was a kind of hero worship for the Scion of Lorelei? He was prophesized to bring glory to Kimlasca, so at least THEY would have loved him. What if there were statues or like here, paintings of the hero that would be coming? What if Asch, who feels like he is no longer that hero, is reminded over and over again by this of all that he no longer is? Hence, this picture

If you look closely you will see that the sword (of Lorelei) is aiming straight at Asch below the picture. I was going for a sort of "Sword of Damocles" feel here, the destiny hanging over his head, and how if he would have followed the prophecy, he would have died

Also, Asch is shown standing in shadow and "lower" than the hero, because that's how he feels like - he no longer is the hero, he is the burnt out ashes of one, operating in the shadow now.

I tried to aim for an outfit that is somewhere in between Luke, Asch, and Mister End, and is still not one of them entirely. The hero depicted here is not one of those three men. He is all of them, and neither. Also, I wanted to go for the Kimlascan colors on his outfit - since he is prophesized to bring good for Kimlasca specifically - but I couldn't rememember if they have a specific flag or anything. I went for violet / purple on the shoulder pads, because that's the color the Kimlascan king wears

There is a small ring of colors beneath the "sun", three colors on each side and an empty one in the middle. This is supposed to represent the seven Fonons and their element: Shadow, Earth and Wind on the left, Water, Fire and Light on the right. The middle is empty, since the Seventh Fonon is not attached to an element and has no color.

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 25 - Friction.

Loss will affect you, whether you realise it or not. It can make you angry. It can make you bitter. Words are traded when wounds are prodded, and they'll come back to haunt you when it's most inconvenient.

There are billions of grains of ash blanketing the Gilded Arena, layer heaped upon layer of dead cells, deep enough for you to drown in, if the particles weren’t condensed so solidly, interlocking like sand on a beach to keep your weight distributed. To have accumulated this much, the place must be ancient, far older than humanity, far older than Earth even. So old that it might have existed for as long as the Universe has known the concept of death.

Thousands of grains – history in each and every one - hiss through the gaps between your spread fingers as you teeter forwards, hands rising from the ash to catch yourself on the colossal skull in front of you when you start sinking down to your knees.

It’s hard not to think about how you’re surrounded by the remnants of people right now, that you have been since you first entered the realm.

And now here’s another one, another death to add to an unending multitude.

One of your palms has landed on the lustreless crystal jammed inside Gnashor’s cranium, while the fingers of your other hand curl with an unexpected fervour into the edge of an empty eye socket, as dark as it is deep. So deep that you could fit your entire fist inside the cavity, though the prospect causes your stomach to fill with bile.

You know it’s utterly illogical to try and search for any traces of those vivid, green lights that had, mere seconds ago, been burning down at you with inscrutable intent.

For God’s sake, the skull has been completely severed. It lays a few feet from the top of Gnashor’s spine where the rest of its titanic body has fallen, already breaking apart at the joints and allowing the smallest of those borrowed bones to sink back into the ground, where they too will one day become ash.

“Gnashor?” you croak at the skull anyway, wincing when the name stings at your throat and reminds you of the aching lines that have been crushed intermittently into the skin around your neck.

Jesus, you’ll be feeling those for a while…

You don’t know exactly why you call its name. Perhaps it’s the uncertainty of how this realm operates that leaves you wondering if there’s a part of the creature that might yet live and hear you. How do you know the dead here truly die, after all? Does decapitation work the same as it would on any living thing when Gnashor had already borrowed most of its other bones from the skeletons around it?

Then again, perhaps you’re just feeling guilty, and saying the name aloud is all you can think to do in the moment.

Because you could have done something.

… Couldn’t you?

Because the Champion, for reasons you can’t yet begin to fathom, just saved your life.

Whatever the case, you suppose you get an answer to your unspoken question when Gnashor remains perfectly still and wholly silent, a husk in the ash. Dead as any other corpse scattered inside this wretched arena.

It’s…. sad.

You’re sad, and you can’t immediately pinpoint why.

Somewhere nearby, there's the muted thud of boots hitting the ground.

“You killed him,” comes your tepid voice, curling your hand into a fist over Gnashor’s crystal.

Silent footsteps trace around the skull and slip close to your side, a dark shadow falling across your face and blotting out some of the morning light.

“Well,” Death’s throaty timbre sounds too far away in your ears, as if he isn’t standing right next to you, looming like a spectre at its favourite haunt, “That was the goal of our being here.”

A ‘shink’ of metal draws your bloodshot eyes to the Horseman, and you observe bleakly whilst he throws his scythes back into their straps on each hip.

“… He didn’t attack me,” you draw out in a daze, your eyebrows crawling together as you stare at Death’s curving blades.

“Yes, I endeavoured to make sure that was the case,” he quips bluntly, bending down to slip a hand underneath your arm, “Regardless, it seemed very inclined to attack me.”

His callused fingers feel even colder than usual as his grip tightens and he hauls you up off your knees too quickly, too roughly. The sudden movement jars your dizzy head and betrays the Horseman’s agitation, not to mention his urgency.

If it weren’t for the hand still keeping your bicep trapped in its iron grip, your legs might buckle and send you toppling straight down onto your backside again.

Ash hisses into the indents left by your weight.

Death has his forefinger tucked beneath your chin before your brain has a chance to stop teetering.

“Mmf,” you grunt softly as he pushes your head up, giving him a good view of your neck. Squeezing your eyes shut to try and alleviate the headache building at the base of your skull, you start to speak even with the Horseman silently twisting your head from side to side. “I think it was because of your scythes,” you tell him, “Ostegoth warned me not to raise a weapon against Gnashor. A-and Karn’s sword is still up there, in the stands.”

Death doesn’t speak for several beats, and when he finally does – voice pitched so low you can feel it in your teeth – he growls, “When I get my hands on that wretched nothus-!” Hesitating, he flicks his eyes up to meet your gaze and gruffly amends, “Do not repeat that word.”

Frowning back up at him, you wrench your head from his fingertips and huff, “Are you even listening to me?”

His arm remains suspended in the air for a moment, poised as if to reach out and gather your chin in his palm once more, but then the Horseman’s eyes harden behind his mask and a muscle jumps in his jaw – what little you can see of it. With a dull thwack, he lets his hand flop back down to his side. The other, still wrapped around your bicep, gradually slides away and joins its twin on Death’s opposite flank.

“What?” he sighs out. His gaze has already returned to your throat.

It’s the impatience in his tone that strikes a nerve, and suddenly, it isn’t sad.

It’s funny.

‘How stupid,’ you think, ‘to assume I could have stopped Death from killing.’

Why, it’s so funny you want to rip your hair out and laugh until you stop breathing altogether.

But that would hurt too much.

So you don’t.

“I’m telling you; Gnashor didn’t want to fight,” you declare, raising a hand and jabbing your forefinger at the Horseman’s mask whilst the other digits carve crescent moons into your palms, “He didn’t attack until you pulled a weapon on him!”

It’s curt and accusatory, and it gets Death bristling.

“If you’re trying to make a point, then make it,” he sneers, eyes flashing like an amber warning sign, “Because if I hadn’t pulled a weapon on it, you might have been killed!”

“Gnashor didn’t have to die.”

There. That’s your point.

A crack in your vocal chords disrupts you on the final word, a break in your own aching throat as you squeeze it out. It hurts, you’re reminded quite unfairly.

Quieter this time, but still with fierce conviction, you glower up at the Horseman and bite out, “I don’t think he wanted to fight. But he probably didn’t think he had a choice.”

Death’s chest lurches with a ludicrous scoff. “Even if your theory holds any merit, what would you have had me do instead? Hm?” Throwing an arm up to indicate the arena as a whole, he barks, “We came here to collect its skull. Or did you forget that that’s the only way to get an audience with the Dead King?”

At that, your brows manage to beetle together into such a deep, solid line, you’d swear you could make them touch.

There have been many instances where you’ve let his condescending tone roll off your shoulders.

This isn’t one of them.

“No, I didn’t forget,” you snap, irritated by the way each word squeezes painfully past your gullet, like you’ve swallowed something too large, and it’s wedged itself in the middle of your neck.

There’s a tiny voice at the back of your head asking why you give so much of a damn about this that you’re willing to stand here and argue with Death while your temples throb excruciatingly with every heartbeat and the ghosts of powerful fingers are still curled around your neck.

Another part of you even suggests that your reasons are borderline shallow. That if Gnashor hadn’t pulled you out from underneath that falling pillar, you probably wouldn’t be making this much of a fuss. But whatever the case may be, the fact remains that the Champion had, in the span of a few seconds, gone from a mere obstacle to a sapient creature who recognised you weren’t a threat and made an active choice to save you.

It was easier when you thought Death was only putting down a feral, bloodthirsty beast.

Now, after what Gnashor did, you can’t pretend that’s still the case.

Worse still, it was a death that could have been avoided. Just like-

A flash of white beard, strands stained scarlet as the deluge of a storm cascades across the vale, a mighty chest growing quiet and still beneath your hands…

Exhaling sharply, you give your head a shake to dislodge Eideard’s wizened face from your mind’s eye. And although it feels like the ultimate disservice to banish his memory so brusquely, you can’t think of him now, not here, not when the body laying in the ash nearby is so nearly the same size as a maker’s.

Wetting your lips, you try to take a breath, in through the nose, out through a tight jaw. “I just mean, couldn’t we have… - Shit, I don’t know - found another way?”

Sometimes you feel as though you sound more and more like a child with values still drenched in idealism, trying to appeal to the most real, unavoidable truth of the Universe.

“And wasted even more time trying to find the Well of Souls?” the Horseman retorts, taking a single step away and cocking his head back, peering at you down the hollow ridge of his mask’s nose.

You can’t ignore the guilty twinge your guts give at his question. It rankles you, fuels the aggravation where pain is already fanning sparks into open flames. The urge to claw at your hair returns.

“If the Well��s as old as I think it is, it’s not going anywhere,” you argue tightly, “Why are you suddenly so concerned about wasting time?”

Unnoticed by you, Death’s hands spring into closed fists as he snaps his head down again to level you with a blistering glare that’s one part offence and three parts disbelief.

Have you forgotten why he wants to find the Well in the first place? Have you forgotten who’s name he’s trying to clear? Has your foolish and misguided compassion for an undead monster blinded you to the bigger picture?!

Or did Brumox knock some sense out of you after he dropped you into the Gilded arena?

Grinding his teeth, Death finds himself further taken aback by the unexpected squirm of disappointment that rears its head.

Its presence is unwelcome. ‘Because,’ he realises with a pang in his dried up guts, ‘it means her opinion - her verdict – matters.’

It matters to him, more than he realised it did. More than it should. He wouldn’t be disappointed if it didn’t.

The revelation is… foreboding, to say the least.

When did it start to matter?

“Maybe,” he bridles, defensive in the face of his own realisation, “I wouldn’t be so concerned about time if I hadn’t already lost so much of it watching somebody else’s back.”

He doesn’t notice that he’s drawn himself up, a towering, prickling spectre that looms over you, all burning eyes and bitter acid rising into his gorge.

He doesn’t notice…. until your expression bursts open as if his words had just struck you across the cheek.

Pinched brows spring apart, and your eyes widen exponentially, then blink. Your mouth falls open – whether to gasp or retaliate, Death doesn’t find out, because before he can even register that he’s just planted his boot right over an invisible line, the sudden slap of footsteps on ancient stone begins to echo through the arena, drawing his gaze from yours and turning it to the railings overhead.

A figure, tall and decaying and entirely too familiar, all but slams into the barrier at full speed, careening to a halt only when his hands catch the bars.

Wild green eyes blaze vividly from inside the darkness of the newcomer’s hood. Frantic, they dart across the pit as he leans over the railings, his shoulders heaving beneath a tattered cloak and the weight of several broken swords.

“Lady Y/n!” he pants raggedly, finding you within seconds and locking you in his sights.

Momentarily startled by his unexpected arrival, you do a double-take, letting your jaw fall open for a second before you manage to sputter out, “Draven?”

“Oh, oh thank God,” the undead rasps, his rigid hands going slack on the bars when he sees you looking back at him, “Thank God… Stay right there! I’m coming down!”

Then, as briskly as he’d arrived, he’s gone, shoving himself off the railings and whirling around, disappearing from view.

Brows raised, you return your focus to Death, only to find the Horseman is already staring back at you with an unreadable expression. Upon meeting his gaze, your eyebrows instantly snap into a scowl, and you grace him with a heated glare for another moment before turning sharply away from him, crossing your arms over your chest and hoping he hadn’t been looking too closely at the wetness teetering perilously close to the edge of your lashes.

It’s… never an easy thing to have an ugly truth ripped up from the grave you buried it in and held in front of your face, forcing you to look at it for the first time.

Several years ago, you ignored a warning light on your car for three months before the vehicle sputtered to a halt five miles from home. You knew the problem was there… it was just easier to pretend it wasn’t. Until you couldn’t… Until something else broke on the back of it.

You know you rely too heavily on his protection, even if – until now – the fact had remained largely unspoken. You know that if it weren’t for you, Death would be miles ahead of where he is. You know it, but it still hurts to hear it aloud from the Horseman’s mouth.

And it hurts because you believe it.

You believe him.

You care about what he thinks of you.

The sudden clanking of heavy chains snaps you from your ruminations, tearing your gaze from the Horseman and turning it to the side of the arena, where a narrow portcullis is built into the wall not far from where Gnashor had fallen.

Beyond the dark, iron bars, you spot the familiar Blademaster, furiously hauling at a winch with all his might.

His hood has drooped down to conceal much of his face, but you can still make out the sinewy strands of his jaw tightening and falling slack again as he grits his exposed teeth around arduous grunts of effort, raising the portcullis up off the ground.

He barely gets it halfway open before he evidently decides that he’s raised it far enough.

Jamming a lever into the winch to lock the chains in place, he ducks beneath the jutting spokes with a flourish of his cloak, shaking his hood back so he can peer underneath the lip of it as he strides towards you, his viridescent eyes riveted doggedly in your direction.

“There you are,” he gushes out, suggesting a breathlessness that shouldn’t be biologically possible.

“Draven-” you begin, only to have the wind knocked out of you when the undead reaches you and, without warning, throws his hands out to grasp you by the arms, anchoring you in place as his eyes scour you from head to toe – presumably hunting for injuries.

“I came to find you at my quarters,” he says stiffly, “When I saw you gone, I… I admit I feared the worst.”

A chilly presence brushes close to your back. You don’t have to look to know who’s standing there, couldn’t even if you wanted to. Draven is dominating your focus, drawing one of his bony hands up to catch your chin and tilt it back in much the same way Death had, inspecting the bruises around your neck.

A rough hiss slips between his bared teeth.

“… The merchant told me you were challenging Gnashor for an audience with the King,” he utters in a dangerous lilt, tearing his eyes off your throat to toss a glare at Death over the top of your head, “What were you thinking? Bringing her to the battle!?”

“I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than-,” you begin, only to choke on the words when an ice-cold hand snatches the back of your shirt and you’re unceremoniously ripped out of Draven’s grasp and flung backwards behind Death, who immediately surges forth to take the spot you’d just been standing in.

Staggering to an unsteady halt in the ash, you press your fingertips tenderly to your neck and aim a grumble at the back of his head, tugging your shirt back into its proper place. The damn thing is sure to wrinkle if he keeps that up.

Towering at least a foot over the incensed undead, he jabs a finger in Draven’s rotting face, shoulders all quivering and ruffled as he barks, “Perhaps, Blademaster, if you spent less time fretting over her, and more time focusing on your recruits, she wouldn’t be down here in the first place!”

“The Hell’re you on about?” Draven snarls back, irritably smacking Death’s hand away from his face, “What have my recruits to do with your follies?”

But you see it there, in his eyes – that tiny narrowing of the flaky lids, the way the pale lights flick to the left, as if something brief and sudden has just occurred to him.

As if he knows something…

“My follies!?” Death’s outrage comes through palpably, thickening the air with the necrotic stench of rot, “One of your men followed us here and saw fit to toss the girl straight over those bars-!” Flinging an arm out, he gestures wildly at the iron spokes ringing the arena overhead. “No doubt-” he continues, spitting vehemently, “- in the hopes that Gnashor would finish us both off! That-! is what your recruits have to do with my follies.”

Draven’s lips curl downwards at the admonishment, but when he peers around Death’s shoulder to catch your eye, the hard line of his jaw eases, and he grows rather urgent, brushing past the Horseman to reclaim his position in front of you once again.

“Fair Lady, I trust your word in all of this-“

“-But not my own?” Death barks incredulously from the rear.

Ignoring his indignation, Draven reaches down and scoops up your hand, clasping it firmly but ever so carefully between his enormous palms. Bewildered, you blink up into the shadows of his hood as he peers back down at you, the ridges of his brow furrowed to leave a crevice in the paper-thin flesh between his sunken eye sockets.

“Was it Brumox?” he whispers hoarsely, leaning closer to your face, “Was it he who laid his hands on you?”

“Brumox?” you echo, eyes narrowing. You never said his name.

Subconsciously, you give your hand a tug, feeling his grip tighten in response. “Draven… Did you know he’d do this?”

“No,” he declares so firmly that you jump, his voice like unwavering steel. Then, heaving a sigh, he lowers his gaze to your hands grasped between his own, and winces at the bone gleaming through tears in his flesh. “No…” he continues, a note quieter, “Believe me, If I had known what he was planning, I’d’ve…”

Gruffly clearing his throat, he finally lets you go, taking a step back and glaring hard at the ash around his boots. “Of all my recruits….” he begins to explain, “Brumox has been the most opposed to your being here, my lady.”

“You knew this,” Death spits, “And yet you allowed him to remain a threat to my-…! To her!?”

“I knew he had no love for the living,” Draven argues, twisting his head towards a shoulder and addressing the Horseman, “I knew his feathers were ruffled by her arrival in the Eternal Throne. I did not, however, think that even he could be capable of this treachery.”

Throwing an arm out in your direction, Death continues on his tirade. “And because of your oversight, she was almost killed - would have been, had I not saved her life.”

“Uh, Gnashor saved my life,” you interject petulantly, irked to be spoken about you as if you aren’t even here.

“Gnashor?” Draven’s skeletal face goes slack as he shoots several glances between you and the skull laying nearby. All it takes is one more look at the branded fingers sweeping around your neck before he presses his teeth together and lets a sigh slip between the miniscule gaps. “Ah, perhaps you can regale me with the story later,” he amends, “You need rest, and those bruises must be tended to.”

Before you can open your mouth to argue that you’ll be all right, that you’ve been through worse, Death cuts in. “And Brumox? What do you intend to do about him? Because believe you me, Blademaster, when I get my hands on –“

“-You leave Brumox to me,” Draven interrupts darkly, “His transgression was done by a man under my watch. I’ll be the one to deal with it.”

And with that said, the Blademaster moves to stand beside you and raises a long, sinewy arm, letting it hover mere millimetres from your back.

You know when you’re being steered, and you’re not averse to it here. Draven doesn’t push or pull or use his strength to move you where he wants you to go. He simply waits, content to let you take the first step.

Offering the undead a tired smile, you begin to trudge slowly towards the portcullis, wiping a hand down the length of your face and feeling coarse grains of ash scrape gently over your cheeks. Draven easily keeps in step with you, taking a single stride for every two of your own.

The pair of you breeze past Death, paying the Horseman no mind even as he twists to follow you with his eyes, glaring caustically at the arm Draven has snuck around the back of your shoulders.

Gnashing his teeth together hard, his jaw springs open again and he snaps testily after your retreating forms, “And I suppose I’m to lug this skull back by myself, am I?”

Your stride doesn’t even falter, though Draven’s hood turns slightly towards you, as if he’s prepared and ready to receive an instruction at the drop of a hat, so long as it comes from you.

Striking a sharp look over your shoulder, you lock eyes with the Horseman and primly retort, “You killed him, you carry him.”

You don’t give yourself time to see the expression shift underneath that pale, mask of bone. You’re too sore from the insecurity he’d just pried open with those cold, calloused fingers, laying it bare for you to acknowledge properly for the first time. So, you turn away without another word, leaning heavily against the undead at your side, weary enough to let yourself rely on his sturdiness to keep you moving forwards.

Draven, in his most private opinion, is only too pleased to be used as a makeshift crutch. The warmth of a flesh-and-blood woman under his arm seeps through his flaking skin and fills him with a vigour he hasn’t known since those bygone days, when he was a young man himself, alive and striking, with a lover on his arm and a burst of affection in his chest. He can almost remember it so clearly in the hollow cavity that used to house his heart. It’s intoxicating to be allowed to feel it again, and he finds his appreciation for your presence in the Dead Plains is beginning to grow tenfold.

He is, however, less than pleased to see the injuries you’ve sustained, and there’s a rage rapidly building in his long-decayed guts that insists upon finding retribution for the crimes committed against you here today.

What Brumox did was nothing less than an egregious betrayal. And Draven won’t abide by traitors under his command, even if it isn’t directly himself that they’ve betrayed.

There’s a sudden, phantom twinge in the middle of his back, between the notches of his spine that reminds him of his own fate. The face of a coward rises from the depths of his memory, and he has to clamp his jaw shut to conceal the growl that almost slips out.

It won’t do to frighten the object of his sudden yearning. Right now, there’s only one order of business, and that’s to return you to the relative safety of the Eternal Throne.

He distracts himself from thoughts of bloody, searing vengeance by braving the last few iotas of space between your skin and his, pressing his forearm across the breadth of your shoulder blades and trying not to shudder at the warmth spreading through his limb.

It’s like feeling the first touch of sunlight after an eternity spent embraced by a cold, dark grave...

----------

Ancient, wooden doors fly open with a resounding ‘wham’ that sends a jolt of momentary alarm through the undead milling about the Eternal Throne’s courtyard.

Dozens of heads whip towards the source of the sound – the courtyard’s main entrance – and every eye in the place grows wide upon spotting the Blademaster himself prowling out into the sunlight, an unfamiliar yet easily recognisable figure sheltered underneath the weight of one of his outstretched arms.

Draven ignores the stares. His eyes are on the hunt, flicking from left to right as he glares poisonously at each undead in search of one particular face.

His arm - the one without an array of rusted blades sprouting from his mouldering flesh – is loosely slung around your shoulders, keeping you close against his side, though he hopes not so close that you’re able to pick up on the faint stench of rot that perpetually clings to his remains.

He hasn’t said a word since he pulled you from the Gilded Arena and left Death in the proverbial dust, mindful that with his thoughts circling Brumox like a bird of prey, nothing that leaves his lips would be suited for a lady’s ears.

Not that you’re in any particular mood to converse either, too preoccupied by the very plausible worry of running into Brumox again. You’ve been chewing a fresh ulcer into the inside of your cheek for the last five minutes, fretting over how he’ll react when he sees you alive. Will he deny ever being in the Arena? It’s your word – and Death’s – against his. Are you about to find yourself caught up in the Dead Plain’s judicial system?

Is there a judicial system here?

The unanswered questions cause your stomach to roll miserably like a ball of lead has dropped down inside it, and you curl an arm across your abdomen, grimacing at nothing in particular as your other hand idly squeezes the grip of Karn’s sword.

It’s an unbelievable relief to have the weapon back in your grasp where it belongs. The scabbard, however, hadn’t fared so well. Its leather was snapped just in front the buckle when it was torn so unceremoniously from your hip, leaving you with no way to secure it around you anymore.

Your crestfallen expression was enough to send Draven scrambling to offer reassurance. “We got plenty of those back at the Barracks,” he’d told you as you took the broken leather in hand and gazed down at it with a quivering lip, “I’ll take you there myself after your business with the King’s in order.”

It was kind and thoughtful, and you told him as much, earning yourself several sputtered sentences and stilted chuckles in response. Still, you don’t know to explain to him, without sounding like a fool, that it just won’t be the same. This is Karn’s scabbard. It, and the sword he forged, are the only parts of the young maker that could follow you into this strange, new world, and to be without even one of them feels…

“Bastard’s not ‘ere,” Draven grumbles to himself, pulling your gaze off the toes of your boots as you shuffle along next to him. Casting him a sideways glance, you’re just in time to catch the wince that warps his expression before he spares you a sheepish look. “Er, Brumox isn’t here, I mean.”

There’s a tiny shift of the leaden weight in your guts.

“Oh, good,” you sigh, returning your eyes to the courtyard and sweeping them towards the stairs.

All at once, you perk up significantly when you see the large, woollen figure standing near the undercroft, a spiralling trail of soft, purple smoke drifting lazily from the pipe between his lips.

He’s in the midst of waving off a wiry undead and feeding several glinting coins into one of the pouches on his side when he glances up, his movements coming to an abrupt halt once he catches sight of you halfway across the courtyard.

Beside you, Draven has lifted his gaze to the rickety ramparts above, a snarl pulling the skin around his mouth even further from his crooked teeth. “Don’t worry,” he tells you in a low growl, “I’ll track ‘im down… He won’t get away with what he did…”

The decisive nature of his remark prompts you to put a voice to one of your fears. “… What if he doesn’t admit to it?”

“Oh, he’ll get a chance to say his piece,” Draven amends, albeit darkly, “But those bruises don’t lie. Gnashor ain’t the stranglin’ type. And I’ll bet the Horseman’d rather cut his own legs off than put a mark on you.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that your concern is knocked slightly askew, and you wonder what in the world had given him that impression. He barely knows Death.

“Whatever the outcome though,” he continues, hesitating for just a moment before he plucks up the courage to give your shoulders a consoling squeeze, “I don’t intend to let this happen again.”

Before you can ask him what exactly he’s planning to do to, Draven roves his head up once more and tosses his chin forwards, calling out across the courtyard. “Ostegoth, ‘ve got a favour to ask.”

The Capracus has already taken several steps towards your unlikely duo, meeting you both right in front of the staircase, ripping the pipe from his mouth. 

Concern, painfully genuine, has been etched deeply into the lines between his brows.

“Lamb,” he squeezes out, nostrils puffing quietly at the air. His strange, yellow eyes dart back and forth between the bruises on your neck and your solemn expression. “What happened to-?”

“-Gnashor,” you cut him off, shaking your head, “You were right.”

Blinking back visible bewilderment, he lifts one of his lengthy arms up to take you by the elbow, pulling you gently away from Draven, who lets you go with a soft pat to your back.

“Stay with the Old one,” the undead tells you, earning a harrumph from Ostegoth, but Draven has already tugged the lip of his cowl forwards to cover his eyes and turned on a heel, letting his cloak swish regally behind him as he stalks his way across the courtyard on a dead-set path towards the recruits still training diligently in their circle.

“Where are you going?” you call after him, straining through discomfort to raise your voice enough to be heard.

Without turning back, Draven raises an arm and jabs his thumb at you over his shoulder, loudly declaring, “To find the bastard who gave you those.”

You can only assume he means the bruises.

A large, spindly appendage lands on your shoulder and draws your attention back to Ostegoth, who is gazing down at you through wide, searching eyes. You don’t miss how they flick to your neck and back again.

“Oh,” he croaks hoarsely, “Gnashor… did he do…?”

“He didn’t hurt me,” you’re quick to reassure him, giving him a probing squint of your own, “He… actually, he saved me, Ostegoth.”

The Capracus’s hand slackens by a fraction, and his expression, once taut with concern, loses some of its rigidity. “You did not raise your sword against him….” he breathes, gazing down at you in astonishment.

Pressing your lips together, you hesitate for a moment, scuffing the toe of your boot against the ground.  “Well... I didn’t,” you stress at last, twisting to shoot a glance over your shoulder, directing Ostegoth’s gaze to the doors at the far end of the courtyard. “But…”

As if on cue, there’s an almighty ruckus as the doors are battered open, cracking off the stone foundations surrounding them.

From the darkness of the corridor, twin flashes of burning, golden fire precede the rest of the Horseman as he prowls into the pale light, his knees stooped to bear the awkward weight of Gnashor’s skull upon his back.

The whole courtyard seems to stop and hold its breath. Undead milling about the outskirts pause to stare, and even you find yourself freezing, goosebumps raising along your arms when you feel that luminous glare sweep over you.

 At your back, Ostegoth shifts, and his hand slides slowly from your arm. “Ah,” he utters, the relief gone from his voice, “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately turn back to him, “I tried-“

But he merely raises a hand to stop you, his horned head bowed, understanding.

 “What’s done is done,” he says, ears flicking back, “To secure your audience with the Lord of Bones, a sacrifice must be made."

'Sacrifice?' you blink, silently wondering at the term.

"It is…” Trailing off, the merchant hums to himself, then heaves a sigh that causes his entire frame to sag, like all the wind has been taken from his sails. “He will be all right.”

You don’t know how anyone could be ‘all right’ after decapitation, but before you can try to gently broach the topic, the percolating chill that rolls of Death finally reaches you, raising the hairs on the nape of your neck.

A glance to your left reveals the Horseman in profile, paused at the foot of the wooden staircase that leads up to the upper balcony and the adjoining throne room. His mask has tilted towards you, an impassive stare catching yours and holding it for the breadth of a second.

You exhale softly.

While you're still sore about his comment in the Arena, it would be a lie to say that your frustration with him hasn’t already started to wane, leaving a kernel of guilt to lodge itself between your ribs. You open your mouth, prepared to extend the proverbial olive branch and offer a stilted and awkward apology for leaving him to carry Gnashor’s skull all the way here, but just then, he speaks, cutting you off.

“Will you be joining me now?”

And okay, perhaps that was deserved, but you let it roll of your shoulders. He’s said more hurtful things before, and if he was truly angry, you’d wager he wouldn’t be inviting you back to his side.

Perhaps you're not the only one with designs on making peace.

Bolstered by this revelation, you find it in you to offer him a sheepish grin and a nod. “Yeah,” you say, timidly adding, “If that’s okay.”

And Death, for as adept as he is at maintaining an air of emotional vacancy, allows himself a blink, the hard creases around his eyes smoothing over as his face relaxes beneath the mask.

“Of course,” he returns, appraising you as you give Ostegoth a murmured farewell.

Eyeing the Horseman through a narrow gaze, the Capracus waits until you’ve sidled away from him before he suddenly pipes up, “Shall I tell the Blademaster where you’ve gone?”

Death has already begun his ascent, but you hold back just long enough to knock two fingers off your forehead in a quick salute. “Please, and thanks, Ostegoth.”

He grumbles something as he waves you off, flapping a wrist at you until you turn and fall into step behind the Horseman, traipsing along in his shadow.

At the top of the stairs, the pair of guards posted outside the throne room promptly snap to attention, crossing their weapons over one another to bar any attempt at entry. Death, however, readily ignores them. They’re not his quarry. Not quite yet, anyway.

Instead, he makes a beeline for the Chancellor, who reels away from the balcony and squawks out in shock when he sees the two of you coming, his jaw is hanging so far from the roof of his mouth that it looks as if it might pop off and tumble to the ground at any second. The undead starts to sputter something, and you can’t help but take some childish glee in his floundering as you lean around the Horseman and catch a glimpse of those pale, green eyes bulging with unmitigated alarm.

Then, with all the collected poise of a diplomat but none of the gentility, Death hoists Gnashor’s skull over his shoulder and drops it discourteously to the ground.

It lands just in front of the Chancellor’s robes with a ‘crack’ that has you cringing sympathetically, and the undead stumbling back until his spine hits the railings behind him.

“Your Champion,” Death drawls, pleased to see him squirm, “As requested.”

The Chancellor’s mouth flaps open and closed before he eventually locks his jaw, gaze darting down to you, as if you might offer him an explanation more concise than Death abruptly dumping a skull at his feet.  

Instead, all he gets from you is a nonchalant shrug.

At that, his eyes fly back to Death, and he manages to squeeze out a tight, “Impossible!”

You wonder what he’d been expecting. And then you start to wonder how many people he’s sent to Gnashor who hadn’t returned. Enough to apparently warrant such shock.

Your lip curls disdainfully.

“I believe your King will see us now,” Death continues with a cock of his hips, draping one hand over his belt.

Once again, the Chancellor looks to you, apparently still hoping that you can talk some sense into the Horseman. Several terse seconds pass, one of which he even seems to spend noticing the marks around your neck, but whatever he thinks, he neglects to mention them at all.

At long last, his lip starts to twist into a nasty frown as he senses that he’s only delaying the inevitable.

You brace yourself, ready to for him to refuse you entry yet again or come up with some other bad excuse as to why you can’t see his Lord.

But then, to his credit…

“I… cannot deny you,” he realises softly, and gestures with a slow wave of his arm towards the guards at the door.

You and Death turn to them, and it’s almost comical to see how readily the two, hulking undead stand to attention and uncross their weapons. One of them reaches back and raps his knuckles soundly four times against the petrified wood, and with a shudder and a groan of their hinges, the doors start to swing inwards, letting a gust of stale air rush out through the gap and waft across your face.

"Watch your tongue around my Lord," the Chancellor hisses at the back of your heads, "You'll find he is not so forgiving as I..." 

Swallowing thickly, you take a single step forward, only to find a hand pulling you up short. Glancing at the pale appendage curled around your shoulder, you follow the arm up to Death’s mask, and his narrowed eyes floating in the dark sockets. He’s peering ahead, straight through the open doors and into the throne room.

You catch his drift without needing to hear a word.

He’ll be going first then.

“After you,” you concede, leaning onto your back foot and letting him move ahead.

Straightening his shoulders, the Horseman moves purposefully through the open doors whilst you follow along in his wake, whispering a quiet ‘thanks,’ to the undead who tips his helmet at you as you pass.

Just as you set your first foot inside, something dark and feathery shoots over your head without warning, zooming into the room ahead of you and Death.

“Dust!” you exclaim, startled yet pleased to see the crow, “Where the Hell have you been!?”

“He has a habit of turning up when the hard work is finished,” Death remarks coolly, watching with a bored expression as the bird flaps his way towards the tall throne at the far end of the room, perching daintily on top of it and cocking his head down to beadily eye the figure slouched in the seat below him.

“Aw, I missed him.”

“Speak for yourself.”

"Alright, hardman." 

Trailing over the threshold properly, Dust’s emergence is soon forgotten. You can’t keep your eyes from drinking in the sombre architecture all around you.

There are two more guards posted up inside the entrance, and another pair standing at the top of some stone steps on the other side of the room, both clasping their respective halberds as they glower you and the Horseman down.

The air is stale in here despite the high, curved ceilings and gaping holes in the walls that let daylight spill inside. It reeks of old stone, like the cold, sepulchral church you’d sought refuge in all those days ago… But beneath the must and stagnant dust, there’s another smell, something earthy like compost. It reminds you of Draven, though it’s far stronger in here than it is on him.

And then, as Death moves forwards and slows his pace, allowing you a glimpse of what’s ahead, you spot the likely source of the smell.

Instinct keeps you holding onto your words whilst you slip into place behind the Horseman, edging out to peek around him at the corpse slumped over in the throne ahead of you. A reverent breath slides past your lips as you take it in.

There’s no life inside it. Not even the bastardisation of life the rest of the undead you’ve met seem animated by. It... No... He sits as stiffly as a long-dead carcass in the throne, shadowed by the high backrest that’s been inlaid with skulls in a gruesome depiction of power. Even in his elevated position on the dais, he looks tall. Taller than Death, perhaps in the same league as Ostegoth, but nowhere near as soft and approachable.

You’re not expecting it at all when, all of a sudden, the cadaver moves.

A sharp yelp jumps out of you before you can catch it as a pair of blank, green eyes spring open, lighting up the sunken sockets of a drawn, skeletal face. Lips as dry as ash crackle and flake at their edges, turned down into a grimace, and without warning, the head jerks up with a visceral ‘snap.'

Raising a hand to cover your mouth, you realise with a dawning sense of horror that you’re watching rigor mortis in motion.

Ancient bones that probably haven’t moved for a long, long time start to wake up. They creak like tree limbs as he wrenches his shoulders back.

‘Snap!’

And tugs at the limbs draped over the arms of his throne.

‘Crack!’

Every little movement looks painful and stilted, and even the crown of bones perched on top of his skull seems too heavy as he pushes his body forwards in the seat, hands spasming into fists when his terrible gaze takes in his new visitors.

When he speaks however, you’re taken aback by the rich, if gravelly voice that thrums from his half-decomposed throat, hidden partially by thin strands of a wispy, white beard which has somehow managed to cling to what little scraps of leathery flesh still remain along his jawline.

“Horseman,” the Lord of Bones sneers, and you can’t help but stare at the puff of dust that flies out from between his crooked teeth, “You stink of the living….”

With an accusing glance down over his shoulder at you, Death lets out a soft little ‘hmph.’

Offended, you furrow your brows right back at him and mouth, ‘dick.’  

There’s no way you’ve made him smell like you…. If anything, you’re probably the one who smells like him.

Your little stare-down is cut short when there’s another crack of bones from the figurehead before you.

In a far more violent motion, the King surges forwards as far as his spine will allow, curls of fetid, green smoke rising from his shoulders like a miasma. Eyes ablaze, he locks the Horseman in his sights, peels blackened lips back over his teeth and snarls, “You are not welcome here.”

“Pity,” Death remarks, casual as can be, “I was starting to enjoy the atmosphere.”

The Lord of Bones sneers derisively, leaning back and sitting tall with another crack of his spine, leering down the length of his nasal ridge at Death. “Then you have not been here long.”

You’re growing bolder, inching further from the Horseman’s side to stare unabashedly up at the King on his throne.

He could have been human once, you marvel, old as the Earth’s core, a giant among men, now wizened and haggard but no less an imposing figure with his regalia made from bone and a face so sunken and cruel, it makes your palms sweat just to look at it.

But it’s as you find yourself taking that first step out into the open, mouth slightly ajar and eyes on stalks, the King finally takes note of your presence.

You know precisely when he meets your gaze because you’re suddenly frozen solid. A bolt of ice lances up your spine, anchoring you in place like a beetle pinned to a corkboard.

It occurs to you then, that accompanying Death in here might have been a terrible idea. Officially, you’ve met exactly three undead. One had welcomed you warmly into the realm. Another met you with scorn and derision. And the third had tried to kill you.

So, how will you be received here by the Lord of this realm?

You suppress a shudder, averting your gaze at once.

“So… the whispers were true,” the old undead finally rasps, breaking the suffocating hush that had drifted into the room.

You hear him lean forwards, flinching when sharp, splintered fingernails curl over the throne’s armrests and scrape audibly against the bone as they tighten their grip.

“One survived after all.”

[gremlinmodetweeker]

König AU Writing Masterlist

Masterlist

Konig Dump

Happy Tails:

KorTac decided to rent some space in a small animal adoption cafe to provide an animal therapy program for their agents. König came for the snacks.

Intro [1] [2] [3]

Summoned!CoD AU

Reader, or Summoner, was forced by the military to summon a beast of war to use in battle. Unfortunately, Summoner isn't great at controlling themselves, so they accidentally summoned a being far too powerful for any of you to control.

Intro

None of Your Shit

Ever Watchful

An Ant Among Men Among Gods Among Cosmos

Kiss the Ocean Kiss Yourself (First Kiss)

Accidental Meteor Showers

An Unexpected Appearance of Softness

A Question Best Left Unanswered

Sweets and Sours and Maggots

Circles of Stars in Cosmic Waltzes

Writhe Beneath Me

Silly Games for Silly People

A Step Through Time, A Step Closer

A Different Definition of Ash

In The Heart of My Mother I Laugh

Mistakes Meld Realities Together

Paper Trails Leave Bleeding Hearts

Extras

The Best Song for Summoned!CoD

Nice Kidnapper!König

To live is to suffer. Your existence feels meaningless, and you know that if you dropped off the face of the earth, nobody would remember your name. Your one chance of happiness was speaking to a nice masked man at a bar, but your 'friends' had cut off your time and stolen you away. Little did any of you know, he'd steal you back soon enough.

Intro [1] [2]

First Time Out of the Basement

Flickering Shadows Hide the Light

The Possibility of an Open Window

Cream and Honey and Thorns and Nettles

Go Free, Broken Songbird, and Tell Me A Story About Who You Are

Ablutions with Acid

Carve the Fat

The Possibility of an Open Window

Do You Miss What You Had? Do You Miss Who I Was?

Long Pig

Read Me To Sleep, Let Me Drift Away

I Entered Daniel's Den and I Saw the Truth Before Me

A/B/O Universe #1

In a world where military soldiers are forcibly paired up with partners to produce more soldiers, König is paired with an omega O, and has to deal with the new changes in his life.

Intro

My Ever Empty Bed

An Olive Branch Among Thorns

Declivities

Two Can Play At That Game

To Market to Market to Buy a Fat Hog

Aren't You Tired Yet?

I Sit With You And Cry For What Could Have Been

The House is Burning, and Everyone is Laughing and Smiling [1] [2]

ABO Sci-Fi Dystopia Slavery AU

When your grandmother died, you were set to inherit her caretaker slave, an alpha A named König. You struggle to figure out if you like keeping a slave or not. These questions are further complicated when you get wrapped up in a political plot heralding great change through the nation.

Run Rabbit Run (Prologue)

Tiptoe Through the Tulips (Chapter One)

Paint (Chapter Two)

Misc

Kinktober

Ghostbusters AU:

Who ya gonna call? GHOSTBUSTERS

New Recruit

A Conversation with Those Who Laugh at Death

You're a What Now?

Basement Bros

Infection!AU

You've managed an off-grid farm ever since you parents passed. It's been years, but you've endured the winters and grown to be an incredible homesteader. However, that was before the lights went out, and the barracks north of you went to shit.

Monster Trainer!Cod

Reader, code name Handler, is assigned by higher ups to be the Designated Operator of König, a rowdy and difficult-to-control jotunn/nachtkrappe shifter hybrid with a strange history of 'accidents' with his previous handlers. Your best bet to get by is to speak to others on base, but nobody is forthcoming with information.

Talking Heads Roll On Floors

Headaches Split my Skull, Stop Talking

Mischief and Mayhem

A Knot Undone Spills Forth Endless Possibilities

Break Down Build Up

Phantom of the Opera!AU

Inspired by a glorious ask, a version of Phantom of the Opera where König is our beloved phantom trying to save reader from the horrible fate of being seduced by a lover from the past with a dangerous agenda. König is a twisted man, but it takes a dark soul to recognize another, and so he will do whatever he can (from the shadows) to save his beloved songbird.

The ask the inspired it all

A Man Among Ruins

Lights Go Out I Wake Up

Frankenstein König

When you lost König in a car accident, you dedicated your entire life to bringing him back. Now that he's back, you're realizing you never actually figured out what you'd do if you brought him back.

Till Death Do Us Part

Cannibal King!AU

Taking place in the world of Sons of the Forest, reader is trapped on a remote island. Soon she is kidnapped by a cannibal king. Once by his side, she learns that life in the woods isn't as painful as expected, adn that humanity comes in many forms.

King Cannibal Conquer Quest

Rest Well Reign Strong

Fuck Me Like A Bitch So I May Love You More

Stars Whisper Prophecies into Waiting Wells

Sweet Like Honey Suckles, Bloody Like Venison

Look Into the Fire

Local Executioner!König

Living in a small village leads to a tight-knit community. When you father left to be an adventurer after your mother passed in childbirth, you were taken in by the village baker, your uncle. You always avoided the public executions, but your uncle gets sick and can't go out to market to sell his buns on the very day an execution is slotted. You must go, and there you find a cursed outsider who sparks your interest.

Carve Out a Place for Me to Sing

Hope is in Buns, Life is in Stars, Promises are in Vain (Pt 2)

Behind The Dew You Sing To Me (Pt 2) (Pt 3)

Cat Hybrid!KorTac

Horangi and König are sick and tired of roughing it on the streets. They were born and bred to be soldiers, but the batch of kittens that were meant to be made into KorTac's next greatest soldiers escaped into the city, they had to grow up on the streets. They made their little gang, but Horangi and König always wanted more. One day, reader comes along and finds two sick kittens on the street. Unable to stop herself, she brings them in and nurses them back to health. She immediately regrets her decisions.

Intro

Konig and Horangi Refs

Hunters

Horangi Wink

Horangi's Hoard Art

Meeting the Human Forms (First Time)

Cuddling Konig

Move comic

Food Quality Ask

Get Out of There! Comic

Devourer of Treats Ask

Child Locks Ask

Buzzing Static Burns The Silence Between My Ears (Ask)

Art from This Post

[i-try-to-write-stuff]

Queendom

This blog supports Palestine 🇵🇸.

Zionists and Minors DNI.

Prompt Plot - Dark Reader operating the invisible strings of the King of Small Heath aka Tommy Shelby

                                  Warning!!!!!

This material contains sensitive themes, including Dubcon, violence, and assault. By clicking the "Keep Reading" button, you explicitly acknowledge this warning. If you are triggered by any of these themes, do not proceed with reading this piece of fiction.

I am not responsible for your content consumption.

You always dreamed of making it big, big enough so you didn't have to worry about your next meal, a roof over your head, and even a small nest egg. Not that you had to worry about any of those things apart from your nest egg. 

Thomas Shelby, a shrewd "businessman", a man hell-bent on building an empire for his family, a clever man who could sense the next moves of his family, friends, foes and lovers alike on the chessboard of life. But why couldn't he predict you or your moves?

Maybe it's a good thing, maybe it's bad, but you wouldn't change it for the world. Queen is the real player with any power in the game of chess while the King sits on his ass. And just like the game of chess, your King reaps the benefit of your hard work, not that you care; you prefer to work in the shadows, shadows that shield you from the ugly side of the power play.

It wasn't easy for you to get Tommy's eyes on you, and to be fair, Grace, Ada, and every woman in between them had kept him plenty busy and naturally, he overlooked you. Not that you ever cared, for you indirectly controlling Tommy was a safer option. So many backroom shady deals you have had to grease with money, blackmail, sex murder or some combination of all four of those.

That's how you met your first husband, a rich old fool obtuse enough to think that a young woman in her 20s, fresh out of college with a business degree, would fall in love with a man old enough to be her grandfather who was also a guest of honour at your graduation.

That's how you met your first husband, and you were determined to be his last wife. Obviously, you weren't gonna waste your 20s tending to a senile old man so far away from the city. You played the doting wife as long as you could, madly in love with the old bastard so well that even his children and grandchildren, who rightfully doubted you and your motives, were convinced that you were really in love with the pile of brittle bones. And joyfully, Thompson died soon, or to put it differently, how you killed him by accidentally overdosing your weak-hearted old husband. You researched enough to know that his death would look natural. Due to his advanced age, his death didn't come as a surprise to his family, and just to put every doubt to rest, you cremated him and divided his ashes among his children. 

You played the role of grieving widow well, one might say too well; your refusal to leave the sprawling mansion (and millions of dollars in your name in offshore accounts hidden from his family) for a year really cemented your role as a dumb naive girl in high society, something you needed. London High Society was sprawling with filthy rich people still desperate enough to leech off of every penny from each other, you formed enough connections that when you fell from the face of the earth in search to "find yourself", nobody questioned. 

You returned to Small Heath, with sizeable savings. And unlike the Shelby's you didn't start spending money like them. You wanted to grow your fortune, but you also didn't want Arthur's nosiness, John's curiosity or the sedulous eyes of Tommy on you. And what better way to stay out of their radar than to join them?

You went to Polly and begged for a job at Shelby Brothers Limited. Polly was a little suspicious of you but that suspicion flew away when she saw tears and snot running down your face as you explained how the love of your life died and left you with nothing but a mansion which was too expensive to maintain and how you had to essentially rent it as a holiday home to break even on maintenance.

Polly got you an interview with Tommy Shelby; she couldn't just hire you into the illegal side of the business without Tommy's approval.

----

"You went to school with Ada, didn't you?" Tommy asked you and you nodded like a good girl.

"You were in her class?" John questioned.

You cleared your throat and replied affirmatively in a demure voice. "Yes, we were classmates."

"What happened to the rich old fuck you married?" Arthur questioned distastefully.

You saw John and Tommy making eye contact, silently communicating in their own language.

"He died," you replied trying to muster up some tears.

"And left you with nothing?" John probed.

"No, no, he left the mansion in my name, but the mansion is old, and it's too expensive to maintain, so I rented it out as a holiday home. But after all the expenses and salaries of the mansion's employees, there isn't much left." you spill out the lie.

"Don't you have a business degree?" Tommy asked and you nodded.

"Why aren't you using that to get a legitimate job?" John added.

"I don't have the real-world experience they want, being a trophy wife and a widow of a rich man isn't exactly considered an experience." you joked 

"From what we have heard, you really loved that old badger," Arthur added.

"I did, Greg Thompson was the love of my life..." you replied with tears in your eyes. Your acting classes were really paying off.

All the three Shelbys in the room silently communicated while you tried to look as pathetic and naive and dumb as possible. 

"Most men are fools; they underestimate women, kiddo", your Dad muttered when you trapped your older bully brother in his room when you were a child, not old enough to understand what that meant. But you often thought about it. Maybe that was the day you learned to observe people. Your parents weren't exactly like you; in fact, they were almost the polar opposite of you, where they saw good in people and loved to help people out; you saw bad; you saw their selfishness and their ability to use good people to do their work for them.  

 

To you Shelby's were a safe place to lay low and before you planned your next move. You had few leads that could turn over some serious cash but you also needed muscle to move it and you could definitely use Peaky Blinders for that.

"Come to Shelby Brothers offices tomorrow at eight in the morning." Tommy calculatedly replied.

"Thank you, thank you so so much, I will do my best, I will not let you down, I promise." you jumped up and down playing your part well.

"We know because we will be keeping our eyes on you" John smirked flirtatiously, clearly checking you out.

 

"We don't allow TicTacing, Instacarting, Snapshoting and Facelooking, so don't do that in the office. I am so tired of Finn and Isaiah doing these crazy internet challenges. I don't need you doing it too" Arthur gently warned. 

"Yes, sir" you replied meekly.

"You can go now; send Harry with a bottle of Scotch", Tommy dismissed you. 

From that moment on, you committed yourself to kinda, sorta obeying every command from the King, your loyalty unwavering as you embarked on this new path.

---------

If you like, please reblog or comment to let me know.

If you have any requests, prompts, or suggestions, feel free to share them here - Suggestion Box

[sml8180]

Me, giving Reginald a watch that more than likely contributed to the death of somebody in the process of its manufacturing?

More likely than you think.

[songsofadelaide]

prism — a side story to cosmic.

cw: captain narumi x (f) platoon leader, established (secret) relationship, fluff and smut, takes place between iv and v of cosmic. no use of 'yn'. narumi gen is his own warning. minors do not interact.

wc: 3k

You were no stranger to an observant eye. As a Platoon Leader, you were subject to your superiors' watchful surveillance and your team members's discerning gazes. It came as no surprise to you when the Captain of the First Division presented you with an upgrade to your beloved personal weapon, the submachine gun marked FE-0080 or Reginleif and asked for you to demonstrate your marksmanship that brought Asakusa's scorpion-type Honju to its knees.

So you acquiesced to your Captain's command and joined the rookies in their shooting training. You didn't back down from a posed challenge, after all, and you impressed your platoon members and fellow Platoon Leaders once more with your precise marksmanship. 

When Gen first took notice of your personal weapon, he surmised it was specifically made to pair with your speed. Anything heavier would weigh you down. Reginleif was a submachine gun made for more close combat offensives and had less firepower than a machine gun or a rifle, but it made up for its lack of strength with its speed and automatic mechanism.

"Unleashed Combat Power is at 67%."

As you finished setting a record for the rookies to beat, whispers from other division members filled the air. 

"The Platoon Leader's super quick, huh? It's almost like she vanishes into thin air."

"She even beat Platoon Leader Tachibana during the joint training exercises between the Eastern Divisions. That's how Captain Narumi discovered her."

"Speaking of which, she and the Captain have been spending a lot of time together..."

Gen himself didn't notice the amount of time you two were spending together. It was lost to him, but the memory of his enjoyment remained— you coming to see him, summoned or not. One day, your presence simply became natural, like a second instinct, until it became a necessity, especially for him.

You sitting next to him in his office, sometimes as Player 2 but most of the time just plain old you. You in your tracksuit uniform with nothing but a white tee underneath. You mindlessly scrolling through your social media while he stormed through whatever game he was playing, warming his bed until you had to leave him— whether it was due to an emergency or just because the day had ended. The sound of your laughter and derision filled his office and he can't seem to snap out of his compulsion to steal the rest of your sound straight away from your lips. 

He signalled for the end of the shooting training after the rookies concluded their rounds and dismissed everyone for the rest of the afternoon. 

"Captain Narumi, sir," you called out to your superior, who had just finished checking the Operation Leader's report handed to him by your Vice Captain. 

"Platoon Leader."

"One of my team members is celebrating their birthday today. They're planning a short trip to the city for drinks this evening," you started as you shadowed Gen's steps back to the base's main hall. "As much as I would love to finish our Maelduin's Portal campaign from earlier, my platoon would appreciate being able to spend some time with me, and I with them. I hope you're amenable, of course…"

He wanted to disagree with you but didn't want to come off as increasingly needy, especially since he knew now that people were already talking about how much time you've been spending together. Was he being needy? 

"Enjoy the rest of your evening, then."

Because he certainly didn't.

Your platoon arrived back at base a little before 21:00 and the first thing you wanted to do was take a dip into the baths because you were certain you smelled terrible— a smorgasbord of alcohol, barbecue smoke and cigarette ash, no thanks to the old smokers seated next to your group's long table.

But Gen had other plans in mind that derailed your quick trip to the baths. 

A single notification lit up from your mobile phone as you placed it on the desk in your personal quarters. 

[ N. Gen-隊長: I'm outside your room. ]

"Captain Narumi?" You quietly called for him, a tender smile on your face as you opened your door for him. "Did you wait for me all this time?" 

Gen smelled like he just got out of the bath, ready to go to bed, while you still smelled of smoke and alcohol. Still, he didn't think twice before embracing you, which you hesitantly returned. 

"I still smell like alcohol…" You murmured into the crook of his neck as you gently played with the hair on his nape. "Pretty sure I taste like it, too…"

"I don't really care…" He murmured before diving in for a kiss. Sure enough, you tasted like an evening out, the bitter taste of beer still lingering in your mouth. 

"Hey," you said as you gently broke your kiss. "You might be fine with this, but I'm not. I-I mean the way I smell. Please, Gen, let me take a quick bath. I promise I'll be back in five— no, ten minutes. I'll be back and let's pick up where we left off, okay?"  

Not even the grumble that left his lips could stop you from grabbing your basket of toiletries plus a change of clothes and leaving him for a bath you promised would be quick. 

It was only in the quiet that he realised it was his first time here in your personal quarters. It's always been you visiting him in his office but rarely did you invite him over— for reasons now clear to him. 

Your room was incredibly bare, even for a Platoon Leader. Apart from the standard furnishings provided by the Defense Force, nothing in that place anchored you there or made known to others that it was your lodging. You kept no trinkets or little decorations, and on your desk sat your mobile phone, which even had the default wallpaper on. 

It had no passcode, either, and he found himself there aptly named 'Captain Narumi Gen' when he took a peep at your messages. All the people in your phonebook were properly labelled and addressed, such as your parents, your elder brother Kanata and his wife Marie, your squad leaders Akabane, Kagomura, Ookawa, and your fellow Platoon Leaders. 

You kept no notes, even fewer photos, and Gen was filled with this awful dread that you'd leave no trace behind if anything ever happened to you. His thoughts were soon replaced by a wave of comfort when he plopped down on your bed. "At least your pillows smell like you…"

He almost nodded off too if not for your arrival. You were still a little damp from your quick soak, your skin still warm and balmy as you shut your door behind you. "Are you still awake, Captain?"

"Yeah, I am. S'impossible to fall asleep here in your room," he said as he sat up again, quietly observing the way you neatly stashed your belongings in your single closet. 

"Really, now? I'd expect you to get a good night's rest here since I have a proper bed and all," you chuckled at his response. "Or are you so used to sleeping on a futon that a bed's uncomfortable for you?"

"No. Your bed… smells like you," he stated, a hand sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck this time. You were fresh out of the bath, still practically buzzing with warmth, and it made him uneasy in an exciting way. "It's…"

"Is it nasty?" You asked as you made your approach. You were in similar standard white shirts and black sweatpants and Gen visibly swallowed as you sat closely next to him. "Captain Narumi?"

"Don't… Don't call me that now," he grunted at you, his lip trembling in anticipation as you raised a hand to cup his cheek. 

"Gen…" 

Ah, his name sounded so, so sweet whenever it left your lips, but this time even more, and he was this close to stealing that sweetness himself if you hadn't scooched over to kiss him yourself. It was tender and affectionate and somewhat apologetic, tasting of green tea mouthwash this time, until you broke away from him and stuck out your tongue to lick the corner of his mouth.

You did it in such a teasing manner but he couldn't even smile— because he was already so, so hard. He pulled out his erection from under his sweatpants and guided your hand to it, his breath hitching as he felt your warm fingers curl around his length and stroke him at a leisurely pace.

Though you couldn't see his eyes, you were certain he had a heady, cloudy, half-lidded gaze on you. He followed your steady movement with bated breath as you got down on your knees and placed yourself between his thighs. 

"Doing it here in my room has its advantages," you told him as you started stroking him again, your breath ghosting over his length. "No one's gonna come in here unannounced…"

Gen let out a low hiss when you flicked out your tongue and slowly licked the tip of his cock, taking all the time in the world to do so. 

"Ggh… S-Stop it already—" He grunted yet again, and though he told you to stop, it was clear he meant otherwise by the way he had a guiding hand on the crown of your head. "Ugh…"

Hearing the sound of his voice dipping and straining in pleasure encouraged you to do even better for him. He shuddered as you gradually received him in your mouth. 

…Maybe he did find a way to tame that smart mouth of yours after all. 

The pace of your blowjob was pleasant, but you knew he was close by the way his thighs closed around you. He tried to wriggle away from you, but you shook your head at him and gently picked up the pace, your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked on him a bit more. 

He took your refusal to let him go as a sign that you'll receive his seed in your mouth, so he obliged you, his body convulsing as he held your head in his hands. A low, guttural moan he obviously tried to suppress escaped his lips as you swallowed his cum, thick strings stuck in the back of your throat, and you eventually released him with a soft 'pop' from your slightly swollen lips. 

"My good girl," his praise was caught between his soft exhales. He pulled you up into his arms and allowed you to tenderly sweep back his hair that curtained his lovesick gaze. 

"You're so handsome," you told him with a smile, your fingers gently toying with the hair on his nape once more. Gen adored being the recipient of such compliments, even more so from you, but he still gets embarrassed from time to time. He's red up to his neck now, his hands warm on your waist. 

"My good girl," he said yet again, his wine-coloured eyes holding your own heady gaze. One hand wandered underneath your shirt while the other dipped under the waistband of your sweatpants, deft fingers rhythmically running over the moistness between your legs. His lips curl into a teasing smile as your expression fades into one of pleasure.

He was already hard again, but he didn't want to be so greedy. Neither did he want the night to end so soon. He did away with your clothes, all similarly and carelessly tossed aside as he motioned for you to lie down on your back for him. A glint of mischief lit his eyes as he placed himself between your legs, lowering his face to your thighs, peppering them with light and faint kisses before he eventually opened his mouth to taste you. 

Another rapid rush of pleasure shot through your body as he gripped your thighs and happily ate you out, playing deaf to your impatient whines as he leisurely and unhurriedly licked and lapped at your folds.

"Tell me what you want, my good girl," Gen whispered, his low and lazy voice hot against your sopping pussy. He already knew what you wanted by the way you ground against his mouth, the burning sultriness between your legs threatening to overflow onto the rest of his face. He slid a finger knuckle-deep into you and thrust at what he believed was an agreeable pace given the sound of your moans, which you were trying your hardest to suppress.

His fingers were skilled and reached the places you never could on your own, but you needed more. "P…"

"If you tell me, 'please put it in my pussy', then I'll do it."

Oh, you wanted to hurl so many complaints at him, but your impatience already showed in your countenance and he was clearly enjoying this. "Well? Hurry up and say it."

"M… My p… ah…" You pathetically whimpered at him, your voice cracking as he broke into another crooked grin.

"Use your words, my pretty girl. I can't really understand you."

Tears welled in the corners of your eyes as you relented to his teasing, your legs quivering at the leisurely pace he's taken. "Please… Please put it in my p-pussy…!"

It didn't take long for Gen to take charge after hearing you plead for him so earnestly. He was already as stiff as a pole, anyway, so he angled himself over you and slid his length over the burning wetness of your pussy before thrusting into you. 

The pace he moved at was gratifying for you both, the sound of your whines was enough of a confirmation for him. 

"Ah…" You coiled your arms around his neck, trembling at his warm touch, his calluses rough yet ticklish against your skin, especially when he sank his fingers into the plushness of your breasts. "Gh…"

Why does it feel like this? You managed a thought as he fucked you deep into your sheets and mattress, the sound of your soft moans and his pleased groans filling the air in the room. You knew you'd be dead if someone else heard you, but you couldn't consider being considerate now— because he's s-so good…!

Gen's bangs fell over his eyes again, hiding away the blissed-out look on his face. He knew it didn't matter that much to you anymore and neither did it to him— because all he could think about at that moment was burying his cock deep into you— fuck good manners and propriety!

You were seeing stars now, his pace slightly rushed and rough and it could only mean that he was just as close to finishing as you were. "D-Don't… don't stop…"

But he knew he had to. He was smarter than this. He knew he had to pull out. You couldn't afford to— at a time like this, too! 

Yet in between his blissed-out euphoria and common sense was a single thought: a family. With you. Your stomach round with a child that was a heap of trouble like he was—

"P-Please, Gen… I'm so close…!"

He snapped back to his sweet reality— your walls tightening around him as he thrust with even more urgency this time. 

"Cum for me, then, my good girl," he managed to chuckle at you. You choked out another small cry as tears filled your eyes again in a wave of oscillating pleasure, your spasms making it difficult for him to pull out as he intended. 

"Y-You can cu—" 

Gen pulled out of you panting the moment you were about to say he could finish inside you instead, opting to spill his scorching cum all over your stomach. He caught his breath before flicking his middle finger on your forehead with all his tender might. 

"Ow! Wh-What was that for?!"

"At least let me put a ring on you before you ask me to cum inside ya!"

"You didn't have to hit me that hard."

"It wasn't even that hard."

A large bandaid was spread over your forehead where your boyfriend last exacted his violence on you. Your quiet breakfast for two at the mess hall the following morning was cut short when Eiji sat next to Gen with his breakfast, along with a clean folder that contained only two sheets of paper.

"Good morning, Narumi. And the Platoon Leader, too. Once you're done eating, I'll need you two to fill out these forms," he stated as he handed you one of the sheets with a header in bold letters that read Workplace Relationship Disclosure Form.

"O-Oh," came your slightly startled reaction as you realised what it was. You placed down your utensils and read the information that had to be filled out. "S-So, do I write 'boyfriend' here? This is so embarrassing…"

"The hell do you mean it's embarrassing? Are you embarrassed to be with me? Embarrassed that I'm your boyfriend?!" Gen yapped at you as he filled out the form handed to him. You were shocked to see him filling out the paperwork himself, even more so when he wrote 'fiancée' next to your name. 

"If there is anything to be embarrassed about, it's keeping your fellow Platoon Leaders awake at night because of your… raucous behaviour," your Vice Captain stated with a feigned cough, and though it was clearly addressed to you, his sharp gaze was directed at your Captain. "If you don't want the top brass to hear about this and mete out a punishment for you both, I suggest you refrain from doing it here at base."

"O-Of course, V-Vice Captain Hasegawa! It won't happen again!" You squeaked at the older man and gave him a stiff bow. 

Gen gaped at your quick surrender before eventually turning to Eiji, who had yet to start his meal. "Haa? We're actually doing important work here! They can consider this our attempt at preserving my lineage, Japan's Strongest— Ow!" 

The older man flicked his middle finger at the young Captain's forehead this time. "Since everyone's talking about you two anyway, let's give them more to gossip about. But I expect not to hear anything about it again starting tomorrow."

[magic-shop-stories]

mafia au where they react to reader getting hurt ? (my tumblr has been messing up so i apologize if it was sent twice)

💌 Reply:

Hey there, THANK YOU for your request, I loved the idea - tho it's my first time writing mafia AU in any fandom. I hope this is what you wanted and is to your liking. And don't worry! It's kinda funny, bc I got an almsot similar mafia request the same day, however I think it wasn't you xD I hope you have fun reading 💜

BTS MAFIA AU! HEADCANONS

↳MAFIA BTS × READER

~ CONTENT WARNING~

dark themes = violence, psychological manipulation, (intense) power dynamics

(mafia-style vengeance), possessiveness, strategic brutality, protective obsession

NAMJOON

cold rage

strategic vengeance

quiet devotion

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Silent Storm

freezes mid-sentence when he sees your injury

cigar in his hand crumbling to ash

voice drops to a whisper, glacial and lethal

“Who. Was. It.” 

not a question = a death warrant

secretly blames himself for your loyalty

Controlled Chaos

calm before a calculated storm

orders his men to lock down the district

every exit, every alley, every shadow belongs to him now

“Bring them to me alive. I want to teach them manners.”

ACTION

Interrogation as Art

drags the culprits to his underground vault

no screams, no theatrics = just logic

 “You harmed what’s mine. Let’s discuss… consequences.” 

uses their own secrets against them

psychological annihilation

breaking their will with psychological precision

leaves them begging for death

Strategic Retribution

ruins lives with paperwork (not bullets = for you he makes an exception)

burns their operations to the ground

not before rerouting their funds to your account

texts you a screenshot: 

“For your trouble.”

Your Security Overhaul

replaces your guards with his most ruthless enforcers

assigns you a 24/7 shadow

“You’re not leaving this penthouse until I redesign the world.”

AFTERMATH

Caretaker

tends to your wound himself

hands steady but jaw clenched

“This shouldn’t have happened. I miscalculated.” 

guilt is a silent third person in the room

Philosophy & Promises

reads Marcus Aurelius aloud while disinfecting your stitches

“‘The best revenge is to be unlike your enemy.’ But tonight… I’ll make an exception.”

Sleep-Watch

sits vigil by your bed, laptop open to surveillance feeds

murders a rival via encrypted email while brushing hair from your forehead

DIALOGUE

“You are my equilibrium. Disturb you, and I dismantle the universe.”

to a trembling underling:

“If she dies, you’ll wish I’d only killed you.”

whispered against your temple:

“Forgive me. I’ll burn heaven itself to keep you safe.”

JIN

charm

cunning

vengeance served with a smile

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Masked Fury

laughs, sharp and cold

inspects your wound

“Yah, who dared scratch my masterpiece?” 

his grin doesn’t reach his eyes

his eyes are glacial, calculating

Deadly Composure

lpours himself a drink

exhaling slowly

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure they regret their life choices.”

ACTION

Theatrical Retribution

invites the culprits to a “truce dinner” at his penthouse

serves champagne laced with arsenic

toasting: “To poor decisions!” (they collapse)

Psychological Warfare

leaks their secrets to their families

ruining their reputations

sends you a bouquet with a note: 

“Roses are red, revenge is sweeter. Sleep well.”

Overprotective Protocol

assigns his most loyal hitman as your shadow

“His name’s Kimchi. He’s great at gardening.” 

Kimchi’s specialty is burying bodies

AFTERMATH

Mother Hen Mode

force-feeds you homemade jjajangmyeon

fussing over your bandages

“Eat. You’ll need energy to watch me ruin more people.”

Guilt in Disguise

jokes about your “clumsiness”

but stays up all night reviewing security footage

“Next time, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap. Worldwide Handsome brand.”

Secret Softness

leaves a custom first-aid kit by your bed

filled with painkillers, chocolate, and a tiny knife

“For emergencies. Or snacks.”

DIALOGUE

“You hurt my favorite toy. Now I’ll play with you.”

to you, while stitching your wound: 

“If you die, I’ll kill you myself. Understood?”

whispered against your ear: 

“Next time, let me do the stabbing. I’m prettier when I’m covered in blood.”

YOONGI

silent rage

calculated cruelty

love that bleeds in the shadows

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Dead Calm

freezes when he sees your injury

eyes narrowing to slits

his voice is a whisper, colder than a winter grave

“Who. Touched. You.” 

the room chills; even his men step back

Assessment

runs a gloved thumb over your wound

analyzing it like a broken track

“Shallow. Clean. They wanted you alive to scare me.” 

his smile is venomous

“Mistake.”

ACTION

Methodical Vengeance

Intel First

hacks into city cameras, traffic cams, even smartwatches to trace every step of your attackers

finds them in 47 minutes

The Studio

drags them to his soundproofed studio

outfitted with chains, scalpels

a vintage record player blaring Schubert’s "Death and the Maiden."

Interrogation

uses a soldering iron to brand their skin with musical notes

“This is fortissimo. Let’s see how loud you scream.”

Finale

records their confession

edits it into a symphony of screams

sends it to their boss

texts you: “Track 8. Your lullaby.”

Strategic Annihilation

burns their drug shipments

poisons their cash flow

leaks their ledgers to the feds

leaves their leader’s severed hands in a piano bench with a note: 

“Play your swan song.”

AFTERMATH

Surgeon

stitches your wound himself

hands steady but jaw ticking

“Don’t move. I’m not a fucking nurse.”

Guilt in Silence

sits in the dark

cleaning his gun

when you find him, he rasps: 

“Should’ve been me. Not you. Never you.”

New Rules

implants a GPS tracker in all your clothes 

“Try to remove it, and I’ll cuff you to my bed. Permanently.”

HIDDEN SOFTNESS

Midnight Watch

sleeps on the floor beside your bed

back against the door

wakes at every sound, gun in hand

Gifts of War

leaves a diamond necklace on your pillow

stolen from the rival boss’s vault

“Wear it. Reminds them who you belong to.”

Secret Ritual

plays Clair de Lune on the piano

fingers trembling

“You’re my only quiet. Don’t take that from me.”

DIALOGUE

to the traitors: 

“You don’t get to die until I’m bored.”

to you, bandaging you:

“Hurting you is like cutting my own veins. I’ll bleed the world dry before I let it happen again.”

whispered in the dark:

“You’re my fucking heartbeat. If they stop you, I stop everything.”

BONUS Youngi as the consigliere who writes symphonies of violence? Chef’s kiss. He’d 100% use a metronome during torture

J-HOPE

radiant rage

choreographed/well planned vengeance

a smile that hides daggers

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Smiling Fury

his grin doesn’t falter when he sees your injury

it sharpens

eyes glinting like polished steel

he tilts his head

“Who made you bleed, baby? Let’s dance.” 

his voice is sing-song, but the room tenses

even the air feels charged

Controlled Chaos

claps twice, summoning his men

“Lock the exits. We’re throwing a party.” 

the word “party” drips with menace

ACTION

Theatrical Retribution

Stage Setup

lures the attackers to an abandoned theater

rigged with spotlights and explosives

Performance

forces them to fight each other in a grotesque “dance battle” at gunpoint

“You wanted attention? Spotlight’s on you!”

Finale

drops a chandelier on the last survivor

humming “Blood Sweat & Tears” as it crashes.

texts you a video with the caption: “Encore?”

Strategic Flair

floods their warehouses with neon paint (his signature color)

ruining millions in product

“Now their drugs match their personalities, toxic and tacky.”

leaves their leader’s severed tongue in a glitter-filled envelope

“For lying to me.”

AFTERMATH

Overprotective Mode

assigns you a 24/7 guard detail dressed as backup dancers

“If they can’t pirouette and shoot, what’s the point?”

installs panic buttons in your jewelry

“Press it, and I’ll waltz in. Literally.”

Guilt Masked as Energy

drowns his worry in hyperactive planning

rearranges your safehouse into a pastel fortress

“New decor! Bulletproof doors. And they’re blush pink!”

Secret Softness

plays “Chicken Noodle Soup” on loop while disinfecting your wound

“It’s… calming. Shut up.”

HIDDEN DEPTHS

Dancefloor Trauma

reveals he once used his dance crew as a hit squad

“We pirouetted past security. Knives in our socks.”

Flashback Triggers

finds you practicing a old choreography he taught you

freezes, then snaps: 

“Never do that again.” 

later admits: 

“That routine… it’s how I lost my first love.”

DIALOGUE

to the attackers: 

“You messed with my rhythm. Now I’ll break your beat.”

to you, tightening your bandages: 

“You’re my only melody. I’ll silence anyone who tries to scratch the record.”

whispered in your ear, voice breaking: 

“If you die, I’ll forget how to smile. Don’t take that from me.”

BONUS

He’d 10000% coordinate his bullets to match his outfit!!!

JIMIN

deadly ballet of cruelty and devotion,

love and vengeance = pirouette in perfect harmony

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Tears and Tremors

freezes when he sees your wound

eyes pooling with tears

“Who did this to you?” 

his voice cracks

trembling hands hovering over your injury

then, like a switch flipped, his tears dry

his gaze turns arctic

“Never mind. I’ll ask them myself.”

Silent Fury

walks to the nearest mirror

adjusts his blood-splattered collar

smiles, a hollow, chilling grin

“Time to dance, boys.”

ACTION

Seduction

Lure

sends the attackers a bottle of champagne with a note: 

“Let’s talk.”

signs it with a lipstick kiss

Performance

greets them in a silk robe

swaying to jazz

“You hurt my heart. Let’s… discuss.” 

offers them drugged wine

Revelation

as they slump, he strips to a tailored suit underneath

“Surprise... You just kissed death.”

Punishment

Elegant Brutality

uses ballet ribbons to bind them to a grand piano

plays Swan Lake while slicing their tendons in rhythm

“This is plié. This is relevé. This is agony.”

Artistic Finale

carves a heart into their leader’s chest

fills it with rose thorns

“Love hurts, right?” 

texts you a photo: 

“Made you art”

AFTERMATH

Possessive Care

bathes you himself

scrubbing blood from your skin

“Mine. Only mine.” 

his grip bruises

his kisses are feather-light

Guilt-Driven Obsession

rearranges your entire schedule

"No more outings. No more risks. You’re my treasure, locked away forever.”

Night Terrors

wakes screaming

clawing at invisible threats

pulls you into his arms, sobbing

“I’ll kill the world. I’ll kill myself. Just… stay alive.”

HIDDEN SOFTNESS

Secret Sanctuary

builds a hidden garden for you

filled with white roses

“No blood here. Just us.”

murders a henchman for stepping on a petal

Guilty Gifts

leaves a diamond choker on your pillow

stolen from a rival

“Wear it. It matches your new scars.”

Fragile Confession

dances with you in the moonlight

lips brushing your ear

“If I lose you, I’ll forget how to be human.”

DIALOGUE

to the traitors: 

“You thought I was pretty? How cute. Pretty things bite.”

to you, bandaging your wound: 

“I’ll carve my apology into their bones. Is that enough?”

whispered in the dark, voice breaking: 

“I’m a monster. But you… you’re my holy ground.”

TAEHYUNG

charismatic chaos

psychological warfare

love that thrives in the unexpected

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Eerie Calm

tilts his head

studying your wound like a curious child

“Hmm. This is new.” 

his voice is honey-sweet

his eyes darken, pupils dilating

“Did they enjoy hurting you? I’ll ask them… slowly.”

Chilling Charm

grins, adjusting his suit sleeves

“Don’t worry, jagiya. I’ll make their death fascinating.”

ACTION

Masquerade

Infiltration

disguises himself as a medic to enter the rival gang’s hideout

flirts with their leader’s sister

slipping her a poisoned rose

“For your beauty..." 

she collapses mid-laugh

Mind Games

forces the attackers to play Russian roulette

but every chamber is loaded

“Life’s a gamble! Let’s see if you’re lucky.”

records their screams and loops them as their ringtone

Grand Finale

locks the survivors in a room with a “gift”

a bomb disguised as a vintage wine crate

texts them: 

“Pop the cork! 🍾”

Strategic Cruelty

replaces their drugs with crushed glass

“Customers love extra crunch.”

sends their families personalized condolence letter

before the victims die

“I’m thoughtful like that.”

AFTERMATH

Possessive Obsession

moves you into his penthouse

walls lined with surveillance screens

“Now I can watch you and the sunset. Romantic, right?”

Guilt-Fueled Whimsy

buys a zoo’s worth of exotic pets “to cheer you up.”

lets a panther sleep at the foot of your bed (not a real one but the biggest black dog he can find)

“His name’s Marshmallow. He’s great at security.”

Nighttime Rituals

bathes you in champagne bath

scrubbing away blood with gold-leaf soap

“Only the best for my masterpiece.”

HIDDEN DEPTHS

Trauma Trigger

finds you humming a lullaby he’d forgotten

his mother’s song (lost her in a turf war)

snaps, smashing a vase

“Never. Sing. That. Again.” 

later, soaks your hands in milk to heal cuts from the glass

Secret Sacrifice

takes a bullet meant for you during a deal

laughs, blood staining his teeth

“Jokes on them. I look good in red.”

DIALOGUE

to the enemies: 

“You thought I was playful? How cute. Playtime’s over.”

to you, stitching your wound: 

“Hurting you is like breaking a rare vase. I’ll glue them back together… piece by piece.”

whispered against your neck, voice trembling: 

“If you die, I’ll forget how to breathe. So don’t.”

JUNGKOOK

feral protectiveness

raw rage

a love that’s as brutal as it is tender

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Silent Storm

his body goes rigid when he sees your injury

nostrils flaring like a wolf catching blood-scent

he doesn’t speak

just picks up his aluminum baseball bat

spins it once

cracks his neck

“Stay here!” 

he growls, voice low, guttural

“I’ll clean this up.”

Calculated Rage

texts you a single emoji an hour later: ⚾

when you call, he answers mid-swing

“Almost done, baby.”

ACTION

Brutal Efficiency

Hunt

tracks the attackers to a scrapyard

no guns, no knives

just the bat

breaks knees first, so they can’t run

“Gotta level the field.”

Interrogation

forces them to kneel on shattered glass

“Who sent you?” 

he already knows

just wants them to say it

Message

carves “PROPERTY OF JK” into their leader’s chest

leaves him breathing but mangled

dumped on the rival boss’s doorstep

Strategic Terror

floods their headquarters with stray dogs

trained to attack on command

“Meet my puppies. They’re hungry.”

slashes tires on every car in their flee

replaces brake fluid with gasoline

“Drive safe”

AFTERMATH

Possessive Care

cleans your wound with whiskey

hands steady but jaw clenched

“Don’t. Move.” 

wraps you in his leather jacket

still warm and reeking of iron

Guilt in Motion

stalks your every move for weeks

installs motion sensors in your house

“You’ll know if a fly sneezes.”

Night Watch

sleeps on the floor beside your bed

bat propped against the wall

wakes at every sound

“Just me. Go back to sleep.”

HIDDEN DEPTHS

Training Trauma

finds you lifting weights in the gym, mimicking his routine

snaps, slamming the dumbbell rack

“Stop. You’re not me.” 

later, teaches you self-defense moves

hands trembling

“If I’m not here… you’ll know what to do.”

Secret Ritual

leaves protein bars in your bag

each with a note: 

“Eat. Stay strong.” 

(eats one himself every time he leaves you alone)

Fragile Confession

after a nightmare, he curls around you, voice breaking

“I’m not a hero. I’m just… good at breaking things.”

DIALOGUE

to enemies: 

“You don’t get to die until I’m bored.”

to you, changing your bandage: 

“You’re my fucking heartbeat. Stop skipping.”

whispered against your hair, voice fractured: 

“I’ll break the world. Just… stay whole.”

[diejager]

Hey! I love your monster au and was wondering how Monster! TF 141 + König and Horangi would react to Y/N getting a serious/ life-threatening injury during mission?

This reminds me of your request @thatgirlwhocantfindausername

Cw: injury, blood and gore, monster 141 cod, overprotective, implied death, worry, tell me if I missed any.

You were rushed to the ER for an emergency surgery to take care of at least a dozen bullet wounds, consciousness hanging on a loose thread and body standing between blood loss and high on morphine. The nurses had to keep the TF from barging into the operation room to let the surgeons and doctors do their work, then security was called to have them escorted to the waiting room, somberly filling the corridor with their dark mood.

They spent hours upon hours wondering if you’d make it, the most pessimistic of them already fearful and minds shutting down at the simple thought of burying you, or scattering your ashes, or being the bearer of bad news for the rest of your relatives. Despite the stoic mess in their faces, lips pulled thinly and eyes shadowed, there were little signs of panic, a crack in their facade that showed their terror and worry. They shouldn’t have let you go without them, without at least one of them by your side.

Price looked as if he’d burst a vessel, his jaw clenched and fingers locked together to stop himself from fidgeting. König didn’t share the reserve, finger fidgeting, scratching at the loose thread of his gloves or the cuff of his shirt. Ghost wasn’t far from working his hands, his restlessness coming off from his leg, bouncing endlessly as he burned a hole into the floor. Soap was mumbling, quiet words lost to everyone’s ears, and it seemed like Horangi and Alejandro occupied their thoughts the same, hisses and swears slipping from their tongues like a waterfall. Gaz’s face looked the most pained, biting his pretty lips and brows screwed together, his eyes closed to block out his visions. And Rudolfo, the most human of them all, felt his tears blur his vision, staring blankly at the wall with trembling lips and a heart-wrenching expression.

When the head surgeon came out in clean garbs and heavy bags under his eyes, his smile took away the heaviness that weighted on the group’s shoulders, telling them that you would be fine and that you made it, albeit hooked up on painkillers, liquids, and other substance to keep you stable. The surgeon had warned them that you’d be coming in and out of sleep, dazed and in pain, that you’d mumble and whimper, but you never lucid enough to be conscious of your words.

And the moment your eyes open, blinking away the sleep that clung to your mind, the rushed to your side, whispering prises and encouragements, happiness and relief spilling from their every pores as they give you space to breathe and take a moment to take in your situation, mind still swimming in drugs and pain. They spend your recovery sitting in your room, occupying your time with small stories and little banter, making sure that every moment you spent in bed were joyful ones.

Despite the long recovery - a week spent at the hospital and a few more unable to put in any work - they clung to you, leaving one or two of them sticking by your side in case of an accident or an emergency. They were ready to help you with anything: bathing, eating, massages, or sleeping, as long as it caused you a bit of pain or annoyance.

Oh, +1000000% big guard dog privileges. None of them will let you go off on your own anymore, you’ll have one at your every beck and call, following you around like a lost pup.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara

[asimpforthe80s]

Found You, Andrei

Starring: Nikto x bestfriend!Reader

Warnings: mentions of: torture, going to the gulag, and Russian speaking. Smut: Reader riding him, unprotected p in v, and stroking his cock.

"I'm going on a mission," he said softly and leaned against the railing of the bridge, the dark and cold, murky waters of the Neva reflected in his pale blue eyes. He didn't explain anything — as usual because of his never-ending top secret assignments — but his words sounded like a death sentence this time.

"I won't be able to keep in touch for quite some time. I'll text you on your old number when I get back. Don't throw it away, рыбка."

He smiled faintly at you, trying to cheer you up a little when he saw an anxiety in your eyes. He squeezed your palm, putting a small photo card into it: there was an image of the two of you, smiling carelessly under a snow-covered scarlet mountain-ash. "You'll wait for me, won't you?" It was the last time you saw him.

You nervously smoothed out the crumpled corner of a worn photo, waiting for the next landing. The image faded a long time ago, but this is the only memento that was left of your dear friend. 6 years. 6 long years of searching, sleepless nights, smoked cigarettes, and endless stress. You've lost all your friends and family, sold all your possessions, and learned how to hold a gun. You have transferred from one PMC to another and visited, perhaps, every God-forsaken corner of the world. Hell, you even ended up in the Gulag, thinking that he was there, and managed to escape, taking advantage of the turmoil due to the escape of some crazy guy named Makarov. Now, you are one of the operators of the Shadow Company. You are stripped of your previous life completely, your ID is fake, and you don't even know if your dear friend is still alive. There's only a small bit of hope smoldering inside you.

Doing an intelligence mission, you split from the rest of the group to search through the abandoned gas factory. You ran into Nikto when you were storming a building. He now wore a mask, but you immediately recognized his icy blue eyes. It was your dear friend, your Andrei ... But he looked very changed. He was... Different.. Damaged… Broken.

"Nikto.." you said, instantly hugging him without caring about the danger signs in your head. The hug was unexpected, but not unwanted. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, like they remembered how to do it despite everything. But he pulled away quickly, almost roughly, as if afraid that you'd see something in his face. Or maybe just afraid of feeling something.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was cold, detached. Yet, there was a hint of something else underneath, a flicker of warmth that made you wonder if it was real or just your imagination. "Go back to the others."

His hand reached out to push you gently, but there was no force behind it. Just a silent plea for you to leave before things got worse. Before he hurt you. "Nikto, you're coming with me." You said roughly, a complete contrast to the you he knew. "I'm not letting you disappear for 6 years only to find you and leave you again." You growled, grabbing his hand. "Nyet..." Nikto started to protest, but the grip on his hand was firm. A shiver went down his spine at the sound of your voice - it was different. Rougher. Harder. Not the soft, gentle voice he was used to hearing. But there was something else too - a hint of demand, of command.

And then he felt the hand on his, firm and unyielding. And he knew. He knew that this was it. That whatever wall he had built around himself was about to come crashing down. And he was terrified. But he also couldn't bring himself to pull away. Because despite everything, he needed this. Needed you. "You can take that new fucking attitude and burn it in hell.." you whispered as you started dragging him with you, taking him to your team. The roughness in your voice, the way you dragged him along, it was all so unlike you. But there was something about it that stirred something deep within him. Something primal and raw. As if a part of him was waking up after years of slumber.

"Nyet!" He protested again, but it came out more like a growl. He let you drag him, his body moving automatically as he followed you towards the others. But his mind was screaming at him, telling him to stop. Telling him that this wasn't right. That he should stay hidden, stay safe. But the feel of your hand on his, the sound of your voice, it was too much. Too compelling. "ты пойдешь со мной, хочешь ты этого или нет, Никто." You said, speaking his native language, 'you will come with me whether you like it or not, Nikto'.

The harshness of your words, spoken in his mother tongue, hit him like a punch to the gut. It was like a key turning in a lock, unlocking doors he thought he had sealed off forever. For a moment, he stood there, frozen, staring at you with wide, unblinking eyes.

Then, slowly, he nodded. He didn't know why he was agreeing to this. Didn't know why he was following you. All he knew was that he had to. Had to be with you. Even if it meant risking everything.

"Da..." He finally managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "Я... я хочу с тобой." He said, 'I... I want to be with you. You nodded. "Good.. cause I'm not letting you leave again, lyubimaya." The word 'lyubimaya', which translated to 'beloved', hit him like a punch to the stomach. It was a word he hadn't heard in years. Years of pain and torment had erased any semblance of love from his life. And yet, there it was. Coming from you. And it wasn't just in your tone, but in your touch. Your grip on his hand was almost possessive, as if you were staking your claim on him.

"Lyubimaya?" He repeated the word, tasting it on his lips. It was bitter but not unpleasant. For some reason, it made him want to lean into your touch instead of pulling away. "Yes, lyubimaya.." You repeated, taking him inside your team's extraction helicopter. The interior of the helicopter was warm and cozy compared to the cold outside. There was a sense of camaraderie among the men, a bond that could only be formed through shared experiences and dangers. Seeing you among them, giving orders, made his heart swell with pride. You belonged here. You were meant to be leading these men, not stuck in some office job.

As he sat next to you, he felt a strange sense of contentment wash over him. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. Maybe never. And for some reason, it scared him. "когда мы вернемся на базу, ты поешь, а потом мы пойдем в мое общежитие. ты займешь мою постель без разговоров." You said, telling him that when you got back to base, he was gonna eat, go back to your dorm, and take your bed without discussion. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and laden with meaning. His post. His bed. You were claiming him. Marking him as yours in front of everyone. And for some reason, it thrilled him. Excited him.

"Dа..." He murmured, nodding slowly. "Я... я буду делать так, как ты сказала." He would do as you said. Without question. Without hesitation. Because in that moment, he would do anything for you. "Good, Andrei.." You mumbled, saying his real name. The use of his real name hit him like a punch to the gut. Andrei. A name he hadn't heard in years. A name that was as foreign to him now as if it were another language entirely. Yet, hearing it fall from your lips sent a shiver down his spine. A good shiver. One that made his heart race and his breath hitch.

"Andrei..." He echoed, testing the word on his tongue. It felt strange. Heavy. But also comforting. Like coming home after a long journey. "You're safe with us.." you said, still not letting go of his hand. Your words hit him like a bolt of lightning, searing through the fog of his mind and touching something deep within him. Safe. You were saying he was safe. With you. With your team.

The idea was so alien to him, so foreign, that for a moment, he couldn't comprehend it. Couldn't believe it. But then, he felt it. The tension easing from his shoulders. The tight knot in his stomach loosened. He was safe. Here. With you. "Now.. let me see you.." you murmured, reaching for his mask. Your fingers brushed against his mask, and for a moment, he tensed up. But then, he realized that you weren't going to hurt him. That you wouldn't do anything to harm him. So, he let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. He waited. Waited for the pain. Waited for the fear. But it never came. Instead, all he felt was your gentle touch. And it was... nice. Comforting. Almost soothing. As you took off his mask, you saw the many, many scars of his previous torture. Placing a soft hand on his cheek, you tried to assure him that he was safe and no one would hurt him. At least no one from your base. "Oh, Andrei.." you whispered softly in that voice he knew. Not in that rough and demanding voice he heard earlier. Your touch was soft, almost reverential as you traced the scars on his face. Each line and mark told a story of pain and suffering. But they didn't scare you. They didn't make you flinch away. They made you care. And that care...it was overwhelming. It was too much. Too intense. But at the same time, it was exactly what he needed.

"Oh, Andrei..." The way you said his name. It was like a caress. A promise. A vow. It was a name that held so much weight. So much meaning. And hearing it from your lips was... intoxicating. "любовь моя.. тебе больно.. столько шрамов.. дорогая.." you mumbled, pulling him in for a hug he so desperately needed. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The warmth of your body against his own was like a balm to his soul. It was comforting. Reassuring. It was something he craved. Needed. Desperately.

"Да..." He agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Больно... Больно много." It hurt. A lot. But as you held him, he found himself relaxing. Letting go of the fear. Of the pain. Just for a moment. "And that's okay.. A... Andrei.." you whispered with a soft stutter, taking off your own mask, discarding it on the floor along with his. Your mask hitting the floor brought him back to reality. Back to the harshness of their situation. But seeing you discard your mask too...it meant something. It meant trust. Loyalty. Friendship. Family. All things he'd been denied for so long.

"Da..." He nodded, finally opening his eyes to look at you. Really look at you. No mask. No disguise. Just you. His friend. His family. You were crying.. but.. matching. The both of you had so many scars. "Just like we used to.. we're matching.." You cried. Your tears stung his eyes, but he didn't blink. Didn't flinch. He just stood there, soaking in the sight of you. Of your tears. Of your scars. Matching. Just like old times. Only now, it wasn't just physical scars. It was emotional ones, too. Scars from the past. From the pain. From the loss.

"But why?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are we like this? Why did we have to become this?" You chuckled, drying your tears. "I wanted to find you.. I got desperate.. so I joined the same shit you did.. even went to the fucking gulag.." you cried. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Gulag. Fucking gulag. That place was hell on earth. And you went there. For him. Because you were desperate. Because you wanted to find him. Him. The monster that was Nikto.

"And you found me..." He muttered, feeling an odd mix of emotions. Pride. Relief. Fear. Guilt. All swirling around inside him like a storm. "I- I searched so many places.. и я наконец нашел тебя.." you said. Your words echoed in his mind. I finally found you. Those words were like a balm to his broken soul. A sign that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't alone anymore. That someone cared enough to look for him. To risk everything to find him.

"I'm sorry..." He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry for dragging you into this mess." You chuckled as you cried. "No, no, it's nothing.." you said. Your chuckle was like a slap in the face. It was unexpected. Unexpectedly human. Unexpectedly real. And it pissed him off. Made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the world. Angry at fate. But mostly, angry at himself for bringing you into this nightmare.

"No, it's not nothing," he growled, his voice low and gruff. "It's everything." You sighed. "Andrei.. it was worth it.. so many missions.. willingly going to the fucking gulag.. getting abducted and tortured during a mission.. fuck.. it was all for you.." you said. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Tortured. Abducted. Willingly going to the gulag. All for him. For the monster that he'd become.

"Я не достоин этого," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I am not worthy of this.' You shook your head. "No, you are.. it was worth it.. cause I found you.." Your denial was like a knife twisting in his gut. Found me. Those words echoed in his mind. Over and over again. Like a mantra. Like a prayer. They were soothing. Comforting. They made him feel less alone. Less like a monster.

But they also filled him with guilt. With shame. With regret. Regret for turning you into this. For making you go through all of this. You hugged him once more. But this time it was more for your sake. You needed him just as much as he needed you. Your hug was like a lifeline. It pulled him out of the darkness. Out of the abyss. Even if only for a moment. It felt good. Too good. Dangerous almost.

But still, he allowed himself to enjoy it. To let himself be comforted. Because sometimes, you need to be weak. To let yourself be vulnerable. Especially when you've been hurt as much as he had.

The silence hung heavy in the air. Heavy with unspoken words. Unspoken regrets. Unspoken fears. It was comfortable. Almost peaceful. Almost. His thoughts kept drifting back to those moments. Moments where he was just... human. Not a monster. Not a killer. Just a man. A man who was scared. Who was lonely. Who missed someone. Someone who was sitting next to him right now. The silence was comforting. Familiar. The two of you were sitting on your bed, still in full uniform. "Want something more comfortable?" You asked quietly. Your offer hung in the air between them, a beacon of normalcy amidst the chaos. A simple question. An invitation to shed the weight of their uniforms, symbols of duty, and responsibility. He looked down at his clothes, then back up at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Da," he murmured, standing up abruptly. He began to undress, peeling away the layers of his identity - the uniform, the medals, the badges. Each piece was thrown carelessly onto the floor until he stood before you in nothing but his underwear. You nodded and went to get something more comfortable for him. Coming back, you had an oversized t-shirt and a paid of sweatpants. Which reminded him of something.. fuck. Those were his clothes. His clothes before he joined whatever the fuck he had joined. "Here." You said, handing him the clothes before going to change to something more comfortable, yourself. Your words were like a punch in the gut. A reminder of who he used to be. Of the life he'd left behind. He took the clothes from your hands without saying anything. Slipping into them, he could almost pretend he was back there. Back home. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

As he watched you change, he couldn't help but notice how natural it seemed. How comfortable. Like you belonged here. Like you were supposed to be here. With him. A man and a woman changed together like it was normal. But it didn't seem weird. It felt normal. It felt like the time before the military. The sight of you changing in front of him, so casual and unaffected, brought back memories. Memories of simpler times. Times before the military. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

For a moment, he forgot about the scars. About the pain. About the guilt. He just saw you. Naked. Vulnerable. Human. And it was beautiful. It was perfect. The feeling of the soft fabric against his skin was comforting. Familiar. It was like putting on an old pair of shoes. Worn in. Broken in. Perfectly fitting. It was a part of him. Or rather, it was a part of who he used to be. Before. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

As he sat back down on the bed, he couldn't help but notice how different things were. How strange it felt. Yet, somehow, it also felt right. As you took off your shirt, he could see all the scars. Everywhere. Even your perfectly round tits had scars of torture. Your body was a canvas of pain. Every inch of your skin told a story. A story of torture. Of suffering. Of resilience. But he wasn't looking at the scars. He was looking at you. At the way your body moved. The way your muscles shifted under your skin. The way your nipples hardened slightly in the cool air of the room.

It was a fucking turn-on. Despite everything. Despite the scars. Despite the pain. You blushed as he stared at you. "What are you looking at?" You asked softly, not realizing that he was hard as a rock under the sweatpants. His gaze lingered on your body, drinking in every detail. The curve of your hips. The swell of your breasts. The way your skin glowed in the dim light of the room. He was hard. Rock-hard. But he didn't move. Didn't speak. He just kept staring.

You were beautiful. Perfect. Untouched. And he wanted you. Wanted you more than he'd ever wanted anyone or anything. You noticed his hardness pressing against the material of the sweatpants. "Fuck, Andrei..." You mumbled, biting your lower lip. Your curse made him shiver. Made him want to reach out and touch you. Made him want to take you. Right there. On the bed. Against the wall. Anywhere. Just to feel you. To hear you moan. To taste you. Fuck, to taste you.

But he didn't move. Couldn't move. Not yet. "I need you..." You whispered, closing the distance between both of you. You leaned in and kissed him softly at first, but then with passion. Your confession broke the dam. The floodgates opened. He pulled you closer, crushing his lips against yours. His tongue darted out, exploring the warmth of your mouth. His hands roamed over your body, tracing the contours of your muscles. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving marks.

And still, he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he finally had you. You moaned into his mouth as he explored your body with his hands. You pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, grinding your crotch against his hardness. The shift in positions only fueled his desire. Your weight on top of him, your body grinding against his, it was all too much. He groaned into your mouth, the sound muffled by your kiss. His hands found their way to your ass, squeezing the soft flesh.

He needed more. Needed to feel you. Needed to be inside you. His hands on your ass made you grind harder against his cock. You reached down and pulled down his pants, pulling out his hardness. You stroked it a few times, feeling it pulse in your hand. Your touch on his length made him gasp. Made him thrust up into your hand. He was hard. So fucking hard. Ready. Waiting. Wanting.

His hands found their way to your hips, gripping them tightly. He pulled you closer, aligning his length with your entrance. He was ready. More than ready. Your body was shaking with anticipation. You grinded against his cock, teasing yourself before slowly lowering yourself onto him. Inch by agonizing inch until you were fully seated on his lap. The sensation of you enveloping him was indescribable. He groaned, his head thrown back against the pillow. His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you to move. To ride him. To fuck him.

He was yours. All yours. You started moving on him, your body rocking against his. Each movement brought a new wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. You felt full. Satiated. Complete.

And you liked it. God, how you liked it. Each roll of your hips sent jolts of pleasure shooting straight to his dick. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. All he could do was feel. Feel you. Feel your body moving on top of him. Feel your walls clenching around him. Your movements became faster, more desperate. You were chasing that climax, that release. You wanted it so badly. Needed it. Craved it. His breathing grew ragged, and his grip on your hips tightened. He could feel his climax approaching, like a freight train bearing down on him. It was inevitable. Imminent.

And he wanted you to feel it. Wanted you to feel him. Your movements became erratic as your orgasm approached. You clenched your teeth, trying to hold back the tidal wave of pleasure threatening to consume you. But it was no use. It was too powerful. Too intense. "Andrei..!" You moaned as you reached your climax. Your cry of ecstasy pushed him over the edge. His own orgasm ripped through him, making his vision blur and his breath hitch. He threw his head back, his jaw clenched tight as he rode out the waves of pleasure.

And when it was over, he was left panting. Left spent. Left sated. You collapsed onto him, your body trembling from the intensity of your orgasms. You laid there, catching your breath while your body slowly returned to normal. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. His body was covered in sweat, but he didn't care. He just held you. Held you tight. And for once, he felt... complete. You lay there in silence, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. You snuggled against him, your body fitting perfectly against his. You closed your eyes, contentment washing over you. For once, he let himself relax. Let himself enjoy the moment. Enjoy you. His arms tightened around you instinctively, as if afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You nuzzled into his neck, inhaling deeply. His scent filled your senses, making you want to stay here forever. You felt safe. Comforted. Loved. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing in his ears. He could feel you nuzzling into his neck, could feel your breaths against his skin. And it felt... right. Perfect, even.

For once, he allowed himself to believe that maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.

[stxrsniolo]

⠀⠀ ⠀✦ ⠀ :⠀⠀somnium⠀ ⠀💭 ⠀ . . .

𝐀𝐄𝐆★𝐍'𝐒 notes : dear reader, this story will unfold over approximately 15 chapters, all of which have been meticulously outlined by yours truly (aka me, yes). it’s a slow burn between the characters, filled with a little bit of everything—from scenes not suitable for sensitive audiences to purely comedic moments, and even the classic teenage drama you’d expect from characters navigating this stage of life.

𝐀𝐄𝐆★𝐍'𝐒 pairing : dreambound!matt x lucid dream!reader

Chapter 04: the silent night

the day began cool, but eventually everything changed, an uneasiness that matt couldn't shake off, a sensation in his stomach like a premonition of doom, even as the world around him seemed to operate with the usual rhythm of life.

it was as if his body was on high alert, sensing something amiss, a silent warning that danced at the edges of his consciousness. he went about his morning routine, but the feeling persisted, a shadow over every action.

the plan was to go bowling with madison, a dear friend of the triplets, known for her vibrant energy in the music scene. the day was bright in los angeles, the kind that promised laughter and memories, the bowling alley a sanctuary of fun with its noise and camaraderie.

madison greeted them with her characteristic exuberance, her laughter a balm, yet it did little to soothe matt's inexplicable dread.

"ready to lose, boys?" madison's voice was a melody of jest, her smile as wide as ever as she chose a bright pink bowling ball.

they played, and matt managed to engage, throwing balls down the lane, cheering, even scoring a few strikes, but his heart wasn't in it. every laugh felt hollow, his mind tethered to the foreboding feeling that something was wrong.

as the day wore on, the sun setting on their fun, the sensation in his stomach only worsened.

they said their goodbyes to madison, her laughter still ringing in the air, but for matt, the day's joy was overshadowed by the looming night. he tried to distract himself by talking with nick and chris, but his thoughts were fixated on one thing: what if heist didn't appear in his dreams?

retiring to his room on the second floor, matt attempted his usual bedtime routine, but the comfort he normally found in these rituals was absent. in bed, sleep seemed more like an adversary than a friend.

he tossed, turned, the sheets becoming a mess of his frustration, each shift was accompanied by a grunt of irritation, the silence of the night amplifying his restlessness.

unable to bear it any longer, he got up, the wooden floor cold under his feet as he made his way to the kitchen.

the house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator.

he drank a glass of milk, hoping for some semblance of peace, but the liquid did nothing for the storm brewing inside him.

back in his room, he tried everything - counting sheep, playing soothing sounds, even scrolling through old photos on his phone, but sleep eluded him.

finally, exhaustion claimed him, pulling him into a dream that felt more like a nightmare.

he was back in boston, but not the bustling, familiar city; he stood before the skeletal remains of his childhood home, the one that had once been full of life but now was nothing but charred memories.

the fire was there, raging with an intensity that felt too real, the heat scalding his skin even in the dream, but the neighborhood was desolate, houses untouched by the flames yet abandoned, no signs of life.

"heist?! heist!" matt's voice broke through the silence, his calls desperate, the echoes mocking him in the empty streets.

he ran into the burning house, the memories of laughter, of family dinners now just ashes under his feet. there was no one, no heist.

he searched every room, his panic growing with each empty space.

"heist, where in hell are you?!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his heart pounding with fear and confusion. he checked the neighbors', the house across the street, his cries becoming more frantic.

"please, please, be somewhere" he begged to the empty air, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. the mcdonald's parking lot where they had shared moments was silent, the lights motionless, the playground in the park nearby a ghost of its former self.

the realization hit him hard; she wasn't there: he was alone, truly alone in this nightmare.

the dread turned to terror, a cold, gripping fear.

"wake up, wake up, wake up!" he yelled, pinching himself, slapping his face, running to a hydrant that appeared out of nowhere to splash water on his face - but the dream held him in its cruel grip.

"i need to wake up! i can't be here without her!" his voice was a mix of anger and despair, his actions becoming more violent, more desperate.

finally, as if by some miracle, the sound of his alarm broke through the chaos, a sharp, relentless noise that pulled him back to reality.

he sat up, gasping, his room still dark with the early morning light just beginning to seep through the curtains. His heart was racing, his body covered in a cold sweat from the terror he'd just experienced.

"what the fuck was that?" he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse from the screams. he looked around, half-expecting to see the remnants of fire, but there was just his room, his sanctuary, untouched by the nightmare.

©𝗦𝗧𝗫𝗥𝗦𝗡𝗜𝗢𝗟𝗢 | 🏷 my little starfish: @courta13 @chrislilcumslvt @marrykisskilled @chrislova @sturnshood @inspiredangel @strnilolover @emely9274 @sturns-mermaid @blushsturns