#its just....just the slaughtering alone is bad enough

[baekuras]

i love how with everything further about palistine coming out it's always like 'oh btw we are doing exactly what the nazis full holocaus style' (: truly amazing how for years we have been taught to feel ashamed and responsible of our history and to be aware of it as to never repeat it again and now those in power, those who supposedly renounced all that are just going "woops, sprinkled some nazism in here haha anyhow you now have no rights and we can all legally hunt you for sport, you are the worst for simply being and we'll be cheering for your downfall from afar-but no we are not xenophobic!!!!!!"

amazing to see makes me wanna take direct action and by direct action i mean hit them over the head. repeatedly. can't loose any more braincells anyway

[ddarker-dreams]

ranking the current husband rotation on how well they handle you crying.

even if he's the reason you're crying, chrollo is unfairly good at providing comfort. he considered himself numb to the sight of tears, but you plucked a cord buried deep inside his decayed heart. he assesses the scene before him with a quiet intensity. unless it's an event that just unfolded, he can always guess what got you this emotional based on past conversations and observation. his immediate instinct is to check you over for injuries. once he's assured that isn't the problem, he makes his presence known. softly saying your name, beckoning you toward him with open arms, offering an embrace deep enough to get lost in. the smooth tenor of his voice paired with his familiar warmth and scent envelop you in a comforting cocoon.

he doesn't tell you that it's okay, that there's no need to cry. he just allows your emotions to run their course. once you've settled down, he'll lead you by the hand to a couch and sit beside you. he'll quietly wonder if this is about so and so, gauging your body language for an answer if words fail you. he doesn't need to ask if you need anything. he just knows, his intuition has been sharpened to perfection by the time you've spent together. he's already thought through a myriad of solutions to whatever predicament you're facing, but he'll save that for later. the future is put aside so he can focus on you in the present.

scaramouche doesn't consider himself a sentimental person. he's allowed whatever goodwill he was born with to rot, gleefully accelerating the process so nothing but thorn and bristle remained. this garden turned necropolis returns to a shadow of itself at the mere sound of you sniffling. if that wasn't bad enough, the sight proves itself infinitely worse. he'll freeze as if his system powered down. this can't be right. you, the only being he considers worthwhile in this world, crying? he storms over, takes you by the shoulders and implores you to tell him what happened.

it's likely his abrupt appearance and grave demeanor won't prove an effective approach. he knew it before he took the first step, but his ability to rationalize succumbed to fear. fear that you were hurt, no matter what form this hurt takes. he wants an enemy to throw all this onto so he can tear it asunder. that'd give a semblance of control, something tangible to work with. if you can't provide him with names or details, he's at a loss. all he can do is think back to the many times he cried alone and trying recalling what it was he wanted then.

he'll hold you in a stiff, uncertain manner. the rough edges prove how genuine the act is.

blade is acquainted with grief and its numerous shades. the difference between you being that he's clawed at his retinas until he couldn't perceive those colors anymore, figuring it best to blind himself rather than granting outside influences the privilege. you cause the monochrome to revert. his empathy is raw, painful, and beyond verbal expression. he initially hesitates to confront this situation head-on. he couldn't offer sweet nothings if he wanted to — and he doesn't, platitudes are revolting — so what does that leave him with? he could say something insensitive, or his inability to form words might be an insult of their own.

he's fought few battles as fearsome as this. there's all the hallmarks of a bloody fight looming over the horizon. his breathing's picked up, adrenaline pumps through his abused nervous system. his hands itch to hold his sword. except there's nothing to slaughter here, no, he's tasked with the far more complicated task of imbuing life. he'll have you lay your head on his shoulder. he'll apologize, though he doesn't know what for. he just keeps you steady. you apologize for getting tears on his jacket as if he wouldn't let you tear him limb for limb if it made you feel a bit better. you probably don't want to hear that, so he presses a chaste kiss to your head instead.

[stinkrascal]

Breanna: It don't hurt, does it? Vladislaus: It is healed, mostly. I am grateful you only took one bite.

Breanna: [ slurping ] You want some of this? Vladislaus: No. Thank you. Breanna: Uhuh. Hey, so is cannibalism a thing with vampires?

Vladislaus: Of course. Cannibalism is found within many species. It is only natural it occurs in our kind as well. Breanna: Oh. I bet that's a big problem. Hey, what about restaurants?

Vladislaus: What about them? Breanna: Do vampires got restaurants? I bet that would help with the cannibalism thing. Vladislaus: There is an entire city at our disposal. There are many such opportunities for fine dining experiences.

Breanna: Huh? Oh. You could've just said yes, but okay. I bet you read a lot.

Breanna: Hey, so do vampires have libraries? Vladislaus: Yes, Breanna. We have libraries. Breanna: Yeah, you sound like you read a lot. Vladislaus: Thank you. Breanna: That wasn't a compliment.

Breanna: Hey, by the way, where are we going? Vladislaus: To the headmaster. She wishes to meet you. Breanna: Oh, right. Hey, so I got another question. Vladislaus: Yes, I'm sure you do.

Breanna: What's that supposed to mean? Vladislaus: Nothing at all. Breanna: I feel like you're making fun of me.

Vladislaus: What is your question, my dear?

Breanna: It was—uh—oh. Yeah. About when I bit you. You were bleeding. And last night, when you cut your hand—you bled then too. How's that work? How do you bleed if you're dead?

Vladislaus: You are mistaken. We are not dead. It is the opposite. As vampires, we are made to live. We experience life in its most concentrated form. Food tastes better, music sounds sweeter, and my God, Breanna, the sex.

Breanna: ...

Vladislaus: ...

Vladislaus: [ clears throat ] My point is, we are not dead, we are more alive than any other. Breanna: That's... good? Right? Frankie: Hey! Heyyyyy! HEEEYYYYYY! HEYY VLADDY DADDY! [ coughs ] ah shit, HEY VLAD! C'MON LITTLE MAN, I KNOW YOU SEE ME!!!!!!! HEYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Vladislaus: Of course. If you pay no mind to the minor setbacks. Breanna: Huh? What setbacks?

Vladislaus: The part where we eat the flesh of innocents, my sweet summer child. Breanna: Oh. How'd you know my birthday's in the summer? Frankie: C'mon peepaw! Get some fuckin' hearin' aids! [ whistles ] Yoohoo! Over hereee!

Breanna: Who's that guy over there? I think he's calling for you.

Breanna: Hello? Mr. Straud? Are you listening to me?

Breanna: Do you know that guy? Vladislaus: [ clears throat ] No. Vladislaus: [ in Frankie's mind ] Leave me alone. Frankie: Aww, c'mon, you don't gotta be like— Vladislaus: [ in Frankie's mind ] I SAID LEAVE. Frankie: Agh, get outta my head ya pervert.

Breanna: It kinda seems like you know him. Vladislaus: [ clears throat, louder this time ] As I was saying--our powers come at a great cost. You will do well to remember that. Breanna: Huh? Oh. You're still on that. I don't really care to be honest.

Vladislaus: You should. You were human not 24 hours ago. Would you turn your back on your people so quickly? Breanna: Who's my people? They're lucky I'm nice enough to stick to blood packs. Vladislaus: The blood packs are a byproduct of our sin.

Vladislaus: For every blood pack you consume, someone must die. Someone must be slaughtered. Breanna: Get off your high horse dude, you're a vampire too. If you think it's so bad you shouldn't have asked to be turned. Vladislaus: Is that what you believe?

Vladislaus: [ sighs ] Forgive me. I am being haughty. Truthfully, I envy your nature. You are suited for this life. This world was not made for me, and every interaction I have reminds me so.

Vladislaus: You, however, seem very good at enjoying yourself. You seek decadence, do you not? Vampirism is a decadent lifestyle. You will thrive. I can already tell. Breanna: ...Oh.

Breanna: [ giggles ] That sounds fun.

Breanna: You make me sound like I put some thought into it.

[yccoffeesimp]

𝙔𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨

Gender-neutral reader!! (I forgot to post this here as well :>)

A stellaron hunter, wanted with a near 8.13  billion credits on his head. A swordsman who sacrificed his body to become a blade. His salvation from the undying pain of Mara was once death. The other plane of existence. That was until he set eyes on you. A fellow trailblazer upon the Astral Express.

He never understood what it was he felt when you were around. He felt... Calm? At ease. Alive. It all started when you followed the Trailblazer onto the Xianzhou Loufo. And ever since that moment, he wanted- No. He craved your presence. He felt so alive when he saw you. No longer suffocating from the binds of the past and its mistakes. But that all disappeared when you went away.

He felt disappointed when you left. The constant pain he harbored returned in an instant. Yet in the background of all of that was an unstoppable craving for you.

Blade tried to deny the craving. Refusing to cross your path and avoiding you all in one, which wasn't hard at first, but somehow he felt himself get dragged to you. Eventually, it was too much. He began to realize that he needed you. And at any cost, he will take you.

It was easier said than done. Kafka, Silverwolf, and Firefly all pitched in. Well, more so Kafka. She found this "love" Blade had for you to be amusing. Silverwolf didn't seem to care and Firefly was too busy carrying out the script in Penacony to do anything.

While everything was happening in Penacony, when Dan Heng left with Boothill, you were left alone with Pom-Pom. That's when you went missing from the express. All alone now with a Stellaron Hunter.

There were many times you tried to leave when no one was paying attention. All were in vain as Blade would eventually catch you. It felt like a twisted game of hide and seek. He never understood why you'd want to leave. He wasn't mistreating you at all. You were fed, clothed, and sure all your freedoms were gone now but he never saw a problem with it.

He isn't manipulative like Jing Yuan. But more aggressive. The first time he ever did anything that resulted in injury was when you tried to run for the 5th time. He was getting irritated and you just so happened to try to run when he needed your presence to calm his mind. So seeing you run when he was like that definitely made him snap. He pinned you down like you were a wild animal. His hand gripping your neck was tight enough to leave a bruise. Normally he would just pin you to the floor. His hand kept your head to the floor as his knee was dug into your back, waiting patiently for you to stop struggling. After that, he would carry you back to your room before locking you in it. Such a nice man.

However, when you began to stop running, he wasn't aggressive anymore. He would just silently bask in your presence, his head in your lap or shoulder. Bringing you food, water, or whatever you need. Of course, he was curious as to why you stopped. Blade would never ask though. All that mattered to him now was that you were his. His salvation was finally in his grasp.

Nicknames: None

___________________________________________The silence of the room was deafening to you. You sat on the edge of your bed, the navy blue-haired individual who brought you here was easily resting his head on your lap. You questioned how he could be so at ease with what he does. He slaughtered many and destroyed several things. One of those was your freedom. Though you didn't do anything about it, you felt bad after what Kafka told you about Blade. Or at first. Honestly, you don't know what you feel for him anymore. Blade's head shifted in your lap a bit, causing your hands to flinch as you realized it was in his hair. "Sorry." You uttered. Waiting for a reply, you sigh as you'll never get one. ___________________________________________

[nocaptainonthisship]

Memorium

In which Ghost is an eldritch horror who feasts on memory, and you go willing to the slaughter.

It's common knowledge around these parts, like tossing salt over your shoulder and tapping wood and never breaking a fairy ring. When things aren't going your way and you're down on your luck, someone will invariably joke that you should find the Ghost. Call on the devil and he will answer. Call on the devil and he'll find you. Call on the devil and he can make your dreams come true.

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Your three favorite childhood memories go missing in exchange for your debts paid. The scent of your mother’s perfume disappears from mind forever, but so does the blight on the farm. You could find a husband if you forget the first boy you loved.

Most people don't believe in it. In him. They think he is a fairy tale, a myth forged of mist and shadow. You believe in him, though. You wouldn't be here if you didn't.

Your grandmother was the first of your line to call upon the beast. By all accounts she was the first to ever learn the truth. Granny didn't trade her favorite memories, the ones which kept her warm. She took one look at that cracked skull and understood greater power lies in pain.

Granny traded memories of riot and ruin and rot. She fed the monster well. In return, the Ghost made a ghost of her husband, and ensured no memory was so painful again.

Your mother, also, had called the Ghost, once upon a time. She fed him memories of death and decay and deviance, that she might drive the highwaymen from town. She told you only the skin of the story - not it's blood and bones. In stories, you came from a line of heroes brave and bold and wise enough to tame the beast.

You have been woefully unprepared.

They all think the Ghost is just a legend, a homegrown superstition. Who would be so desperate, they ask, to give up something so precious?

(Who would be so foolish, you wonder, to sacrifice something so beautiful and useless?)

There is power in the painful things, in the scar tissue and bile. There is power in the altar, in the sacrificial blood. There is power in the naming of the things you'd leave behind.

Granny had been cursed with a husband who would bruise as soon as bed her. Mother had been cursed by the violent opportunists of this world. You've been cursed by that which cannot be named nor pinned to one single cause.

Luck had never been on your side.

But you had listened to the stories, and instead of gathering bouquets of bitterness by the roadside, you gathered sacrifices, instead. When they mocked and bullied, you thought, "That will get me riches." When they pushed and prodded you, you thought, "This is enough to take me far from here." When permission never granted made no difference to the hands which sought to trap and tame, you thought, "Maybe he'll accept this sacrifice, too."

Some days it seemed all the memories you made were in service of an Eldritch God. You stored them up and let them fester and knew one day he would feast. You would bring him such a meal he might never go hungry again. This alone keeps you warm, when the night is at its peak. You live in flux, one step in the future where you know your gruesome end. Until then, it is nothing but noise, nothing but the patter of rain against your neck.

Perhaps they think it strange that you seem so unharmed. They call you witch and wanderer, an orphan of no father with no riches or home. They call you the devil’s plaything, and you can’t prove them wrong. 

Granny couldn’t warn you and Mother didn’t try. But there is power in many things, and none so much as three. 

You tried to live as people do and make the best of any home. You tried to live as the good ones did and find joy in the mundane. You tried to make the best of things, but you’d been rotted to your core. 

Thirty-three years you wait, until you know the time is right. The third of your line, on the third night of March, you walk into the woods and leave the past behind. 

There is no ritual to call the beast, no secret magics passed around. When one wants to find a Ghost, all they must do is ask. You walk into the woods until the echo of your steps is in fact no echo at all. You walk until your memories bleed, his fetid breath upon your nape. 

There is power in the third of things, but you think you offer him more. Every thought that comes to you is more foul fuel than the last. The curse you’ve carried since the womb begins to lift at last. For the first time you wonder if you were nothing but a pig fattened up for slaughter. Suffered, you had suffered so that he might be fed. 

And now, all that suffering, it drops out of your head. 

You wander through the forest, with a monster on your heels. He herds you far away from home, in honor of your deal. The Ghost will take your suffering and give it all away. The Ghost will hold your bargain up and you will never hurt again. 

In the deepest forest, where the sun can’t find him, the Ghost has made a home of wood, of stone and rugged mortar. You think it odd and almost charming that the monster has a home. This Ghost has never frightened you. Not in the way he should. He leads you to his table and lets you make yourself at home.

Without the warmth of memory, you’re a strange and broken thing. There are holes now inside you where you think your spirit should sing. You scraped away the broken bits, the rot and ruin and rust. You cut away the wicked scars and are left with skeletal remains. There are holes inside you, where the human used to dwell. 

“What gift would you have of me?” the Ghost asks with a growl. 

How can you say the gift is given, before he even uttered a word? He’d feasted on your demons, that they might no more haunt your door. Now, there is nothing left to hope for, except another dawn. Now there is only hunger, in the yawning chasm that is your soul. 

When the Ghost smiles it is with the blood of your soul still dripping from his teeth. 

When you smile back, there is poison on your tongue. 

Even monsters need a mate, in the darkness of the woods. 

It is myth and legend and mysticism, the ghosts who haunt the woods. Aunties say they’ll eat your dreams and steal the good away. Fathers warn of violent ends and hope hung out to dry. But some remain who know the truth, who know where power lies. They’re storing up their hurt and grief to make their sacrifice. 

One day, when the power is right, the Ghosts will become three. 

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

Something is hunting Darth Maul across the stars.

A presence he cannot touch, whispers that chase him from sleep. Answers seem to lay in a place he cannot go... at least, not alone. Before the Jedi and the Sith, before the Republic or the Empire, before the ancient Je'daii even, there were force users building temples and communing with the cosmic energies.

Somehow, even back then, there was a rule of two.

For Ben Kenobi, getting up each day is difficult enough, nevermind facing the past. He has one singular goal left to him: to be a guardian. A very distant guardian. Between the echoing emptiness of his cave and the war-torn memories that haunt him, he really just wants to be left alone.

Too bad for him that sleep-deprived sith lords aren't likely to take no for an answer.

[The long awaited sequel to Desertification is here!]

🔥🔥🔥 Read chapter 1 on Ao3, or scroll below the cut! Updates on Tuesdays.🔥🔥🔥

Bridges are a beautiful weakness. 

This one is massive. Natural stone that reaches across a wide span between stronghold and barren cliff. The architecture is sharp, angular, and modern, with little in the way of ornamentation. It is simply a functional pathway, the sole point of access for a utilitarian facility. The forces garrisoned here would have little trouble defending this chokepoint, under typical circumstances. 

A zygerrian guard rises off the ground, clawing at their neck, while the next shoots wildly, hollering for backup. Blaster bolts curve off unnaturally into empty air. The first alien loses consciousness and slumps, still airborne. Their rifle clatters to the stone. The second turns and manages to flee two steps before they are swept sideways off the bridge like a leaf in a storm. They plummet, screaming, twenty stories down and into the lava below. With a lazy gesture, Darth Maul sends their strangulated comrade tumbling after them. 

Lords of the Sith truly cannot qualify as ‘typical circumstances.’ 

He begins forward again as the next defenders rise to stop him. The formation they take is practiced, but he can see their quaking knees, feel their fear in the air. 

If these fools truly wished to challenge him, they would be far better served by calling their forces back and turning the compound’s anti-ship cannons on its own infrastructure. Burying him alive might actually slow him down… but the cannons remain fixed on the sky, and figures in golden armor pour out onto the wide, windy bridge. 

The price of such short sighted arrogance will be their lives. 

Maul finishes churning through the first of the stronghold’s defense forces. He scatters a forward line of pikemen, shielding himself from blaster fire using stones torn from the structure itself. The occasional bolt slips past these rocks, but he simply bats those away with his saber. 

The slaughter of their frontline gives the next group time to prepare. He is met with a more cohesive unit, backed by snipers. The cover fire does them little good. Maul ruins their formation by blitzing carelessly into the middle of it. His red blades lay into the panicking bodies around him and parry the long range shots back to their origins with impeccable soresu. 

While he picks off the remaining snipers in their nests with a few force-propelled rocks, a new line of troops with energy bows come forward, firing in rapid sequence. It is… quaint, he thinks. Few have the dedication to make such a weapon into a formidable challenge, and these guards could not have matched the skill or power of a dathomirian archer on their worst day. Perhaps it is because these soldiers lack an edge of desperation -for food or survival- whenever they practice their aim?

Regardless, their skill or lack thereof is ultimately irrelevant against a man who can predict where they will fire.

Maul reaches the halfway point unimpeded, and the zygerrians finally switch tactics to something more innovative. The remaining guards part, and a set of twins emerge to close with him instead.

Each wields a halberd tipped by shining blue energy blades. They fight together, resplendent in fanged grins and fine armor. Their movements, obfuscated by swirls of shimmering gold cloth, complement each other with the skill born of what must have been decades spent training in tandem. 

Facing such talent is the highlight of his efforts thus far, but even these warriors cannot match a sith. He tears their blades from them, and stabs each twin through the chest with their siblings' match. They die propped up on the hafts, slouching toward each other. 

Blaster fire starts back up, and Maul returns to working through the rest of the chaff. The air begins to reek of desperation so strong it can be smelt over the sulfur. Acetone-bright and cloyingly sweet. 

Quick as a lightning strike, an electro-whip cracks near his head with a sharp snap-fizz . A waft of ozone fills his nose, and the sith's forward momentum stutters to a halt. Resentful yellow eyes lock on the offender and he bares sharp, iron-stained teeth at them. The tall zygerrian only snarls in return.

Hatred rolls off Maul’s shoulders like heat waves in the force. That energy coalesces, and entropy descends on the whip-wielder. Their fur begins to dissolve as if they were being nibbled on by acid that simply does not stop, and the muscular form falls to the ground, writhing and screaming. They melt into naught but blackened ash under Maul’s baneful stare.

He turns to continue on, sunk too deep in the flow and lust of combat to examine the demise any further. 

Slaves are thrown at him next, driven out onto the bridge as his assault nears the stronghold's three-story double doors. An effort he hesitates to call a 'tactic'. Half of the scrawny chattel fall to their bellies before he has even reached them, quivering and silent as they choose the potential wrath of their masters over certain death upon his blades. 

Those who fight he kills as quickly as they come. Living and dead alike are left on the ground behind him, forgotten as soon as they pass out of sight. 

More guards, with flashier armor and even finer weapons are next. Insignia and marks of esteem decorate their shoulders; the royal guard, here to die for their liege. 

A sai cha strike with his saberstaff, and a head hits the ground before the body knows it is dead. Cho mok and cho mai, double-disarmed at the wrist. Their owner stumbles and falls off the bridge in shock, fixated on the remaining stumps. An angled shiak, down through the ribs just far enough to boil the blood in their lungs. Mou kei to the left leg, and another trips off the side to join the rest in immolation. Maul spins in a flourish of beautiful juyo at the gate.

Sai cha. Sai cha. Sai cha. 

Then there are no more guards. 

He pushes the double doors open with the force, and smiles to behold the reason he came here.

"Prince Trifenra," his croon echoes in the silence of the throne room, "I warned you not to cross me."

The lone zygerrian slams a button on the podium beside them, and the floor falls away with them on it. Maul gets to the edge in time to be stymied by a bulkhead closing the hole over. He sneers at it in annoyance, and starts cutting through with his lightsaber. 

Twenty seconds, and he completes a circle of molten metal. A kick with his cybernetic foot sends the cutout falling, revealing a web of catwalks over a field of lava. He jumps. 

The sith searches the platforms as he freefalls, but Trifenra is nowhere to be seen. 

Maul lands on a catwalk with a heave of force to lessen the impact. His eyes drift closed, chest expanding as he breathes in, swaying in whichever direction feels right, focusing… focusing…

The force whispers to him that his prey is that way .

Maul jumps the rail and bounces between causeways, reaching the correct one and pelting down it. The feeling ends at an arch built into the rough stone walls. Thick metal doors, locked tight.

He snarls and starts cutting again, a small circle just large enough to admit him. The sith punches this cutout, and somersaults through without touching the cherry-red edges. 

On the other side are holding cells. Row after row, multiple levels of hexagonal doors stretch out from the entry, each sealed by lambent red. Some are empty, some not. All the prisoners are exotic in some way. 

Maul glances over the occupants as he passes, walking deeper into the facility. Trifenra is here, he can sense it.

The chamber widens into a large, multilevel room around a center platform. A dead end. The prince's possible hiding places have multiplied yet become limited at the same time. Maul's mouth quirks at the corner.

"Come out, come out. Wherever you are~," he sings in a sardonic drawl, like this is a game of hunter and prey between younglings.

The airscrubbers hum through the walls, creating a deep resonance just on the edge of hearing. Despite what must be a robust air recycling system, this room remains steeped in the scents of the enslaved; bitterness and despondency, melancholia and hate. A multispecies cacophony of emotions that make his sinuses itch. 

He hears wheezing laughter, like the rattle of dry grass. 

"Ssssweet, ssssweet, ssssinger…" calls a hoarse voice from one of the cells. The force twinges, a plucked string.

The source is… across the room, on a higher level. Maul can sense the force warping in on itself somewhere nearby. Curious, he leaps closer to it, up a story and over.

The cell on the left is marked as 214, and it contains a nautolan in a rare carmine color. She is heavily pregnant, and pressed as far to the left side of her cage as she can be. 

The cell on the right is marked as 216. It holds a crab-like species he does not know, with a shell that looks like molten, living gold. It is quivering in the back of its container, in the rightmost corner.

In the center cell is a woman with wide pink eyes and an abundance of platinum hair. Her skin is white, like a palliduvan, but with an oily, iridescent sheen. She sits in the center of the room, naked, hugging her knees and shaking with that dry, rattling laugh. 

Her pink gaze zeroes in on him, and her smile grows…and grows… and- 

Lips spread like split meat as she grins from ear to ear, her teeth needle sharp. Conversely, her eyes are kind above the unnatural-looking maw. 

"Blesssssed sssssinger~" she croons sweetly, "the lit-tle king plays a trick  on you. Deceitful. Rude. Give him t-to me and I will blesss your path!" 

She shouldn’t be able to move her jaw like she is, with those facial muscles severed. The force perhaps, magic or alchemy of some sort. He considers her, and the offer, mildly. "I am not easily tricked.” 

She smiles still, and says nothing. Her presence feels like a tangle of razorwire, writhing and clingy. 

"Hm.”

Maul walks away, stalking the metal floors and surveying the open room with thoughtful eyes. The prince is here somewhere, but there are enough strange projections from the prison's myriad occupants that it feels… cloudy.

A mirialan glares at him as he walks past their cage. The man floats a foot above his bed, rail-thin and cross legged.

A dry-looking quarren ignores him in turn, crying weakly into their hands.

He laps the room, and finds himself at the center of this fusion of zygerrian and modern architecture. A control panel sits on a dias, with a map of the cell block and various monitoring systems running. 

"Hm!" he comments, "How convenient." 

He taps the icon for cell 216 and tells it to open. 

The sound of a ray shield powering down is shortly followed by more dry, wheezing laughter. He turns to see the woman step into freedom and launch herself across the room, trailing yards of platinum hair. 

She lands in front of 107, and presses herself as close to the ray shield as one could be without burning. 

"Knoc-kk knnnock!" she croaks. 

The cell's occupant shrieks, falling back in their terror, but then scrambles to the shield again to yell up at him. They appear to be a salenga, but something… something is off. Maul squints, trying to pinpoint-

"I will pay you whatever you want! Anything!"

He cocks his head. Curious. How would a slave pay- 

Oh. Interesting. 

"Put her back in her cell and I will make you royalty! I swear it!"

The unnaturally white creature hisses, no longer laughing.

It is Maul who chuckles, walking to the edge of the center platform and clasping his hands behind his back. "A marriage proposal is it, Prince Trifenra? Now that is a… curious bribe."

He waits for the hope to glimmer in their eyes, then waves a hand in a grand gesture. The console registers a command from a finger press that is not there, and obeys it.

All of the cells open. 

The salenga shrieks again, and melts into a clawdite changeling as they zip out and go streaking away. They make it all of three strides before disappearing under shimmering hair and vengeful pink eyes. 

The next few minutes involve teeth, tearing, and unhinged sobbing. Maul watches for a moment as dozens of aliens flee on either side of him for the exit, then grows bored and turns to his comm. Dryden's secretary answers for him, a softly spoken pantoran with a penchant for ancient art. 

"Hello sir. My apologies, Mr. Vos is in a meeting at the moment. Should I get him for you, or can I take a message?" Sochu asks.

Maul waves off the first. "Simply inform him that the treachery has been dealt with, and he has my permission to begin renegotiating with the other offer."

"Very good, sir. Anything else I can do for you?" 

"Mmno," Maul says and hangs up.

His timing is good. The room has cleared and the strange woman is levitating up to the central platform, slathered in blood all down her front. Something wet and purple is cupped in her palms. She lands daintily, and he raises a brow. 

"Ssssinger, c-c-clever son~ You figurrrred out the trick-k, denied the trick-ksster. Gave him to us ," she smiles sweetly, too many teeth in her mouth. 

Maul hums, watchful.

"A gift!" she declares, and holds out… it’s a liver, or part of one. 

He accepts it, amused, with the smallest of bows. “My thanks.” 

The woman giggles like rotten wind chimes and turns to leap off the platform. She lands below and goes padding toward the lava flows, leaving a trail of red footprints smeared by passing hair in her wake. 

Maul considers the slick bulk of the organ in his hand. Dense, warm, and evenly toned purple. He holds it up and gives it a sniff. It smells healthy- clean blooded and rich, and the fight did have him feeling peckish.

"Mm… waste not, I suppose.”

He chooses a corner and slides his teeth in. The woman’s sharp, clinging darkness in the force gives a final twist and melts away. Maul chews thoughtfully on his way out of the compound, disregarding the blood that drips off his chin. His robes are already too stained for a bit more to matter. 

[whatitshouldvebeen]

“…stops the moment being with you is more difficult than it worth…” ((this is from your post a couple days ago))

Imagine a timid, broken reader trying to win back Johnny’s affection. He’s abusive but to her its still affection he gives and she can’t live without him. She has attached herself to this killer.

“If it will make you happy… you can hit me… you can pull my hair.. or choke me… I’ll even make you feel good… just don’t stay mad…please”

Johnny Slaughter x Reader

Contains: extreme abuse, gas lighting, and the unhealthiest relationship known to man

Too Much Trouble

In the dimly lit room, Johnny's return was heralded by waves of pure hate that seemed to radiate off him.

"You stupid fucking bitch," Johnny snarled, his silhouette looming menacingly in the doorway, hands clenched into fists.

"I'm sorry!" you sobbed, collapsing to your knees with hands clasped in front of you, a desperate plea for mercy echoing in your voice, a prayer to a merciless, vindictive God.

He stood there, a simmering rage evident as his fists clenched and unfurled.

"Johnny, please don't stay mad," you pleaded, bowing your head submissively. "I'll do anything. You can hit me, choke me, or do whatever you want to me. I am so, so sorry."

"You're sorry, huh? How many fucking times have I heard that bullshit?" His open palm met your cheek with a resounding slap, reducing you to grovel at his feet, tears streaming down your face, your cheek ablaze with red.

"I don't need your permission to beat you, you little rat fuck."

"You're right, I'm sorry," you muttered, nodding erratically.

"You're gonna be sorry. This time, I'm not holding back."

His kick landed squarely in your stomach, the force sending you sprawling onto the floor, clutching your abdomen in agony.

The illusion shattered again. The happy façade crumbled, the façade you could pretend was your reality when Johnny was pleased with you, when you were perfect.

He had expected you to pack him a meal when he went out to "work," criticizing you for forgetting his snack for a week. You leaped up, ran to the kitchen, and returned with the snack, only to face his wrath.

"Just like you to be a full-blown fucking retard. Can't listen for one goddamn minute. If I wanted you to go get me a fucking snack right this second, I woulda said to do it," he complained.

"I didn't realize you'd been without one for so long, so I felt bad and wanted to fix it. I shouldn't have worried about it right now, and I'm sorry," you said, attempting to de-escalate the situation.

"Can't go a fucking week without making me explain some basic shit to you. If you thought I cared about the fucking snack, maybe ask if you should go pack it instead of running off?" he berated.

You ducked your head. "You're right, I'm sorry."

"You ain't sorry. If you were, you'd learn a goddamn thing without me needing to tell you a hundred fuckin' times," he growled.

Truthfully, you were amazed he wasn't beating you already. You peeked up at him. "I swear I'll try to ask you if something is bothering you rather than trying to fix it right away," you said, hoping it would appease him. His glare deepened.

"Always with the promises. The swears. 'Oh, I won't do it again, Johnny!'," he mocked.

You started to tremble. "I don't know what to say," you said, struggling to hold his cold gaze.

"If I gotta tell you what to say, it won't make a difference. Why the fuck do I waste my time trynna teach you any goddamn thing? You're useless, lazy, spineless, and pathetic," he spat before leaving the room and locking the door.

Alone, you curled up on the bed, replaying the event in your mind, wondering why he hadn't hit you this time. Maybe you weren't even worth correcting anymore. Maybe you were more trouble than you were worth.

The thought hit you like a sack of bricks. You clutched the sheets, sobbing, desperate to be enough, to be worth keeping.

A timid voice from outside the locked door interrupted your thoughts. "Mommy? Are you okay?"

"Honey, I'm okay. Go to grandma's house, alright?" you said, masking the pain in your voice.

"Mommy needs rest?" they asked innocently.

You smiled through the pain. "Yeah, honey, mommy needs rest. Go on to grandma, baby. I love you."

As their little footsteps padded down the hall, you lay in silence, trying to hold onto the scent of him in the sheets. For almost a month, things had been good. You could almost believe Johnny loved you.

If you had any self-preservation, you'd plan an escape or consider self-defense. But you're stuck, desperately trying to think of what you can do or say to make him happy, knowing deep down there's nothing. With him not having touched you, you feared he had grown tired of tormenting you.

So, as you clutched your aching stomach after he kicked you, part of you was relieved. If he was bothering to correct you, maybe he was still going to keep you.

"I fucking hate you," he declared, kicking you over. "I wish you'd die."

His words cut deep as he grabbed your hair, a blade scraping under your chin. "One little slit is all it'd take to be rid of you. To spare me and our kid from growing up with a shit-for-brains mom."

You said nothing, tears and snot falling onto the floor. Johnny looked disgusted.

"You got nothin' to say? Maybe I should cut out your tongue," he sneered, tilting the blade to nick your skin.

"Baby, please, I-" you started. His eyes narrowed, bloodlust evident.

"Say one more goddamn word. Give me an excuse. I'm dying for you to let me be rid of you," he hissed, eyes filled with hate. "God, it'd make me feel so good to kill you. I can feel the tension leavin' my body just thinking about it. Honestly, I'd probably cum the moment I saw the light die in your dull eyes."

Appalled and mortified, you said nothing. You needed him. He was all you had. You stayed silent as he unleashed his frustration on you, beating you within an inch of your life. When he got tired or bored with it, he left without another word.

You lay on the floor in a pool of blood, body shattered, eyes too bruised to see, but alive. A broken smile crept across your face. He still wanted you. You weren't yet more trouble than you were worth.

[just-another-siimp]

Alone

You're the 141st's medic, assigned to work alongside Ghost, Soap and the Los Vaqueros. Everything changes when you return to Alejandro's base, separated from your team and armed with only a knife this would be your hardest mission yet.

This time you're being stalked from the Shadows.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Graves being Graves, Descriptions of injuries, mentions of death, murder, blood, reader is being stalked, Graves is a dick, kidnapping, Ghost and Soap being an old married couple. If I missed anything let me know <3 Note: I hope you're all as keen as I am! This took ages to write but i'm super keen for the next part. Don't forget to like and reblog, it gives me serotonin. Edit: 30/01/23 all pronouns have been changed to gn.

Enemy at the Gate || Alone || Prison Break || Epilogue

Alejandro had once told you that Las Almas was a beautiful city, despite the cartels and the near constant violence it was a home to many. Though in the dead of the night, with the screams of innocent people being slaughtered by men who thought they had the right to choose who was good and who was bad.. It was difficult to see the beauty he had described to you. Not when you were alone. 

Your muscles ached, burned from the position you’d been crouched in. Minutes seemed to last hours as you waited for the Shadows to pass. They had been sweeping through the building you were hiding in just moments before your arrival, blood stained the wall next to you, its previous owner laying lifeless not far from your feet. There was nothing that you could do to save any of these people, not if you wanted to survive as well. Ignoring the guilt that crept up your spine you forced yourself to look away from the body, focusing on the task at hand. Get out of Las Almas. That’s all you had to do. Any other plans could be made after that. 

The remaining Shadows had moved on, leaving you in an eerie silence. Peeking out of the window you saw nothing, the street in front of you was clear. Across the street was a clothing store, the door was wide open offering the perfect path to safety. With little effort you jumped out of the window, staying low to the ground, checking one last time to ensure that you wouldn’t be seen by a stray Shadow before moving into the store.

From behind the rattle of a glass bottle rolling along Las Almas’ cobbled roads filled your ears, it was close enough to startle you. If this was a horror movie, the main character would go back outside and investigate the strange noise. This however, was not a horror movie, even if it felt like you’d been thrown directly into one. Cautious not to knock anything over you turned back around, eyes scanning the street you’d just crossed trying to find the source of the noise. There was nothing. Probably just your imagination. 

Releasing the breath you didn’t realise you had been holding you moved further into the store, further into darkness, further out of sight. Not aware that if you turned around, just as the lightning illuminated the streets you would’ve seen him. The hulking figured what lurked in the shadows.. Watching you.

-

A few feet ahead of you stood a lone Shadow his back was to you, too focused on the rat that had just scurried out and over his feet. Your hand ached, grip on the knife too tight as you waited for the perfect opportunity to strike. The Shadow was taller than you, roughly Soap’s size. Which in a way helped, Ghost had spent weeks helping you perfect a stealth takedowns, often using the Scotsman as a test dummy. Relaxing your grip a fraction, the way Ghost had taught you to, you shifted your weight. Two steps forward and you stood on broken glass, the noise almost comically loud as you lifted your arms to strike down the Shadow.

There was a struggle, he’d turned pushing you back into the house, his surprised shout concealed by the thunder overhead. His fist connected with your stomach, effectively knocking the air from your lungs and knife from your hand. The shadow tried kicking your feet out from underneath you, as the world tilted you grabbed onto him taking him down with you. Both of you wrestled on the ground, attempting to pin the other down. You cried out in pain as he twisted your wrist into an uncomfortable position, yelling at you to surrender. In your ear the comms cracked to life, Soaps voice barely audible in your ear. 

“T.. is Bra.. 7-1 in- blind. How copy?” The distraction would’ve been deadly if the Shadows were out to kill you, except they weren’t and you’d have to use that to your advantage. You pushed upwards, giving yourself enough space to kick the Shadow back. Desperately your hands reached out for something to defend yourself with, anything to get the prick off of you. Your luck changed as you wrapped your fingers around the hilt of your knife. “Ghost? Chip? This is 7-1, do you copy?” 

“Stand down Chip! Graves wants you alive- but I’m not afraid to hurt you!” Within seconds the Shadow had you pinned down, one hand clamped over your mouth while the other gripped your empty hand. “So this is how it’s going to go. You’re going to surrender, you’re not going to try and escape and you’re go-” 

You didn’t let him finish his sentence, knife plunging into the space between his ribs directly into his left lung. His unfinished sentence was reduced to nothing but a pained gurgle, he was choking on his own blood some splattering on your face has he fell to the side. Pulling the knife from his side you managed to sit up, pushing yourself backwards until you met the wall trying to control the shake in your hands has his blood pooled at your feet. 

“Soap- this is Ghost. How Copy? Johnny… Johnny how copy?”

“Solid” 

“Thought we lost ya.” 

“Anything from Chip, Lt?” 

“Nothing.” 

Ghosts' voice pulled you out of your momentary shock, eyes still fixated on the Shadows limp body. You never even knew his name, but the way his lifeless eyes bore into yours would stick with you forever. Cleaning the knife on the fabric of your pants you took a moment to catch your brother after standing, knowing full well that you needed to report in. Soap and Ghost needed to know that you were alive, venturing through Las Almas and that the Shadows were after you. Yet when you opened your mouth to speak nothing came out. 

“Chip.. this is Ghost. How copy?” There was a pause. Finally you looked away from the dead shadow, hand reaching to unmute your comm. “Chip.. How copy?”

“Solid.” Your voice shook slightly, bending down to grab the P890. 8 bullets, that’s all you had and hopefully all you needed. “Just took down a Shadow.” 

“Good to hear from you, Bonie.” Soap sounded almost relieved hearing your voice. “Heard you scream, thought they’d gotten ya.” 

“I watched you get shot, thought the same.” 

- 

From your current position the Church wasn’t far away, you could see it peeking out from above the buildings now. It couldn’t be more than 400? Maybe 500 metres away? ALl you had to do was reach Ghost, then wait for Johnny at the church. You could only assume that he wasn’t too far behind, you’d wanted to wait for him, safety in numbers feeling more secure than walking through Las Almas alone. Ghost had advised against it, sitting still for too long in one spot was like asking the Shadows to find you. Especially after you killed one of their own. The rain seemed to be pouring harder now, soaking you to the bone as you waited for a patrol to pass.

“It’s pishin’ it doon out here.”

“Speak English.”

“It’s raining fucking hard.” 

You were forced to hold back laughter, moving from behind a dumpster and into another house. In the dark you fashioned another piece of metal into a pry, forcing your way through a locked door and into a back alley. There was a singular shadow, his back turned to you. Unaware of your presence as you crept up on him. This time he didn’t hear you over the rain, he didn’t turn when you covered his mouth with your hand, he didn’t fight back as life left his body. Without looking back you pushed forwards, ignoring the blood on your hands as you moved further down the empty street. 

Why did killing bother you so much? It hadn’t before. Sure you were a combat medic you were supposed to be saving people, but combat was in the name and you saw enough of it. You’d fought in enough of it too. Perhaps it was because you’d served alongside the Shadows, patched them out both on base and on the battlefield. Now you were killing them before they tried to kill you, it felt so.. immoral.

“Ghost?” 

“Chip.” 

“I killed another Shadow.” 

“Good, one less for Johnny to deal with on his way here.” You squared your shoulders, knife feeling heavy in your hands as you continued moving. “Look kid, I know none of this is easy but remember who the real enemy is. Graves betrayed us, don’t go feeling sorry for ‘im and his men.” 

“You’re right.” 

“Always am.”

“Ghost?” 

“Yes, love?” 

“The Shadows don’t want me dead, if something happens- if I get caught.” You paused, looking up at the sky letting the rain clean the dirt, grime and blood from your face. “Promise me you won’t come after me, not unless you’ve got enough guns to kill these sonsofbitches.” 

“No ones getting left behind, Chip. That means you too.” 

For the second time tonight you heard something out of the ordinary, you were supposed to be alone this whole time and you could’ve sworn you heard footsteps behind you just now. “Standby-” 

You felt exposed here, even with plenty of cover the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. Turning back to stare into the darkness you found it staring back at you, no one was there it must’ve been your imagination. Paranoia creeping up on you after being alone in a place so dangerous for so long. 

Standing from your crouched position you took a couple of steps backwards, eyes not leaving the darkness until you were sure that no one was there. Wiping the water from your eyes you planned on turning around again, only stopping when lightning illuminated the sky. You could’ve sworn your heart stopped beating then and there, breath caught in your chest as the silhouette of a man flashed before your eyes. He was staring right at you, unmoving. Darkness engulfed the alley again.

“Found you.” His voice followed him out of the darkness, taunting you as he stepped into the light. Your eyes widened, fear almost paralysing as you took in the size of the man before you, he was probably an inch or so shorter than ghost but built bigger than he was. You searched for a weapon, stolen pistol pointed directly at him half expecting him to do the same. Instead he only continued to walk forward, unarmed. You fired two warning shots. He continued stalking towards you, green eyes filled with something malicious he didn’t even flinch. “Graves ‘as been tryin to find ya. Come along lil Darlin’, you’ve kept ‘im waitin’ long enough and ‘m startin’ ta get bored followin ya everywhere.” 

In your ear you could hear Ghost saying something to Soap, you ignored them as you took a step back. You fired four shots this time, only one hitting him in the chest. He was armoured, heavily so. You were surprised he’d gotten this far without you hearing him. You had two bullets left, he was laughing as he lunged towards you knocking the pistol out of your hands as you attempted to get away from him. Using speed to your advantage you ran. 

The Alley led to a set of stairs, you bolted up them with the Shadow hot at your heels. As you reached an open door you grabbed it, flinging it back as you ran through hoping to slow the brut of a man down. It didn’t. Climbing up the stairs you jumped out of a window dropping into a garden bed and rolling once before running across the courtyard, you turned to see how far away the Shadow was to find nothing. Still you didn’t stop, not wanting to find out what would happen if he caught up to you. 

“Ghost, I’ve got one big scary looking Shadow following me.” 

“Think you can get to the church?” 

“I’ll have to.” 

“‘Good, get to it.” 

- 

You were less than 200 metres from the church now, from where you stood it looked magnificent. Perhaps this was the beauty that Alejandro spoke of, maybe one day when this was all over you’d be able to visit Las Almas. See the town in a different light, one that wasn’t caked in the blood of innocent men, women and children. 

“Ghost I’m almost there, no sign of tall and brooding but I’m sure he’s out there.” 

“I’m in the tunnels, Hen. Anything happens and I’ll be there as fast as I can.” Soaps voice piped up, giving you hope that you’d get out of there without any further issues. That hope was dashed just as quickly as it had appeared, out of the corner of your eye you caught the same Shadow running towards you and just like that the chase began again. 

You didn’t have a chance to tell Soap or Ghost, instinct screamed at you to run and not look back. The Church wasn’t far away now, just one street between you and the main square. One street between you, Ghost and Johnny. Taking a chance you turned the corner without looking, not seeing the two Shadows that stood waiting for you guns raised. 

“Drop your weapon!” 

“You’re surrounded, Chip. There’s no point in trying to run now.” There wasn’t even a chance for you to drop your weapon, both of them had dropped to the ground in front of you. In your ear the comm cracked to life again a soft grunt in your ear as the firing continued, it was directed at something else. Maybe Soap. Looking up at the Church you almost smiled. “Little darlin’.. if you think I’m gonna let ya get away, you’re mistaken.”

“What the fu-” 

His hand was wrapped around your throat before you could finish your sentence, it took no effort for him to lift you in the air slamming you against the nearest wall. Pain spread across your back and shoulders, tears stinging at your eyes. That was going to sting later. Gasping for air you clawed at his arm, kicked at his shins, anything to get in a breath of air. He only smiled at you, pressing down harder on your throat tiny black dots starting to fill your vision. The world tilted and you were on the floor, gasps audible over the comms as you tried to catch your breath. 

“Gh-ghost.” His boot connected with your stomach, your body collapsing to the ground gasping violently for the air it had been deprived of . A pained whimper left your lips as he twisted your arm behind your back, plastic zip ties secured around your wrists tight enough to cut off circulation. Next he pulled out your comms, Ghosts yelling audible as he crushed the tech under his boot.  

“Now now, you’ve got a meeting with the boss, Lil Dove.” 

“Fuck you-” you managed to spit out before his foot connected with your face.

- 

Time was a concept in your current state, you vaguely remembered being thrown into a car only conscious long enough for someone to knock you out again. Everything was dark, your head spun, you wanted to throw up. A bright light pulled you back into consciousness yet you couldn’t open your eyes, had you been drugged? The steel chair underneath you was uncomfortable, your body ached as you tested your restraints. 

“Well look who finally woke up.” The sound of footsteps was enough for you to force your eyes open, head tilted backwards as you glared at Phillip Graves wishing you could punch that stupid smirk off of his stupid face. “Welcome back to the land of the living Chip. You slept in.” 

“It’s what happens when someone kicks you in the face.” The taste of iron filled your mouth as you spoke, once Graves was close enough you spat the blood at his feet directly hitting his shoes. The back of his hand struck your face, it was totally worth it. This time you smirked at him, looking him dead in the eye. “I won’t cooperate, whatever it is you want me to do I won’t do it.” 

“Oh but that’s the thing, sweetheart. I think you’ll do exactly as you’re told.” His face was closer now, you could feel his breath on your own, instinctively you turned your head away. 

“Fuck off Graves, I want nothing to do with your Shadows and their bullshit.” You couldn’t stop the wince that left your lips as his hand grasped your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

“You don’t have a choice, Chip. You’ll do as you’re told or I’ll kill every last Los Vaqueros in this place, their lives. They’re in your hands.” He let go of your chin, arms folded across his chest as he looked down at you. "So what is it Chip? Will you let everyone die?"

---

Taglist: @komorebiiiiiiii @mauveserpent @mydogeatscoffeecups @reiya-djarin @underatreedrinkingtea

[go-on-eat-shrooms]

IF THE STARS SAID YOU COULDNT LOVE ME PART 1

Warning: +18

Contains: smut, blood, blades, mentions of Braavos, faceless men, Brackens and Blackwoods battling.

Music to listen to: star crossed lovers by scary kids scarying kids.

The song is beyond perfect.

Summary: You could not ever repeat your birth and who your family is. But when you met Benijocot Blackwood you were willing to fight against the stars to prevent fate from winning.

Being the only daughter of House Bracken had its good and bad moments. You were the type to like the night time or near dawn to go out for walks. Your father always warned you not to go alone but you always defied his wishes.

One night you wondered further than you expected. Lost in thought that you'll be old enough to be betrothed to someone soon was terrifying. So you found the night walks comforting. You didn't want to get married. You didn't want to serve anyone. If you could, you would stay with your brothers and father. Combating and living a happy life. But the real world was not that.

You collapsed on the grass and started sobbing. It wasn't fair.

Unbeknownst to you, someone was watching you. You didn't notice you were severely lost in thought of your terrifying future.

"A young girl such as you shouldn't be out by herself. Especially this late at night. Not only that, I never seen you before. So you are not part of my house. You're lucky your a girl or I would of shot arrows into you long ago."

Benijcot spoke gently.

You looked up startled. Forgetting that you must of went past the barrier stones. And you might just met your death bc you finally where seeing with your own eyes the boy that your brothers and well anyone from your house told was an inhumane beast. But what came next surprised you to your core.

Benjicot sat down next to you on the grass.

"Where are you from and why are you crying as you were on deaths door?"

He said concerned.

"I deeply apologize for wondering too far from where I am suppose to be." You said in hesitation.

You tried quickly getting up but he slumped you back down with his strong hold.

"Are you the Bracken girl that's always amongst all those arseholes?"

He sneered.

"Those assholes are my brothers." You sniffed lightly.

"I been watching you for a long time. I must confess I find seeing you comforting. Though I do not know why. Your pretty and I seen you practice combat in the distance with your so called brothers."

Benji said lightly.

Surprised you didn't have a sword in your neck already you asked yourself if Benji was drunk. You were a Bracken an enemy to house Blackwood.

"Why are you being so nice to me? Since you clearly know who I am." You said softly.  The tears drying slowly on your cheeks in slow comfort.

"As I said, I been watching you, it's kinda odd you would belong to such a family. And for your knowledge I'm not a monster all the time."  He grinned.

From that night on both of you made plans to meet at odd times as to not be caught doing the unthinkable. You always took strolls together through the river banks and forests. Getting to know each other and enjoying one another's company. You had seen a side of Benjicot that was mentioned but thought it couldn't be true. He was sweet, very generous, and most of all cared for you. You had suspicions that you had become more than just friends.

One night you came to the first spot you met him. He waited for you there most times. You told him it was going to be over for you soon. Benji looked concerned and felt his heart drop.

"You can't let them control your life! You have to fight! You must fight! I don't want to lose you. You're my only happy thought when I close my eyes at night and wake in the morning when light hits my face. You are the first name I whisper when I wake in the morning. You are a piece of me like my sword to my sheath. If the stars said you couldn't love, tell me Y/N would you really listen?"

This strong confession of love from a man who was known to slaughter everything and everyone in his wake in battles but had ripped out his heart and gave it to you made you start sobbing.

"I really don't know how to find an open door. I'm trapped inside a chamber with iron gates my love." You sob

"Then let me tear that iron prison with my sword as I have with any other obstacles in my wake! You ever been on a ship? 4 nights from now one docks to Bravos. Lets get the fuck out of here and i know exactly who to go to to help us" Benji growled.

"Who can possibly help us with this situation that's too powerful to break?!" You whispered looking at the ground.

"There's a man with no name, that can change his face like he changes his tunics. He can help us."

"What are you talking about, a man that can change his face? I think you become so shocked you are starting to think like a mad man." You looked up in disbelief of his statement.

"I'm not lying, I been to a huge temple called 'the house of black and white' and there are faces carved off from dead bodies. They are placed on pillars higher than the sky itself. I went there as a kid when I got lost from my father. There I learned the power that has never been seen in the Riverlands. I acquired the skills I know to fight to this day on the battle grounds. 4 days from now we will leave."

You looked at him bewildered and told him more bad news. By that time your wedding takes place.

"Fuck it, run away with me! There can be no man that can ever lay hands on you but me. No man that can caress your skin, no man that can sexually please you BUT ME, and especially not a fucking cunt stranger!!"

Benji screamed

"If the stars say I can't love you I won't listen. What's the point of living without my air. You are my air. Alright 4 nights from now." You said exhausted from crying.

4 nights from that moment you were preparing for your wedding to house Stark. Your handmaid's were helping you put your wedding dressing on. You could feel your heart beating so hard you thought it was gonna explode.

"Tonight is the night" you whispered

One hand maiden asked you if you said something. But you told her you needed a few moments to take it all in. But the truth was Benji was waiting at the bottom of your tower. Oh, you were gonna jump off that big ass height. Waiting below was Benji by Winterfell tower.

You were gonna give the sign on your start to jump down. Lighting a candle. You ripped the white dress off your body and quickly but on fitted riding trousers and a simple blouse.

You started breathing hard, but first put your whole bed by the door. You ran to the window, lighting the candle. You slipped your right, then left leg and sat on your window. You could see the steep drop, but also the man you would tell the old gods and the new they had no control over your future.

You slid beyond fast your breath got lost in basically not a thought but not dying.

You heard slaming and yelling from above.

Benji had your horse you immediately jumped on. You could hear the commotion fading away.

"I'm sorry father, brothers and sorry Cregan." You whispered.

Benji gave you the reins to your horse and the both of you rode away from Winterfell lands.

As expected a ship was docked awaiting your embankment to a mysterious start.

As you yourself docked the ship you heard.

"Valar Morghulis" from Benji giving a coin to the ships captain. The captain more than understood the assignment. And responded 'Valar Dohaeris'.

"What does that mean?" You asked intrigued.

"It's high valerian my father taught me. It means all men must die. And what the captain said was 'all men must serve.' Looking at you sternly.

Both of you felt the sails arise from atop. The commands of the captain to his crew to get their asses in check and prepare to depart the port.

The captain guided you to your quarters underneath the deck. A simple room with 1 bed. The captain grinned and shut the door slowly before stating it'll be a long journey but it'll be worth it.

You sat on the bed nervous, excited, your heart in your mouth, tears forming as to what you just did to your family and poor Cregan. In reality he was a good man. But there was no room for another man in your heart then Benjicot.

"We should get some sleep, it's been a long day for both of us." Benji sighed.

You began to take off your boots and trousers so that you were only left wearing a white thin blouse. Benji took off his tunic but leaving on his trousers. You laid on your side towards the wall. Benji decided to spoon you. Holding onto your waist and slowly making his way up to your breast. You could feel his cock growing under neath cloth. Pulsing with pleasure. He slide his trousers off slowly and placed his hard cock in between your thighs. Slowly thrusting his way near your folds. He felt how wet you got bc of him.

"As it should be, only get wet for me. You belong to me, my little doe." he said softly.

Coming closer he rubbed himself closer to your ass and slide his throbbing thirsty cock inside you. He began to thrust slowly. Since it was a while since the two of you were intimate. You let him lose himself into your body.

He kissed your neck and left soft kisses on your shoulders. He slipped off your blouse. And flung it on the floor. Cupping your right breast. And started massaging your nipple.

"My Y/N." He whispered.

He started picking up his thrusts. having a firm grip on your hip to keep you in place to taking his left index finger inside your folds. Slowly massaging your clit.

You couldn't help but to arch your neck backwards.

"Ride me."  he said

As he laid down on his back. You placed yourself onto of him. Spreading your legs as wide as you could. You started to stroke his girthy cock. Sliding it back and forth your folds. Inserting his beautiful cock inside you. To the most inner parts of your womb. You gasped and moaned his name.

You slowly started bouncing on him. His hands grabbing firm to your hips. Picking up the pace he started arching his hips upwards. Helping you to reach to see nirvana.

You felt a warm sensation inside you. His cum was dripping off his cock. But he wasn't done.

"Turn on your back, I want to cream pie you my sweet doe."

You did as he asked. Spreading your legs as wide as they could. He inserted his length once more inside you. But this time feeling the hunger he was holding back for days. He was pounding you so hard it started to hurt. You moaned loudly, enough to make the near by crew start saying

"fuck her good Lord Benji! It's gonna be a long ass voyage to Braavos!"

Laughter exploded. A huge grin formed on Benjis face. His hair drenched in sweat completely out of breath. He took you into his arms and you both fell asleep.

But the unthinkable thing you just did with the man you actually loved was wild. Your father and brother also friends of the family and poor Cregan. In the end it was for the best. The seven hells could not separate you from your man. Nor blood or a good man. You finally drifted off to sleep in the arms of your beloved.

Part 2

[sylwanin-was-right]

Cameron making Spider a child character, let alone a Tarzan-esque "native on the inside" side-protagonist would make certain ppl so obsessed w him for such troubling reasons, to me 😭.

His character is the best foil to his violent military father bc he's the perfect character to project guilt and accomplishment onto. He's made too young and too helpless to blame yet just principled enough (loyal to fya Na'viyä way) to distract from his privilege as a human among the RDA. In the movie we saw how little it mattered that Spider had a specific place assimilated among the Na'vi, just that he wanted to be Na'vi and was assumingly tolerated by them by walking thru camp and being friends to Jake and Neytiri's kids. In The High Ground, Spider expressed to Neytiri an entitlement to be part of the family (and by extension Omaticaya Na'vi) despite not necessarily being invited to be Na'vi anywhere, as we dont see him go thru any rites of passage adjusted for his humanness and just introduced as someone with a fancy for Na'vi lifestyle (with the unfortunate, and also convenient case that he was the only kid born on Pandora).

Spider retains principle of being loyal to the Na'vi in very little parts of the movie, dressing, moving, and speaking like them, even emulating their skin markings with paint, and of course militantly protecting them when he could in the behinning and very end. Yet it takes this distance between scenes to make his sideplot seem relevant to anything and make his drastic straying frlm principles seem particularly justified, especially his fixation to kame his father despite his associations and actions against him and the Na'vi. As soon as his character and conflicts are introduced, he is made helpless to uphold his principles as a prisoner of war, teaching recoms intricate details of na'vi life and navigation, including speaking the language and the utility of tsaheylu, to preserve himself after a precedent scene of onscreen sacrifice (the brain interrogation torture). It seems easy for Spider to exchange his secrets for preservation and safety against the labcoats and to fufill his personal interest in knowing his father in his new form and this is strangely justified because.... Spider just had to be Quaritch's son, too? And its even easier for Spider to seem principled in his passivity by juxtaposing his simple plea to Quaritch's major damage and affect on years of slaughtering. A wooden "this is wrong" and "I'm sorry" gives certain audiences a sense of relief, a character to ease their guilt onto when a movie metaphorically calls them out too hard. "I'm not as bad as the other guy" when the guys are still in cahoots by the end.

In the comics, Spider is more on principle, but acts very entitled to be part of the Na'vi bc of bis friendship with Jake and Neytiri's kids and his appeal to the Na'vi, despite not having gone thru any rites of passage, not given any special role among the people, and not being entirely accepted. I really didnt like how Spider basically told Neytiri he was part of the family whether she liked it or not and how often Neytiri was set up to look as if she was irrational against Spider for not immediately accepting him and being a liability to their navigation. Its the sort of entitlement privileged ppl have when they think they deserve a place among another group because they oversimplify what being part of that group means in order to enjoy it more readily.

Spider is not played by the most expressive actor nor written in the comics as a likable character. He's easily distrustful to me despite his deliberate age and racial/ethnic position obscuring his role in the films and thus is not interesting to me. But I knew he'd get ppl's attention so much by having interesting commentary about other topics (which rlly should have been introduced in another film rather than jampacked into AWOW lol) obfuscated by his privilege. Its disappointing and gets me a little resentful 💀.

[wordsbymae]

MINORS DNI

Title: The Viking

Pairing: Male OC x reader

TW: Violence, murder, generally bad things, implied non/con, no explicit smut but heavy Non/con groping!!, discussion of sexual slavery, mention of cannibalism, Christian elements but it is because I am and I am less afraid of stuffing up Christian stuff than other religions. If you are uncomfortable with any of that move on This man is not nice. Pet names: little mutt, little one and little lamb. Let me know if I missed anything let me know

ALPHABET HERE

Also, I tried to do Gn but as I am a woman, I automatically write with a female reader in mind. But!!!!! I have tried my very best to not mention gender. If something doesn't work please tell me. Reader discretion is advised! Also, I hope I don't need to say this but I will just in case, I do not condone these sorts of actions!!! Or any actions in any of my work. This is pure fiction. Also, all my OCs and the reader are over the age of 18+. and I'm not gonna add google translate because that takes forever and you guys won't even be able to read it so he conveniently speaks the same language as the reader.

Notes: Aaaaa! I have 21 followers! You guys are absolutely amazing! I never thought anyone would want to read my stuff let alone like and reblog. This doesn't take place in any place in particular, if anything I heavily rely on the climate of my home. I was though heavily influenced by Vikings and their nordic culture of that time, however, I had originally planned to make the oc a barbarian of sorts and not a Viking. But my inspiration dive into Pinterest left me with Vikings so here we are. I might write a nomadic barbarian fic later on cause I do see them as quite different in my mind but it depends where this goes, I usually write the notes and triggers before I start writing as a way of planning my thoughts so it might change halfway through.

Also the climatic event in the beginning, in my mind, is the cause of a volcanic eruption somewhere on earth, there was a year of just constant winter due to a massive eruption a few centuries ago and I wanted to include that and showcase how superstitious the people of this time were, seeing the winter as a foreshadowing of terror. And hell they were right.

Lots of love Mae xx

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It was far too early in the season for the cold winds to be here. Your father pretended to not be frightened but you could see it in his eyes. There was a fear lingering. You could hear your parents whispering in worry when they thought you were asleep. You could hear your mother sob as they discussed what it could mean. Your homeland was one of sun and thunder, but never frost, never snow. Yet, a chill had descended onto your lands. A frost had spread across the summer grass. Your bare feet crunched upon what should have been dried pasture, instead, they were chilled by a wicked frost. The sun that you would curse for its harsh warmth was now hidden behind constant grey clouds and you begged for it to return. The floods and storms you ragged against never came. No seasonal thunderstorms after the humidity of the day. There was just darkness. Travellers and merchants from far-off lands, journeying to the capital came through your village, speaking of the darkness that had spread. It seemed like no kingdom or empire was safe. The frost and darkness had come for all.

The first omen of their arrival was the frost itself. It seeped into everything and made the ground as solid as rock, the summer pastures shrivelled up and left nothing but dirt behind.

The second omen was the famine. The harvest failed and the livestock starved. Your father was forced to sell the heifers and cows and slaughter all calves and steers to provide for your family. Still, it wasn't enough. You heard gruesome tales of far-off villages butchering each other for scraps of meat from their bones. Your village was lucky, the sea still provided as much as it could.

The third omen was the dragons. Firey images in the night sky, leaving streaks of light hanging in the air. As soon as they appeared men cried out and women fell to their knees. It was a sign of a terror to come.

The final omen was a raven.

The skies had begun to clear and the winter rains had soothed the harsh scars left behind. Crops had been sown and the frost retreated in the face of the reappeared sun. You had all thought that the struggles of the last few months were over. Your father had been able to buy a cow with calf last week with money you made weaving baskets. She was a skinny thing even with the calf in her belly, but with the winter rain healing the land, you could see her regaining strength.

You had thought it was a crow when you first saw it. It did seem to be a bit bigger than the crows that waited patiently for your fish scraps by the pier. But you had never seen a raven before, so why think anything of it. It had flown in from the sea, flew over the village before fixing its gaze on your mother's garden. Your mother prized her garden, especially her roses, and had cried bitter tears when the frost killed the flowers, leaving thorny masses behind, but they had begun to regrow, leaving your families house surrounded by a beautiful arrangement of daisies and violas, butterfly pea flowers and lilacs. You had your favourites of course. In fact, you were picking them right now, happy to make a bouquet for your ancestors' burial place. As you were sitting and deciding which flowers to choose, the raven landed beside you, you watch in amazement as it plucked a flower from your hand and rose into the air and back towards the sea. Standing up with a giggle you chased after it in play until you reached your property's fence. You watched until it was nothing but a black dot in a sky of blue. If you had known what it had foreshadowed you would have wrung its neck.

They themselves came in the night.

They landed on the beaches and in silence drifted into town. Axes drawn and blood-hungry. The first death was the blacksmith. He was stumbling from the inn, stomach filled with ale. He saw them first, and let out a cry of warning, but it did not save him from a dagger sliding across his throat. The killer let out a howl. His comrades followed. The screams began.

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You had lost sight of your mother in the smoke of the burning village. Fire ragged towards the heavens. The smell of charcoal and blood ravaged your senses. The yelling and screaming were just a constant now. Like how a bird song drifts into the background. You stood immobile calling for your mother, begging her to reveal herself. Out of habit, you called for your father, but you were harshly reminded that dead men can't answer. You watched as the savages ripped men to the ground and let blood flow. They hadn't noticed you yet it seemed. A lone wraith shaking in the centre of town. In the centre of all the murder and mayhem. For a moment you thought you were dead. That the arrow your father had taken for you had indeed struck you and now you were wandering the mortal realm alone and afraid until St Peter called for you.

Your eyes reached towards the heavens and you began to beg for the angels to pluck you from this horror. Your arms wrapped around yourself as tears flowed down your soot-covered cheeks. You were broken from your prayers when you heard your name being called, your mother perhaps? Your eyes rushed to find her. No, you can't see her. But it was enough to have you moving towards the darkness and away from the light of the fire. With your arms still holding you tight, you began to stumble towards the outskirts of town. Once in the fields outside town, you could hide. Wait till they grew bored of your village and left in their ships to torment another village. You were reminded of a time when you were fearful of the dark. But now it was your salvation. Tripping over your feet you struggled to remain standing, leaning on the walls of yet-to-be-destroyed houses and holding onto the rungs of fences. You kept rushing forward, eyes onto the safety of darkness. You were close, only a few more steps.

A beast emerged from the darkness. His face burned with the light of the fire, and his axe shined with delight. His furs were matted with blood and encompassed his shoulder. His arms were bare save for strips of leather circling them. There was blood on his arms and hands as well, dripping onto the handle of his axe and onto the dirt below. You stood still, hoping perhaps you were dead. That he would just pass by and you could remain nothing more but a spirit. If death was without pain you would prefer it to the horrors the beast in front of you was capable of. His face was marked with blood, lines travelling over his forehead and down through his eyes. His eyes flickered with hunger and his mouth was turned up into a grin. He stood feet wide as if he was ready to battle, but his hand was loose on the axe, allowing it to dangle from his palm. He saw no threat in you.

A strange mix of sounds came from his mouth, while his voice was rough and stern, his words were lyrical and filled with rounded sounds and quick sharp notes. It left you confused and almost enchanted, like a deer in the gaze of a hunter.

His voice stopped and his eyes drifted down and then up. He gave a deep laugh at the site of your cowering.

"Come little mutt, stand tall" he chuckled with amusement. You whimpered at the sight of him, a beast of a man denying your freedom. He began to march towards you his axe swinging in his hold. You try to take steps back but he is quicker. You yelp as he pushes you towards a wall, his thick forearm resting against your neck as he peers down at you. You could see the scars littering his face and could smell the stench of blood dominating his body. You could feel the warmth of the blood from his arm smearing all over your neck and chest. You hated to think whose blood it once was.

"Little mutt has no teeth huh? What about claws? hm?" he questioned, joy in your torment in his eyes.

"If I was to fuck you now would you fight me? Would you claw at me or bite at my fingers?" he laughed at your obvious fear. He brought his head down to your neck and sniffed loudly. You cringed as his nose met your skin.

"You smell sweet little mutt. I wonder if you taste just as good"

you struggled as his tongue run up your neck, tears tumbling down your cheeks.

"As sweet as honey!" he cheered. His forearm dug into your neck further as you struggled to escape. He began to shush you, giving out soothing sounds like you would a crying baby as his body stepped forward to meet yours.

" Please don't kill me" you choked, eyes red with fear.

"Never little one!" he bellowed, his face of mock hurt. "Why would I kill you? hm?" he comforted, releasing his arm if only by a fraction. "You will fetch me a high price at the slave markets, little lamb. Men will go mad trying to buy you for their beds" he grinned, showing off his sharp canine teeth. You struggled once more, this time clawing at his arm and chest.

"So the little mutt has claws! Maybe I will keep you for myself. Use you to warm my cock. Would you like that little one?" he teased, he moved his face closer, his tongue darting out to catch the tears on your cheek.

" Get off me" you grunted, desperately trying to remove his arm. he teased you by feigning pity.

"Poor little lamb, you must be so scared. Trapped by a beast like me" he cooed, pushing his arm further into your skin. You watched as his eyes drifted to your chest below his arm. He dropped the axe in his other hand to the ground, it falling flat with a light thud. He looked you in the eyes once more. You could see mischief in them.

"I am torn between keeping you for my bed slave and making a small fortune on another man's desires. Let me see your wares and then I shall decide" he sang, his grin reaching higher and higher with each word. You could only watch in horror as his hands reached for the front of your night smock and ripped it. You tried to grab his wrists but he was too strong. In a mere moment, your smock lay tattered on the ground and you stood bare in the night air. His eyes drank you in, and his hands drifted over your body. He gripped tightly in some places and softly in others. Blood from his hands was left smeared all over you, like rivers on a map. His eyes found yours once more and glee was evident on his face.

"I have decided little mutt. You shall warm my bed and most importantly me" he proclaimed, laughing at the end. "I am to be your master and you the little mutt at my heels. But first, let me dull those claws, hm?"

You stood arms covering yourself confused at his words. You had no claws to dull.

You gave a shriek as he began to drag you into the darkness. His hand was tight against your wrists. You tried to use your body weight to stop him, but it only ended with you falling to the ground and him dragging you through the dirt. You screamed and kicked, shouted and cried. He just laughed.

The dirt turned to soft grass as released you from his grip. You shot up to your bare feet, only to be thrown to the ground and a foot thrown on your stomach.

"I admire your fight little mutt, but as your master, I cannot in good conscious allow you to disrespect me. it would not be natural." he cooed at you, his hair falling into his eyes. You choked out a sob at the thought of what he planned to do. You were both far enough from the town your screams would not be heard and you were both hidden by lush pasture. You began to pray, your words drowning in sobs.

"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kin-"

"Enough!" shouted, falling onto his knees above you, a dagger glinting in his hand.

"Keep your God, fine, but do not expect kindness from me when you beg for his mercy" he sneered. You watched in terror as the dagger raced towards your head, only for it to land safely in the soil next to you.

"Now little lamb moan sweetly for me, will you?" he smiled, his grin one of filth. You lay there looking up at him in fear. "I said moan" he barked, his hand reaching for your throat. You gave him what he wanted, although it was tarnished by your terror.

"Like the music of the gods" he praised. He removed his hand from your throat and brought both to your knees, lifting them up and slotting himself in between them.

"Look at you little mutt, shaking and cowering in fear and yet I haven't even fucked you yet. You Christians are strange folk. If you knew of pleasure you would be moaning on my cock by now. You yourself would have begged for it. Begged for me to fuck your tight little hole on the ashes of your ho-" you slapped him with a furry. A rage releases from you, with you reaching for the dagger beside your head. His hand reached for yours first and punished it with his strength. He gave off a terrifying laugh as you were forced to drop the knife and he quickly threw it behind him.

"Maybe you aren't a little mutt but a little wolf instead. That fire in you will warm my cock and balls for years to come. But first, let me break you in"

You really did wish that arrow had found its mark in you.

[dreamingofyeo]

𓏲๋࣭ ࣪ A siren's song࿐࿔𖦹ִ

Chapter 1 : Tempted fate ࿐࿔𖦹ִ

~ details in masterlist

~ playlist

~ 989 words

~ chapter warnings: implication/reference to sa, sexism, mild gore

~☆彡 tumblr's algorithm works off of reblogs so please consider it if you like my work :)

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“My heart is pierced by cupid, I disdain all glittering gold, there is nothing can console me, but my jolly sailor bold..” The lyrics trail away from your lips, taking to humming the calm melody instead resting your arms on the wooden railing before you. The sea breeze combs its cold fingers through your hair, sending it slightly floating behind you.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ that missy, brings bad luck.” 

The raspy voice sounds from behind you, you don’t turn to face it. The crew member walks over to you and leans over the railing himself.

“This crew believes my being here on this voyage to be bad luck enough, it can’t hurt” you say under your breath, neither expecting nor wanting an answer.

“Don’t tempt fate, it’s unwise on the most welcoming of seas.” He gives you a long glance before walking back to whatever he’d been tending to on the deck.

~

You lay awake that night, restless. Sleep is evading you. 

You were brought upon this voyage to visit your relatives, across the sea. The journey should only take a few days, but that feels too long on this ship. These relatives are people you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, but as relations to your late mother, it is customary that your father would bring you with him to deliver the news in person, and possibly return with them for the funeral. From the little knowledge you had of them, they weren’t the most pleasant of folk, furthering your reluctance to the journey, as if the crew’s opinion of your being here be not enough of a reason to detest every moment on the vessel. You desire to be on land, mourning in the comfort of your family home, not here. 

The sound of movement on the deck and various loud noises furthers your annoyance. It’s well past 3am right now, and they’re causing a ruckus? 

Wishing more than ever for sleep to take you, you roll from your back to your side and bring the end of the pillow to your uncovered ear; only to throw it back and sit bolt upright at the sound of the first gunshot.

And then a second, and then the sounds of swords join the harrowing mix of screams and shouts. 

You dress yourself as quickly and efficiently as you can, there is no telling what is happening, but if you get dragged into it you’re sure as hell not being- or dying- in your nightdress. You fasten a dagger under the ruffles of your dress, it can’t hurt to be too prepared. 

You silently thank yourself for the intuition to do so as your door slams open against the planked wall of your room. A disgusting face illuminated by the lantern at your bedside, a devilish grin spreads to his lips, exposing his yellowed, crooked teeth. 

“Come here miss, and it won’t get ugly.” He snides, tilting his head to the side, eyeing your figure.

Frankly, you’re terrified. You’re safer out there than in your room alone with this man though, so you take the hint and walk towards him.

One foot in front of the other. Turn off your mind. Don’t think, don’t feel. Just walk.

As you reach him, he wraps a calloused filthy hand around your arm, the grime dirtying the fabric sleeving it. He drags you through the walkway and onto the deck. 

The sight that greets you chills you to your very soul. The crew slaughtered, your father on his knees before a man with his back to you. The dark figure wears a long frayed coat, cutlas sticking through one of the gaps. An exuberant hat atop his head, matted long hair sticking out from beneath it in an unkempt fashion. Pirate captain. 

The man gripping your arm speaks up, you try your best not to jump at the sudden noise.

“Captain, found this pretty thing back there, what’s your call?” 

The captain turns around, the lanterns hanging on the deck showing you his scarred features despite the mist snaking across the deck.

“Ah you have, have you, Broner? From the looks of it, the little mouse is your daughter, is she not? Considering the look on your face, that is. Hmm, unless she’s yours. In which case, I should rather say bravo.” He laughs at your father grimly, the members of his crew making themselves known in the darkness by matching his laughter.  

He steps to the side and you see your father. Though eyes are enraged, his body is broken. He is fading from the world. A choked sob escapes you.

“Father…”

“Ah so it is the primary assumption, all the better, you’re unspoiled.” He turns on his heel to you with an evil smirk. 

“Don’t, don’t touch her.” Your father rasps out, his pain is punctuated by a weak cough spraying blood across the captains boots.

The captain chuckles lightly, squatting down to eye level with your father, you struggle against Broner’s grasp. He holds you firm, digging his jagged nails into your arm, you bite back the wince.

“Those are my favourite boots.” 

He pulls out a pistol and fires it straight through your father. 

The scream that is pulled from you could move mountains. 

The captain stands, wiping your father’s bloody spray from his face, and turns to you.

“Take her aboard. She is to remain unspoiled, do not disrupt our plans.”

It’s then that you register the ship to your right. A blood red sail billowing from its mast. You know this ship. You’ve heard the stories. Its the Crimson. That captain is none other than Vervona. He’s said to be half mad, a man who sold his very soul to the devil. As evil and deranged as they come.

Maybe the crew member you didn’t even care to learn the name of earlier was right. You really should not have tempted fate on these waters.

<- Prologue ~ chapter 2 ->

*prologue is important please read it :)

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taglist: @amalialoved

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Chapter 3: To My Knees

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the shape of your former best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can’t afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you’ve missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same.

Content warnings: Usual COD content (violence, torture, death, guns ESPECIALLY in this chapter), mutual pining, back from the dead, friends to allies to lovers, Reader is GN, some use of Y/N.

Chapter 2 // Masterlist // AO3 Version // Chapter 4

Gaz and Bronze were stretching out this first glass, just hitting the two hour mark, but the conversation cover had yet to run dry. Occasionally, there would be input from another of your team, waiting in shadows and around corners, easing the tension ever so slightly with their addition to the chatter as well as providing repeated remarks on how their target was not yet in sight.

You stared at the map in front of you, brows bent as if you didn’t have it half memorised, as if there hadn’t been any passersby in this alleyway for ten minutes. Earpiece wired through your clothing allowed you to listen into the conversation you had yet to join.

One you’d considered remarking on was Gaz and Bronze joking about:

“Price told me he and Laswell met at a falafel stand.”

“And did they?”

“No. She annoyed him during a football match.”

That sounded more plausible at least. Price’s long-time partner was a neglected Liverpool season ticket. You tapped your fingers on the steering wheel to a familiar footie chant you had learned to chant during your first match. But you didn’t add anything. Nor did you say anything when Gaz insisted he was a catch and too good for Bronze when Crash joked about them being on a date.

You did when Soap talked about how he’d been guided through Las Almas in a mission gone south by Ghost, a bullet in his arm and delirious on adrenaline enough to exchange dumb jokes. After hearing his shellfish joke, you decided to join in with easing the tension that was creeping in through your neck.  

“Two windmills are standing on a wind farm. One asks, ‘what’s your favourite type of music?’ and the other replies ‘I’m a big metal fan’.”

The radio crackled with Soap’s low chuckles, “Pretty good, Captain.”

“I wouldn’t say good,” interrupted Chance.

“What’s good then?”

“What’s red and bad for your teeth?” You could already hear giggling down the radio before Chance jumped in to ensure she delivered the punchline: “A brick.”

“Tha’s awful, actually,” Soap said but with a dark snigger. Then he cut himself off sharpish: “Markovič on the south side of the street, heading towards Los Gatos.”

Your back straightened, “Alone?”

“Affirmative.”

This did nothing to confirm for you whether Markovič either had back-up you couldn’t see, or he was beyond stupid – both dangerous in any man, let alone an arm’s dealer, let alone the glorified sidekick of a terrorist. Your hands flexed then tightened around the wheel, then one held the ignition key, waiting for your signal.

“He’s at the bar,” Gaz reported. A minute later, he added: “He’s a gin man.”

You mirrored his attempts to keep things a little light, “Do they have Gordon’s out here?”

“It’s not the pink one, that’s for sure,” Gaz mumbled, and you could hear its echo in a half empty pint glass he was likely pretending to drink from, “You a gin fan yourself, Captain?”

“Not a big drinker at all.”

“What’s your vice then?”

“Sudoku.”

You’d let them debate whether or not you were serious later; Team Banshee would probably offer a few pieces of evidence to fill the gaps in the 141’s knowledge of you. But here was where your banter ended for now.

“He’s moving to sit alone, outside.”

You could picture him sipping a ballooned glass with ice swilling around, condensation as slippery as his character. The metal of the key warmed in your pinch, map discarded in your lap. Simulating every possible approach to any choice, your brain narrowed down Gaz and Bronze either heading inside for an attack in the bathroom, or directing Ghost, Chance, Price, and Crash to tail Markovič and intercept before he got home.

Your two soldiers continued their cover, ordering some tapas to split and doing their best not to flaunt how good it was to the rest of you. Gaz mentioned how he’d already paid the bill, and filled out the reimbursement forms too apparently. Just left the boxes of the amount blank, ready to be completed upon return. Both Gaz and Bronze dropped titbits of info on Markovič every minute, Soap too from his ledge.

At last, halfway through the third glass of gin, Gaz muttered down his microphone, “He’s headed for the bathroom. We’re on him.”

You twisted the ignition and the engine roared to life, “Meet you at the corner of Liepų and Lajos Street?”

“Can do, Cap,” Bronze said and you heard the scrape of his chair before he stopped talking.

The gear stick shifted, you drove out of the alleyway and took the two minute drive to your location. The mileometer kept your speed safe enough to not be pulled over by any rent-a-cop that might spot you, but quick enough to be with your team. Two back doors were flung open within the second you stopped, Gaz and Bronze hauling their prisoner up then tossing him in with a bag over his head and hands zip-tied. In your rear view mirror, Markovič’s body folded like a sheet of paper without Gaz or Bronze for support.

You heard two bangs after the door slams, so you moved out, ready to collect the rest of your team. Crash and Ghost were from the same corner about a quarter of a mile out. Chance and Price were close enough to the safehouse to have made it back just as you pulled into the garage. No one felt daft for over-estimating the amount of manpower on this mission. This  was, after all, just the first step in the right direction.

You helped haul the dead weight of your prisoner up the stairs in the absence of your regular workout.

A chair stood proudly in the centre of the one room without windows, the one you’d soundproofed that morning with your team. Even just stepping into the room felt like there was cotton wool against your ears. Tarps muted all footsteps. Hanging from the door frame was a black makeshift curtain blocking your captive from seeing anything outside the room.You took it upon yourself to search him whilst Gaz and Ghost bound his wrists and ankles to the chair’s metal frame: a wallet with just two cards, a stack of cash, and a few coins; a packet of tissues; a dog tag without a chain stamped with Odristanian; and an acorn.

Gaz and Ghost led the way out, you taking one more survey of the room before you followed satisfied and with the door shut behind you.

“He was carrying this in his waistband, tried to pull it out on us when we put him in a headlock.” Bronze held a tiny handgun up like it was a pair of dirty underwear. You took it, though he’d already had the frame of mind to empty the chamber and remove the clip.

“Good job, Gaz, Bronze,” You said first, before you could forget to praise your team. “Chance, you’re the lead on this. Ghost, I want you in there with Chance ready to sub in if she wants to take a break. No one else goes in unless Markovič’s somehow a master of withholding information; I don’t want him getting any ideas about how many of us there are or where he is through the door.”

Both nodded, happy with their positions. However-

“He’s got no idea where he is,” Bronze interjected, “He walked right past the toilet to take a piss in the alleyway out back. He’s hardly gonna figure out anything through a gap in the curtain.”

You stared at him, expression once again carefully neutral, and Bronze’s eyes widening told you he knew he’d been caught with his trousers down – in front of his entire team no less. Muting your frustration for now was the best approach, even though you shouldn’t have to tell this fully grown man about taking precautions in the possibility of this being a trap. Instead, you continued delegating your team for the night ahead.

“Still, we’ll approach with standard caution. Crash, Gaz, you’re on watch: one in the sitting room, one from the roof. Make sure no one’s tailed us. Soap, Price, I want you observing from here, and you can feed any info you think helpful to them via their earpieces. Bronze, you’re with me. We’ll swap around in shifts when times comes to sleeping and watch, but again, we keep Ghost and Chance on Markovič.”

Bronze trailed behind you as you entered the sitting room, where all the packs were (yours included). Following the cable you’d plugged in that morning, you found and began fiddling with your tablet to get it live and onto the webcam that Gaz had installed amongst the padding on the walls. Price and Soap already had theirs set up whilst you were patting down your prisoner.

“I was part of a capture or kill mission about fifteen years ago,” You mused aloud, knowing Bronze was paying attention.“Capture was easy, and folks got cocky. Turns out it was a catch and release. Our target’s army was on our location within the first minute of interrogation. Killed half of us, wounded the rest. Botched everything beyond belief, set some of us back a year in terms of recovery and intel, and we were considered the lucky ones.” Then you rose to your feet and made carefully practiced eye contact with your Sergeant, “You understand why I’m telling you this?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Don’t make me tell you again, and certainly not in front of others.” You held out the tablet to him with the grainy footage displaying Ghost entering the room, Chance settling in, “Every behaviour is communication. Figure out what’s being said. You’ve got the rest of the hour then you swap with Crash.”

Into the dining room, sat around the table like some fucked-up family dinner. Soap was checking his sniper rifle, Price smoking, Bronze without any distraction to aid his redemption from earlier. So you set yourself apart to make the MREs up, an eye on the spare tablet streaming the torture live.

After receiving silence as the answer to her first question, Chance started by plucking out Markovič’s nose hairs, Ghost holding his head still whilst Markovič attempted to wriggle away from her tweezers. Then she moved onto something more interesting. Technically you were to thank for that technique, for suggesting a viewing of Paddington to boost team morale and bonding after a particularly shitty close to a mission in 2020. You just hadn’t realised she’d been taking notes during the screening.

As you heated up the chilli, you felt Price’s shadow blot out some of the sting of the stove’s flame. His cigar left smoking in a gaudy ashtray, clearly bought from a tourist boutique nearby.

“I can help,” He said.

You snorted, “Two Captains making tea for their teams, now that’s a laugh.” But you still shoved over the mess tins – clean from when Crash had scrubbed them clean earlier.

“It’s our jobs to make sure we all stay on our feet. You included,” Price said as he unstacked them, handing you the one with a little bar of soap drawn on the underside in permanent marker.  

“Which is why I’m making the dinner.”

“You know I meant you resting, not you staying on your feet.”

“Had plenty of rest in the driver’s seat,” and you dolloped the chilli into the tin.

You four ate in relative silence, apart from Bronze beside you who was noting down the reactions on your tablet’s post-it notes app, responses that Ghost and Chance were certainly logging in their own heads. That was his punishment technically: becoming your secretary for the paperwork you’d fill out at the end of the mission. He fucking hated it but he did it because you told him to, and he never needed to be told twice.

Some of Markovič’s methods of resisting were more akin to mindfulness practices: the deep breathing, the eyes closed, the rocking (limited against his restraints). He started to crumble at the twenty minute mark, letting slip Čiernik’s plan to relocate for the

“That’s new,” Bronze remarked when Chance began digging the tweezers into the wound on his stomach she’d sliced open with the accuracy of a surgeon. Markovič in response had let out a wheeze and told them that he’d give them the location.

“Crash, Bronze is on his way up to swap,” You called down your radio. No response, which was unlike her. Regardless, Bronze was already heading up, your tablet back in hand.

Chance sipped from her water bottle in the top left corner of your screen, behind Ghost whilst she watched what he was like in the interrogation room. Two words: viciously unempathetic.

“Why did the man miss the funeral?” Soap asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

You sighed, unable to figure it out, “Dunno, why?”

“He wasn’t a mourning person.”

Your mouth twisted into a half-smile that was trying to take itself seriously, “That’s pretty good.”

“Can’t take credit for that one.”

“Then send my compliments to the chef.”

“Ghost’ll be happy to hear them,” Soap snorted.

As you went to direct your smile directly at the Sergeant, you instead caught Price looking at you, though he glanced back down at his screen when you made eye contact. You didn’t like how the implication of him watching you instead of his Lieutenant sent your stomach flipping over the powdered eggs from this morning.

To cover your ruffled feathers, you went into the hallway to smooth them out and collided chest to chest with Crash.

“Sorry, Captain, didn’t hear you,” She explained quickly, catching her breath

“Your radio faulty?”

Crash paused before replying, “I was in another channel.”

Your frown was automatic, “Why?”

Another pause. “Listening to Chance and Ghost in the interrogation.”

“That’s not what I asked you to do.” Your weighted statement shrank Crash in front of you like a cotton shirt in the tumble dryer.

“Sorry.”

“Do better.” Somehow you managed to restrain your additional comment until after she’d left and into a whisper: “Fuck’s sake.”

It was embarrassing, your team showing you up with rookie missteps and trivial unprofessionalism. Now of all the times and places they could choose to be stupid.

Soap offered to swap out with Gaz, let him rest a little, and you agreed to it.

“We’ll start sleep shifts in a few,” You added, then repeated once Gaz was in the room again. He inhaled his MRE, despite being the one to order a bowl of nuts to pick through during the capture earlier.

When Chance exited her torture chambers, you held up her MRE – still sealed in its packet. She nodded and you began to make it as you asked:

“How do you think it’s going?”

Yes, you had been watching and paying attention to your screen, but it wasn’t the same as being in the room. The blurry pixels could only offer so much.

Chance sighed, stretching out her shoulders, “He’s gobby, in the worst way. But he’ll break soon. Just wanted him to remember what relief feels like.”

To be fair to him, Markovič had lasted longer than you thought. Perhaps you should start drinking gin.

“Anything you fancy?” You asked her.

Shrugging, Chance suggested with a wry expression, “Stick and poke?”

You mulled it over, tongue poking in your cheek. Then you gave her a nod of confirmation, your nose wrinkled, as if she was asking if you wanted another pint because it was her round. Stretching out your spine as she returned to her post, you returned to your screen and watched the basis of Chance’s failed tattoo artist dream reworked to suit her current occupation.

Each time Markovič passed out from the pain, Ghost used smelling salts to bring him back to continue a malicious cycle of Chance stabbing him in the same places with a heated needle.

It culminated in the reveal of a piece of intel that struck your partnership. You could see Soap’s fists wringing an invisible neck. Ghost squared his shoulders as he corked the smelling salts. Even Price’s jaw clenched at the mention of a name you’d come across in their files. Markovič begged with his two captors, desperately clawing at the chair and asserting with his remaining energythat it was the truth.Chance continued poking inside his dermis for ten minutes more – just to be certain. Plus you were certain she had read her fellow Lieutenant’s body language and how he wasn’t quite content with leaving the room this way – and he landed a solid punch on the back of Markovič’s head that sent him into unconsciousness and his chair tilting over. Your prisoner looked peaceful for the first time since you'd captured him, folded over and praying in his own putrid blood.

Both the Lieutenants finally left the torture chamber and both their Captains met them outside the door. Chance had very little to add to what she’d already reported. But Ghost shoved his demand right there and then.

“He can’t tell them we’re coming,” He said, his words as harsh as if he’d spat at you.

You nodded in agreement, “I’ll take care of it.”

But Ghost shook his head with the same ire, “S’alright, I’ll do it. Not hungry anyways.”

“Ok,” You said, maintaining the calm to balance his fury, “Good job. You too, Chance.”

“I’ll contact Laswell,” Price stated, the chair legs screeching on the wooden floor as he rose to stand.

“Patch in General Fernandez too; I need a word with him. Ta,” you added the last word quickly as he started to leave. While you stopped yourself looking at his hips, you didn’t quite manage to wrangle the memory of how you’d wrapped your legs around them for a piggy back after a successful football match as rookies, and sometimes imagined if you were on his front instead of his back, arms still around his neck, holding him close, just as eager, just as delighted to be with him.

“Fuck’s sake,” you muttered again, pinching the bridge of your nose. You were worse than Bronze with the unprofessionalism at this point, letting it spill out of your head into your actions. If you were alone, you’d slap yourself. Hard. Get your head screwed on right and tight.

Onscreen, Ghost was clipping open the zip-ties from Markovič, who collapsed onto the tarps, the KA-BAR in his neck hardly leaking despite the angle. He left it in there to recover in the morning, once livor mortis was well and truly underway.

Summoning your façade back into position, you moved to the side room for a little privacy, ready to talk to the equivalent of your line manager. “Laswell, patching in Komodo” was the last you heard as you switched to the appropriate channel.

“This is Komodo Actual,” General Fernandez spoke clear as a whistle down your earpiece, “Nice to hear from you at last, Captain.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, “Sir,Markovič has given us the details of Čiernik’s next move and one of his storage facilities he frequently uses; Laswell’s verifying the kinks of what we can do about it.”

“Good work. Any damage on your side?”

“Not yet, standby for that. Markovič also gave us intel involving Gold Eagle.”

There was a pause, and you could only assume that your very thorough General was sweeping his room once more to assure absolute secrecy before he asked: “What’s the intel?”

“We’ve stumbled upon another of his pet projects. Čiernik is on his payroll.”

-----------

AN: Thanks for the patience, I've started a new job and it's taking a lot of my time. I appreciate the love I've been getting on this. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea so it makes it all the nicer when it finds folks who like it <3

Next chapter, things start amping up, and some hints/teasers become answers so rewards for those who've been paying attention and those who are along for the ride!

Taglist: @mockerycrow

[thebearemoji]

Me talk about minthara now? Nnyes

Hhhhhhhhh I revert to a whiny little baby whenever I think about the fact that some portion of the bg3 player base will simply never encounter minthara in any capacity hhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I am aware minthara is believed to be "rushed content", and that accounts for many of her bugs. But I don't really care about why she's a mess, im more interested in talking about the result of that reality.

So I've finished 2 runs of bg3 so far, one in which I played a generally very good character and one in which I played a generally pretty evil character. After completing the latter run, I'm left with several qualms about what felt like a simply inferior experience to my first play through. The most frustrating being that Minthara, who became one of my favorite companions, is completely chained to the much less satisfying "evil content" with no way to see her story otherwise.

For context, minthara can only be recruited if the player helps the goblins attack the Grove in act 1. This alone is enough to stop plenty of players from ever seeing minthara beyond that single misleading conversation in the goblin camp. Some players don't enjoy role-playing being mean/evil, and attacking the Grove is unfortunately about as despicable as a game can get. For some reason, you can't tell the tieflings to leave despite the fact that they're only collateral damage in the attack on the druids. You gotta kill every druid, and every innocent refugee, or no minthara.

But the deck stacked against my beloved drow doesn't stop there, not only do you have to kill the tieflings along with all their associated content and side quests, in order to recruit minthara you have to forgo recruiting Wyll, Karlach, and Halsin because all 3 object to the attacking the Grove.

3 companions for 1, a frankly unpleasant task of slaughtering tieflings even for someone who enjoys role-playing evil characters, not to mention she's been plagued with bugs that cause her content to fail to trigger. All those things considered, why would anyone go out of their way to recruit minthara...?

Well... i just think she's neat.

After the first encounter with minthara in the goblin camp I was not necessarily looking forward to recruiting her. I assumed she was a murder hobo and nothing more based on first impressions, but at the very least I was looking forward to getting a third companion who wouldn't nag at me for every choice I was making. At the very least, she would be another character in my corner.

However, much to my shock, she turned out to be far more nuanced then she seemed at a glance. Because the person the player meets in the goblin camp isn't minthara, but rather a puppet of the absolute wearing her skin. She has little to no control over her actions, including the roll she plays in the attack on the grove.

I really struggle to wrap my head around this choice to tie her completely to the grove. Especially considering she's being mind controlled, but there's no way to know that. Minthara is a bait and switch, someone who (despite still being evil) is nowhere near as bad as the game inclines you to believe. But you can only discover this if you help her do something truly despicable. So there's a companion who's a better person then she seems, but you can only find out about her better side if you're evil. Why? Why can't a good tav save her? Why doesn't she get the same opportunity at redemption that laezhel, astarion and shadowheart get? I know the reason is probably time constraints, but I'm mad about it.

I really think she's worthy of a closer look, i love me some good lawful evil energy. Minthara is a good example, I believe. She takes no pleasure in killing or violence, but she will also eliminate anyone who remotely impedes her without hesitation. And she weaponizes grudges like her will is sharp enough to kill on its own. She's fierce, eloquent and cunning, and also managed to make me laugh out loud with how dead pan she can be (see her response to dribbles: "Say the word and I will kill the clown. We will be heralded as heroes." with a look of pure distress on her face).

She's a lolthsworn drow who is now exiled after falling under the influence of the absolute. The place she comes from is harsh and punishing, and yet she was a noble. She describes the beauty and majesty of menzobarenzan (sp) in the same breath that she discusses battle. I wish she would've gotten a flash back cutscene like shadowheart. Either her home or Ketheric betraying her.

Honestly I wish every character had gotten a flashback cutscene like shadowheart. It's a win/win of exploring the social aspect of the tadpoles by sharing memories and also adding a visual to the events the characters describe. But I digress.

Minthara's character trope may not appeal to everyone, she is still not a good person. But neither is astarion, and he's fandom favorite. Surely people wouldn't hold minthara's morality against her while also praising Astarion for some weird reason i cant put my finger on???? HaHA-

I wouldn't blame anyone who doesnt do an evil play through. The game didn't let me have fun with it, and playing games is about having fun. Why try to be evil and get nagged at by the game for 70 hours of gameplay when I can instead save everyone and enjoy myself?

So the reality is, Minthara may remain a cryptid for many players, riddled with bugs and cursed by the narrative to lose so that many other characters can win. But at the very least, I want to draw attention to one snippet of her dialogue. This is from a conversation after Orin is defeated.

I can't shake the idea that the minthara I know and love is trapped within the person you meet at the goblin camp. In a similar vein to gortash's mother in baldurs gate, trapped behind eyes she no longer controls. At the mercy of the tadpole and the whims of the brain and the 3. A helpless victim desperate to get her chance at vengeance at those who wronged her.

And that knowledge will haunt me every time I play a "good" character. I will know that even though my goal may be to save them all, there is one that I quite literally cannot save. Because the game won't let me. And God damn it, she's too interesting for that to be her legacy in this game. Minthara worries that no one will remember her, but I will think of this dialogue every time my journal flatly instructs me to "kill the goblin bosses".

[stiffyck]

I JUST REMEMBERED.

i just remembered... how in the walking dead, characters would often use zombie organs and guts and whatnot to conceal themselves so that hoards would think they're a zombie as well. they'd blend in and would be able to traverse in an emergency, even if there were tons of zombies around.

now scar! how on earth would he feel about that? being the only of his kind that he knows of in tcd, if he ever did this, he'd probably have to have figured it out on his own. it was either during a moment of great contemplation and revelation, where he noticed how sometimes zombies wouldn't go after him if he was just plastered with the remains of slaughter. orrr it could have happened on a whim, in a moment of panic and absolute shock.

concept: scar got himself into a bit of a tricky situation with a gang of zombies too big for him to handle, so he starts to run. they, of course, follow. he might've rounded a corner, and from around the corner lunges yet another zombie. he's developed a good enough reflex to immediately cut it down, and with how quickly it happened, and the momentum of the zombie's lunge, its body drops on him and all of it drains onto him from the open wound he just made.

he falls back onto the floor, scrambling to get the thing off of him (he already has a bad enough relation with corpses, this will probably only make it worse). he looks up, expecting for the rest of the hoard to come get him. this is it. this is how he dies. overwhelmed and eaten alive by a mass of biting and clawing undead. except they run right by. they don't even pay him attention. he is left staring, too in shock to pull the dead thing off of him, and he watches as they slow and calm down, returning to an idle state. they just... they didn't know he was there. how was that possible?

he looks down and. that was it, wasn't it? they couldn't sense him at all. was it the zombie blood? what if he... what if he lathered himself in it, hooked guts and muscles over his shoulders, would he be able to get out of there alive?

so he tries that. he unsheathes a knife, cuts the thing open and begins to coat himself. it's gruesome, it's gross, and he is doing everything within his power not to throw up. but once he thinks he's done, he shakily shoves it off, stands.... and he remains standing. the rest of the zombies don't even acknowledge him. he blends right in.

he doesn't run away. that would be stupid. with his heart racing in his chest, he slowly makes his way through the crowd, trying to keep his breathing at bay, trying not to inhale the stench clinging onto him, trying not to make eye contact with the hoard in case by some bad luck they recognise his humanity.

this was the first time. this was a learning experience. a tough lesson to swallow, and under very cruel conditions, but you never learn things the easy way during the end of the world. he was lucky to be alive, he was lucky to have found another key to his survival.

he gradually grows more numb to corpses during tcd itself, they've helped him enough times during tricky situations, but it's a whole other story on hermitcraft. that's when the fear of the dead really flares up, because it brings about the fear of: is the infection back? is everyone else dead? in the tcd at least he knew he was alone, there was nothing else he could lose. but on hermitcraft he has people, and losing everything again, his people, his comfort, his safety, his new life, would be the most terrible horror imagineable, that's why he develops a phobia. that's why he strikes back so harshly against zombies (in a controlled environment) but can't bear to look at dead things, mistakes others for zombies, has flashbacks, and panics if he feels overwhelmed by the number of them. makes sense?

and how would the hermits perceive this? they were out and about one day, got caught in the night, and scar tried to quell his initial panic, then said, "i know what to do." then the most unexpected thing happened: seeing scar cover himself with zombie flesh, ruffling their blood into his hair, draping intestines over his shoulders and neck, and so much more, it's... concerning. i mean, it works. he definitely gets by without having to lift a hand once while the others have to strike the mobs down, but how does one even come up with that? what has he gotten himself into in the past?

later, he doesn't want to talk about it.

I-

[screamingoverfiction]

Loving and Dying

I'm obsessed with masked men who could easily kill me. Ghost(MW2) x f!-reader, codename: Kracken. Angst with a little suggestiveness and brief smut. Canon typical violence.

Word Count: 2.87k.

There were bullets, smoke, and blood. So much blood. She couldn't remember nor tell whose it was, and she didn't care. The only thing on her mind was staying alive and finding Ghost.

She swallowed thickly, ignoring the burning in her throat as she inhaled diluted smoke. Her head burned with adrenaline, but her mind raced with fear. She was scared.

It was a mission gone awol, 141 needed intel. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and her were sent to retrieve it. It was supposed to be quick and easy. Get in and get out, but it didn't go smoothly.

She was shot in the stomach as soon as their vehicle entered the town. A sniper in a building has had eyes on them since the beginning.

After she got shot, everything went to shit. The car got its wheels blown out, sending the team spiraling away. She managed to crawl her way out, calling for Ghost, Soap, Gaz, anyone. But there was too much gunfire.

She heard Ghost's demanding voice shout at her to run, get away from there and find cover. So she tried, and now here she was, in an abandoned house, bleeding out, dried tears on her cheeks, her life flashing before her eyes.

The first time Ghost kissed her.

It was after she and he had sparred, he, of course, had come out victorious, but she always gave him a challenge.

She was drenched in sweat, hair plastered against her face, head knocked back, chest heaving for air. She glanced at Ghost, who had been watching her intently, an unreadable look in his eyes.

"You're staring, lieutenant," She spoke with a smirk, taking a drink from her water bottle and setting it down on a bench.

"You're a tough fighter, Kracken," Ghost commented, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head sideways.

Kracken smiled, shaking her head and inhaling sharply. She'd earned that nickname after a mission out on the water when she'd popped up and slaughtered them all in a blink.

"Not tough enough to beat you, though," She replied with a breathy laugh, wiping across her forehead with her arm.

She'd started to walk away, but Ghost caught her arm, drawing her back to him, pulling his mask up just barely, and crashing their lips together.

She was surprised, but only for a millisecond. It lit a fire deep inside her stomach to know he wanted her as bad as she wanted him.

They hadn't hesitated in deepening the kiss until they couldn't breathe, teeth clashing, tongues battling, hands grasping at whatever they could.

Ghost had fucked her against that wall, covering her mouth with his palm to suppress her moans, marking her neck with hickeys, and whispering dirty things into her ear.

Her legs were wrapped around his torso, her back arching into him, eyes rolling into her head as he fucked her through her high.

And that was only the beginning. Soon their little 'meetings' became something more. It seemed like each time they met alone, their feelings for each other would strengthen.

After the first time they fucked, they'd made a promise that fucking was all it was, no feelings attached, but a blind person could see that was a lie.

Kracken didn't know if she would make it out of this house, but she wanted her last thoughts to be of him, his lips on hers, his hands caressing her skin. The soft-spoken words he said only to her.

She leaned against the stone wall, more tears rolling down her cheeks as she quickly took off her tactical vest and pressed her fist against her stomach, trying to slow the bleeding.

She had been wearing a vest when the sniper shot her, but it could only do so much if she hadn't worn it. She would've died on the spot.

She squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath. Accepting that this was it, the end of the line. No more. She was dying, and she would die alone.

A crackle came from the radio strapped to her chest. It broke her out of her death-ridden trance.

"Kraken, How copy?" Ghost's panicked voice rang out. His tone was laced with concern, fearing that she wouldn't respond.

She tiredly clicked the button on her com, barely whispering her reply.

"I'm fucked up, Ghost," She said quietly, inhaling sharply, a sting of pain shooting through her abdomen. She heard him curse lowly, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'll come to you. What do you see?" He asked, his tone still worrying.

"I don't really know, fire, smoke. I'm in an old house, red roof. I can't be more than 500 meters away from the hummer," She breathed, grunting in pain, sweat dripping from her brow.

"Fuck, we scattered from the hummer. I'll be there in ten minutes. Stay alive for me," He spoke, his voice stern and scared. He couldn't lose her too. It would kill him.

Kracken inhaled again, they were bound to send reinforcements soon, and they'd kill Ghost and the others in a blink.

"Don't come for me. I'm dead weight. I'll hold you back. They're gonna send reinforcements," She said, trying to convince him even though she knew it was pointless.

"You're bloody fucking daft if you think I'm leaving you to die," Ghost stated angrily through the coms.

Kracken closed her eyes, having no energy to keep them open. She knew she was dying, and it was terrifying, but she couldn't stop it.

"Hey, don't go quiet on me now," Ghost said, listening intently for her reply.

When she didn't, he started panicking even more, his blood turning to ice and his chest tightening.

Ghost's eyes locked onto a small house with a red roof. He sprinted towards it, shooting an enemy without looking, his mind hyper-focused on finding her.

He burst into the building, eyes locking on her figure, slumped in the corner, eyes closed, blood seeping from her abdomen.

Ghost's eyes went wide, and he rushed over, dropping to his knees, his gloved hand going to her neck, feeling for a pulse.

"Come on, Y/n, don't die on me," He whispered, his free hand going to stroke her cheek, thumb brushing over the grime-ridden skin.

He audibly breathed in relief when he felt her faint pulse. But he knew it would only be there for so long. She needed medical attention immediately.

Ghost pressed his hand against her wound, doing his best to keep her blood in. The action caused a spike of pain and adrenaline to shoot through her body, jolting her awake.

Her hand shot down and wrapped around his wrist, using her remaining strength to try and defend herself. When her eyes locked with the hazel ones behind his mask. She calmed down.

"Ghost," She said, relief evident in her tone, tiredly slumping back into the wall, eyes barely open.

"Don't close your eyes, alright. Just talk to me, love. I'm calling for help," He said, keeping pressure against her wound, his free hand leaving her cheek to press his radio.

"I don't wanna die," She whispered, chest rising and falling rapidly. She was going into shock from lack of blood.

"Fuck, Gaz, she's going into shock. Where's the closest medic?" Ghost demanded, his voice stern enough to make a firefighter shit themselves.

"You're not gonna like my answer, lieutenant. They're at least a half hour out," Gaz said, his voice sounding solemn and sympathetic.

"We just found a kit from the hummer, get her back here, and we can patch her up," Soap said through the coms.

"I'm getting you out of here, love. Keep pressure on that wound," Ghost said softly, wrapping his arm around her back and lifting her into his arms.

He carried her through the building despite her cries and groans of agony, each step sending another wave of pain through her system. She was bleeding all over him, but that didn't matter. She was the only thing that mattered.

"Ghost, please," She begged, the hand that wasn't pressing into her stomach clenched onto his clothed shoulder, nails digging into the flesh.

"I'm sorry, I know it hurts, just a little longer," He replied, swallowing thickly, adrenaline fueling his steps.

"I can't, please, Ghost," She begged again, sweat dripping down her face. She was paling, and her breathing was labored and rapid.

"Fuck, Just talk to me, alright? Tell me about anything, anything you want," Ghost practically pleaded, his eyes locking with hers.

"I-I've always dreamed of getting eloped on a beach, the sun setting in the background, nothing on my mind except how in love I am," She managed to whisper, hands starting to shake.

"Yeah? Well, stay alive, and that'll happen one day," Ghost said, kicking a door down and shooting a man in the head with his pistol before returning his arm beneath her.

She let out a dry laugh, making Ghost look at her, confusion in his hazel hues.

"I'm never going to get married, not in this field of work," She whispered, swallowing and exhaling shakily.

"And why's that?" His voice was softer than she expected.

"No one's going to want to marry me, Ghost. I've got a lot of baggage," She muttered, her eyes closing against her will.

"Well, I know at least one man who'd marry you in a heartbeat," Ghost said in a whisper, his chest swarming with anxiety.

If she wasn't dying in his arms, a giant grin would've spanned across her face. She would've wrapped her arms around him, kissing his lips until neither of them could breathe, but she couldn't.

They reached the outside, the ablaze vehicle only about 300 meters away, but it felt like 20 miles.

There was little pain now, but that scared her more. It meant there was little they could do now. If she wasn't airlifted to a hospital in the next five minutes. She'd be dead.

Tears rolled down her cheeks at the realization. But she didn't want to die like this. It was a horrible way to go. How would her family and friends cope with her gruesome death?

"Simon," She whimpered, blood-covered hand going to caress his masked face, smearing red across the hard skull.

Simon looked down at her, tears stinging his vision. His heart shattering into millions of pieces at her broken, pleading voice.

"I'm not gonna make it, Simon," She whispered shakily, hands trembling, eyes watering, her body so physically exhausted she could break in half.

"Don't you fucking say that, Y/n. You're gonna be fine. Johnny is coming with the kit. H-He'll help you," He declared thoroughly as if he was trying to not only convince her but himself as well.

Her eyes closed, and her arms fell limp. She couldn't hold pressure against her wound anymore. She was too tired.

"No, no, fuck," Simon gently set her down behind a small concrete wall for cover, applying pressure to her gunshot and pressing his coms.

"Johnny, we need you now! We're 250 meters away from the hummer, behind some concrete," Simon demanded, releasing the radio and placing both hands on her abdomen.

"Stay with me, Y/n," He breathed, a single tear tipping from his eye and rolling down his cheek.

Y/n opened her eyes just barely, gasping for air and gripping his wrists, crying out in pain.

It hurt him to see her like this. If only they'd checked the area before deployment. If only the windows in the hummer were tinted slightly more. Why didn't he sit on that side?

"I'm on my way Lt." Johnny called through the radio, his voice sounding panicked.

"Simon, I'm sorry," She whimpered, releasing her grip on his wrist and instead bringing her hand to his face brushing her thumb over the skull. Simon realized something at that moment. She hadn't seen his face. She'd never pressured him into showing it, never asked him to take off the mask, but now he regretted not showing her.

Careful to keep the same amount of pressure on her wound, he lifted one hand to his face, taking off his helmet, hesitating momentarily when he gripped the fabric of his mask.

Y/n's eyes went wide. She reached up and grabbed his wrist to stop him from removing the piece. She didn't want him to feel obligated to, but Simon simply shook his head.

"I want to," He said in a shaky breath, swallowing thickly. Y/n's hand fell from his wrist, and Simon slowly pulled the mask off.

He was beautiful, strong cheekbones and blond hair cut short but slightly longer on the top. He had various scars along his face, one on his lip and a burn scar on the upper part of his neck. His nose was defined, and his blond eyelashes stuck out from the black grease paint around his warm brown eyes. He was younger-looking than she expected, but his face still showed years of battle.

"You're bloody handsome, lieutenant," She whispered, brushing her thumb along his cheek again, eyes hazily open.

"It should be a crime you kept that face away from me," She said again, using her last few breaths to try and get him to smile.

Simon closed his eyes and dryly chuckled. Reaching forward, he cupped her face, leaning his forehead against hers.

Using what little strength she had left, she leaned forward, pressing her lips against his and holding his shoulder.

"I love you," He said quietly against her lips, swallowing his tears, keeping his hand on her wound.

She smiled sadly, her arm wrapping around the back of his neck to keep herself steady.

"I love you, Simon," She whispered. Her heart rate slowly started decreasing, and her mind slipped away.

She kissed him until she couldn't, her final breath fanning against his skin as her body went limp in his embrace. Her body slumped against the concrete, eyes closed.

Simon's eyes shot open, panicking at her lifeless body, he grasped her face trying to wake her, but there was nothing. Strings of fearing curses left his lips as he searched for her pulse.

Nothing.

"No! No! Y/n! Fuck, come on!" He cried desperately, quickly using his free hand to pathetically attempt one-handed CPR, knowing that if he tried with two, her blood would just spill out.

After a few seconds, he knew it was pointless. There was no more Y/n L/n, no more of the girl he fell in love with. All that was left was her body, her lifeless body.

A sickening sob left his lips before he could stop it, and tears ran freely down his cheeks. He leaned over her body, cradling her head in his hand and sobbing into her neck.

He'd failed.

Running footsteps could be heard from behind the wall, but Simon didn't care. He'd gladly take a bullet to his brain.

"Fuck," A Scottish voice cursed. Footsteps approached Simon from behind, and a hand fell on his shoulder.

"I couldn't save her, Johnny," Simon said with a shaky breath, hands trembling as they held her body.

"I'm sorry, Simon," Johnny said, swallowing his own sadness and looking at the ground. He knew of Simon's feelings for Y/n. You'd need to be worse than blind to not see.

"Simon, we need to get to extraction," Soap spoke, standing up with a grief-ridden expression.

Simon exhaled shakily, reaching over and pulling on his mask and helmet.

Ghost stood, bending down over and snaking his arms under her body, pulling her lifeless body into his arms.

Soap finally saw her clearly, blood-covered shirt, face smeared with blood, sweat, and tears. She didn't deserve to die.

Ghost walked out from behind the wall with Soap beside him. Ghost's eyes were red from tears, but he needed to get his mind straight. He was still in the field. But with every step he took, he'd see her in his arms and have to force the tears back in.

They approached the extraction point. Gaz was already there, hurriedly talking to a medic. His eyes snapped up at the sound of footsteps, relief washing over his face for a split second until his eyes locked onto the body in Ghost's arms.

Gaz felt sick to his stomach. That couldn't be her. She was alive. She had to be. She wouldn't go out like this. She was a fighter.

His fears were confirmed when the medics rushed over to her, but Ghost simply plowed past them. Gently placing her body in the truck bed.

Gaz could only stare. Her once full-of-life eyes were shut. A smile would never cross her lips again.

His eyes snapped to Ghost's noticing their blotchiness, but Ghost said nothing. He merely stared at her body as if his mind could bring her back.

"Kraken KIA," Soap's voice said through the coms to Price, his voice shaking.

"What?" Price responded, not believing his ears.

"Y/n's dead," Simon repeated, closing his eyes, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

Everyone Simon Riley has ever loved died because of him indirectly or not it didn't matter.

Simon Riley Ghost wouldn't make the mistake of loving anyone ever again.

I'm only half sorry.