#pistol River

[360nw]

Pistol River Overlook - Curry County, Oregon - August 2024

[scrapblring]

Pistol River turnout

[windsurftravel]

Oregon coast!

[natsu12291]

[sw5w]

Ascension Guns Aimed

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:55:00

This is another scene that's tricky to make heads or tails of. The Security S-5 blaster which is referred to as an ascension gun in the film seems to have the grappling dart inserted into the small silver barrel beneath the muzzle in this scene.

But in the diagram in the Expanded Visual Dictionary, it indicates the grappling hook is on the far side, and in the Palace Guard’s diagram it shows a grappling dart loaded into the far side of the blaster (identified as the liquid cable shooter).

Then when the Queen and her men scale up the side of the palace, you can see that the cable is clearly shot from the center of the blaster, where the shorter silver barrel is located.

Furthermore, this card from the Star Wars: Destiny - Spirit of Rebellion set shows the cable shooting out from the lower barrel, while the 3D rendering from the New Essential Guide to Weapons shows the grappling dart on the side of the blaster.

And these photos, found on http://yourprops.com shows the side peg where the dart is shown in the previous images, along with the dart being loaded into the lower barrel. Maybe the dart is stored on the side until needed, at which time it's loaded into the lower barrel?

[catgirlforeskin]

I saw Joe Biden pick up two dogs, holding them in one fist like a pair of socks, then set forth, dogs dangling. He crossed upon a stone bridge and he looked down into the swollen waters and raised the dogs and pitched them in.

At the farther end the bridge gave onto a small street that ran along the river. Here Kamala Harris stood urinating from a stone wall into the water. When she saw the president commit the dogs from the bridge she drew her pistol and called out. The dogs disappeared in the foam. They swept one and the next down a broad green race over sheets of polished rock into the pool below.

Kamala raised and cocked the pistol. In the clear waters of the pool willow leaves turned like jade dace. The pistol bucked in her hand and one of the dogs leaped in the water and she cocked it again and fired again and a pink stain diffused. She cocked and fired the pistol a third time and the other dog also blossomed and sank.

You expect me to vote for this guy?

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, canon-typical violence, abduction, forced proximity

Word Count: 4.4k

The skull-faced lieutenant takes you back to base. The two of you are forced to spend the night in the same space.

Chapter One // Chapter Three

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

The scream is a gunshot.

You flinch. Turn away. Cover your mouth with your hand.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

“You fucking motherfucker! I’m gonna fucking kill you! You—”

The man’s words are swallowed up by the echoing pop of a pistol unloading. Ghost yanks on your arm, but you’re frozen like a rabbit sensing a predator. Even after the world fell apart, you witnessed so much, but seeing such brutal execution twists your insides like tangled barbed wire.

“Walk,” Ghost commands, but your legs are unmovable like Redwood trees.

You’re sinking. The ground is opening up.

Danger. Danger.

“Hey.”

Another crack, followed by begging.

“Look at me.” There are large hands on your shoulders. Squeezing. Urging. “Look at me.”

Ghost’s voice is a firm directive, and you snap to attention. Your gaze, once distant, locks with his. Behind the mask are his eyes—a whiskey brown with gold flecks crowned by long, pale eyelashes.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he soothes, hands sliding away from your shoulders to rest against your ears.

He presses, silencing the world. When the next gunshot goes off, you hardly hear it. Just a muffled blip amongst the quiet. With every inhale and subsequent exhale, the buzzing rush of adrenaline softens, then crashes. It’s just a shiver of release. A dismissive wave of the hand.

And Ghost never looks away. Not once.

Focused and sharp, you’re unable to look away from Ghost’s intensity. Like a roiling river, his eye contact swallows you up, drowning you in its chaos. It allows you a moment to simply observe the man before you, to study what you can of his face. It isn’t much, just blackish smudges around the eyes and a prominent brow.

A curiosity blooms where there was no soil.

You’re so focused on him that you don’t realize the gunshots have stopped until Ghost drops his hands.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you gasp, unsure of why you’ve just apologized to him.

Ghost is impassive. Unresponsive. He simply stares, arms at his sides, and that attention is almost worse than the gunshots. It is unnerving—but not in the creeping sense of nefarious interest. He may be silent, but in his silence, there is a question.

A curiosity. Blooming.

But whatever you’ve witnessed quickly passes.

Ghost is grabbing hold of your upper arm, tugging you forward. This time your legs surrender, moving with him but struggling to keep up with his long strides.

You pass one armored truck. Then another.

“Wait,” you say, but it’s a whisper lost to the breeze.

We’re taking her with us.

“Wait,” and this time it’s louder. It carries on the wind.

Survival. Survival is paramount. And this stranger is leading you to unknown places, likely to never return you to where you come from.

Digging your feet in, you attempt to come to a stop. Ghost hardly faulters. His strength overpowers, and you nearly topple forward to eat pavement.

“Wait!”

With a growl, Ghost whirls on you. “We’re on a tight schedule, love. Keep up.”

Another tug, this one not an annoyance but a brief bite of pain. Instinct flares, and you lash out, forming a fist. It lands against his chest, striking just to the right of his left shoulder.

It’s a dumb fucking move.

Ghost shoves you up against the side of one of the armored trucks, caging you between him and the metal exterior. “Want my attention that bad? Well, love. You’ve got it.” His chest heaves as if this one interaction is taking all his stamina.

“Take your fucking hands off me,” you growl, placing both hands flat on his chest and shoving with all your strength.

Ghost grunts, and shoves you right back, pinning you to the vehicle. “Behave,” he murmurs.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

You struggle against him, working your shoulders back and forth to shake off his hold. It’s fruitless. Pathetic. Lieutenant Skull Face is stronger—weight unyielding.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit at him, just because it feels good.

Ghost ignores your outburst. “You’re coming back with us. Stop your bloody fussing.”

He talks to you like you’re a small child in need of a good scolding. It’s infuriating. You might be weaponless and without leverage, but the first thing you learned when defending yourself in a world like this is to never allow anyone to take you to a secondary location. Fight like hell when you can, and survive.

But fighting doesn’t always mean physical.

“I mean nothing to you. Just leave me,” you reply, adding a slight quiver to your voice.

Negotiating. Begging. It might work with him.

“That’s not an option.”

From his tone, it’s clear that Ghost is over this conversation. Your window is closing. Soon, each of these men will turn their attention to the trucks, which means they’ll be focused on you. If you want to escape, you need to escape now.

Ghost eases his hold, drawing back to take you with him.

You give one final attempt before you start swinging.

Grasping the back of his neck, you drag him back to you. There is no mouth for you to kiss, so you press your lips to where you believe his might be. You aim for just above the skull teeth. The material of the mask is surprisingly smooth. With your leverage of your hand at the back of his neck, you lightly rock your hips in a provocative gesture, hooking your leg up slightly to imitate grinding.

Ghost stiffens, clearly confused and startled by your actions. It lasts only a few fleeting seconds, and then he softens, his hands falling to your hips.

Sweet victory sings in your veins.

Men are all the same.

All you have to do is convince him to go to one of these vehicles alone. Climb on top if you can, but make do if you’re under him. Allow him a few thrusts. Moan a bit to make him think you want this. Then go for the fucking throat.

Ghost’s hands squeeze your hips, but it’s not to pull you closer. He starts to push you away. Rejecting. He’s rejecting you.

“Tempting offer,” he murmurs. “But we’re on a schedule.”

No. Fucking no.

This is your chance. Your one chance.

The world tilts, and you switch gears.

With a quick upward motion, you drive your knee into Ghost’s groin, nailing him where his pelvis meets his thigh.

“Fucking hell,” he coughs, staggering to the side, bending over in pain.

You dip beneath his arm, dashing toward the connecting street. The Jeep keys are lost to you, and you have no gun, but if you run fast enough, and lose them amongst the houses, you might have a chance to sneak back to the Jeep undetected and hotwire it home.

Legs pumping, you dash past the armored truck.

Freedom is close. It is calling out to you. Reaching—

Large, muscled arms wrap around you, hauling you backward. They don’t throw you to ground, but restrain you, holding you firmly against a solid body.

Fuck it. Fuck this.

It’s time for fists and teeth and claws.

Kicking and screaming, you raise hell. An arm loosens. Bending it, you bring your elbow down into his shoulder.

Ghost grunts, grasps your wrist, and yanks. He twists you around, seizing both of your arms, pinning them behind your back.

You immediately go limp.

It almost works.

Ghost staggers but recovers enough to ease into the movement, using the momentum to lift you up and into his arms.

Arms now free, you snarl, swiping at him with an open palm. Ghost promptly drops you.

You hit the ground. Hard.

With a groan, you push up from the pavement with the intent to flee. A boot presses against your back, and forces you down until you’re flat on your stomach. Seconds later and you’re zip-tied.

“That’s better,” grumbles Ghost.

Grabbing you by your forearms, he lifts you back onto your feet.

A slurry of profanities leaves your lips. “Bastard! Fucking bastard! Motherfucker! Cock sucking motherfucking bastard!”

You throw your body weight around, too, but Ghost remains firm, dragging you along toward the cluster of vehicles.

“You—you—shit eating…tit zit!”

Ghost chuckles. “Creative,” he muses like he appreciates it.

His amused demeanor only deflates your hope, melting you down until you decide it’s best to beg, to see if this man will show even a hint of mercy.

“Please,” you exhale, and you hate how desperate you sound. “Please. Just—just let me go.”

Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. Keeping his gaze forward, Ghost hauls you over to a Humvee. He opens the rear passenger door.

“Get in,” he nods. “Or I’ll toss you in.”

“Please,” you beg. “Please listen.”

“Wrong answer.”

With a quick bend of the knees, Ghost lifts you off the ground and fulfills his threat. You bounce on the seat and almost topple onto the floor.

This is it. There is no going back. You’re being taken elsewhere, and there is little you can do. Everything going forward has to be about you, and what you have to do to survive.

But then you remember Ben, and how his body is just…there. Discarded.

As Ghost starts to turn away, you lean forward, knowing that what you’re about to ask will likely be ignored.

“You have to bring him with us. Please.”

Ghost has no reason to speak to you—to entertain what you’ve just said. You expect him to slam the door in your face, to give you his back.

“Bring who?” replies Ghost. He sounds genuinely curious, and his body language isn’t hostile. He has one hand on the handle of the door and the other resting against the side of the Humvee.

“Ben. We can’t leave him here. It’s not right.”

Behind the balaclava, his gaze narrows. “Is that who you were with?” You nod. Ghost briefly glances over his shoulder and then turns his gaze back to you. “Were you his?”

Were you his? Is that jealously? Does Ghost feel threatened by a dead man?

“No,” you laugh softly. “No. But…”

“But what?” he prompts.

“He has—had a wife. Two daughters.” You pause, remembering how the two girls had cornered you during community movie night, listing all the books they wanted you to find. “People loved him. They’ll want closure.”

You hate these moments of silence, of Ghost simply staring at you before he answers.

“I can’t bring him with us,” he finally says.

“Then leave him somewhere where they’ll find him,” you urge. “Please.”

Ghost’s demeanor shifts. His hand falls away from the side of the vehicle. “You came from a bigger group?”

“Does that matter?”

Ghost shakes his head in annoyance. “It fucking bloody well matters.”

“They won’t come after you,” you insist. “They aren’t expecting us for hours. You’ll be long gone before they come looking.”

“You could be lying to me.”

Anger flares in your chest. You need him to understand. “I just want Ben to go home to his family. They deserve it!”

Ghost sighs, and shakes his head. “Watch your feet,” he mutters.

You turn your legs at the last second as the Humvee door slams shut.

Left alone in the vehicle, the reality of your situation starts to settle, to seep into your bloodstream. It shoots straight to your brain, slithering in the folds, sinking in until the anxiety becomes a roar. Your breath comes and goes in quick gasps.

Panic. You’re panicking.

You’re fucking panicking.

Sliding across the seat, you reach with wiggling fingers for the handle. With wrists bound and no way to truly see what you’re doing, you’re forced to seek with your hands, praying that you’ll find the handle before Ghost arrives.

Sweat forms, making it difficult to hang on to anything.

“Come on,” you sob, knowing that this is it.

You find the handle. Tug.

Nothing. It doesn’t budge.

“No,” you gasp, yanking and yanking and yanking again. “No.”

He’s locked you in.

Desperation fuels you, motivating you to try the other door, and then kicking with both feet until your knees hurt and your thighs burn.

When Ghost returns to the Humvee, he finds you on your back, staring blankly.

There are no tears. No panic. Only numbness.

“Sit up,” he says, voice flat.

You obediently comply, shifting until you’re sitting upright. Ghost hops in, forcing you to slide all the way to the other side of the bench seat. He settles in, nearly squishing you between him and the door. There’s no room to move. The two of you are thigh to thigh—touching.

“Ready to bloody go.” You glance to the left at the familiar Scottish voice.

“You and me both, Soap,” grumbles Ghost, shifting even further to the right to accommodate the new addition to the backseat.

The driver and front passenger doors open simultaneously, two soldiers sliding in.

“Back to base, Lieutenant Riley?” asks the driver.

He lifts his arm, pressing a few buttons on an overhead panel. Sewn into his uniform is that same azimuthal projection of the earth from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches. It’s so fucking familiar. It’s something from before—you know this, and yet you can’t place it. Beneath it is the flag of Mexico. Yet again, all in black. Leaning to the right, you peek over the seat. The soldier in the front passenger seat’s flag is three horizontal stripes but all in different shades of black or grey. There is no way for you to distinguish what country it belongs to.

“Affirmative,” answers Ghost.

Lieutenant Riley. That’s more of a name than Ghost. It’s a small piece, a fraction of information.

As you settle back against your seat, you don’t realize that Ghost has leaned toward you until he whispers in your ear. “It’s done.”

When you and Ben don’t show up, the rest of the convoy will come looking. They’ll find him, find the carnage, and wonder where you are. They’ll search, likely every building and street. Zac will certainly order it, and it’s entirely likely they’ll head back home only to return the next day, and perhaps even the next with the hope that you’ll show up.

But you’ll be long gone.

Elsewhere. Somewhere.

Ghost turns away from you, and doesn’t speak or even glance at you the rest of the trip, engaging in limited conversation with Soap.

You zone out. Stare at the landscape. Stomach turning sour.

The town disappears, giving way to trees and then highway.

It’s astounding how clear and uncongested the road is. You thought it strange when you and Ben were in the Jeep, how the roads themselves weren’t exactly maintained yet were somehow completely clear of cars. The few cars you did came across were pushed off to the side, allowing for a clear path. You dismissed it then, but you don’t dismiss it now as the Humvee carries you away from your life—your safety.

There is so little you know about the world as it currently exists.

After everything descended into chaos, you simply survived, weary of everyone, sometimes selling your body for food or shelter. Six years and you’ve been with the people are now, flourishing and unaware of everything happening beyond.

How much have Zac and the others kept from you? From the community? Or do they know about any of this at all?

These are the questions you ask yourself as time passes—as day becomes evenings becomes night.

The radio crackles. The soldier in the driver’s seat speaks.

“Base this is Bravo.”

A few seconds of silence. Then the radio comes alive.

“Received, Bravo. Go for Base.”

“Returning. Ten minutes.”

“Copy, Bravo. Returning.”

To the left of you, Soap groans. “Bloody fucking finally. Can stretch my damn legs. Take a piss.”

Ghost chuckles. “Eat a hot meal.”

Soap grunts in agreement. “Only thing missing is a warm cunt to stick my dick into.”

Ghost shakes his head as the two men up front laugh.

The soldier in the front passenger seat turns slightly, addressing Soap. “Might find a willing recruit,” he says, teasing.

“Bile yer heid,” laughs Soap, leaning forward to shove at him.

You remain still. Unmoving. Silent. They’re not thinking about you, and you don’t want to give them any reason to shift focus.

In the echoes of their laughter, the Humvee crests a hill. Through the windshield, bright spotlights appear, cutting through the dark. It’s difficult to see from where you sit. You lean to the left, brushing up against Ghost’s arm.

You draw back quickly, muttering an apology.

“You can look,” murmurs Ghost. His brow is soft as he leans towards Soap, giving you space to look out the windshield.

It’s a small gesture. A flicker of kindness.

Just like his hands over your ears. Or placing Ben in a place where someone will find him.

You fill the vacated space, gaze sweeping over the illuminated dark.

It’s a military base. Not makeshift or shuffled together, but a real one, like from the time before. Clean. Manufactured. Intimidating.

The Humvee rumbles up to the gates. The driver and guard exchange a few words before you hear a shout. A rattling reaches your ears, mimicking the stuttering of your heart. It’s enough to squash whatever hope you still cling to, smothering that ember until it’s snuffed out. Sinking back into your quiet, you turn inward, pressing yourself against the Humvee door until you feel smaller than dirt.

You keep your gaze downward, staring at your feet as the Humvee rolls through the gates. You don’t look up again until it comes to a stop.

“Stay here,” instructs Ghost as he slides out of the vehicle.

He shuts the door, turning away from you completely as if you’re not there at all. At some point in the trip, Soap lowered the window, and you’re able to shimmy over to the other side, listening in.

“Soap! Ghost!”

“Captain!”

Two strangers approach. One is a bit older, addressed as “captain” by Soap. The other is younger, handsome. They all clasp hands, greeting each other with a warmness that can only come from closeness and familiarity.

“Successful?”

“Brought three back for interrogation.”

“Good. And the rest?”

“Dead.”

“Good lad.”

Their voices drop slightly. Of what you can pick out from their conversation, it isn’t much. It’s just the newcomers’ names, Price and Gaz, and a brief mention about a secondary raid. Little else reaches your ears, and straining does nothing.

Leaning back against the seat, you tilt your head backward, staring up at the ceiling of the Humvee. Your arms ache, wrists sore, and you have to fucking pee.

“Who is that?”

The question is spoken loudly, closer than you thought from where the group was standing.

Your eyes snap open, body jolting up in the seat as you seek out the new voice. Ghost yanks the door open, reaching in to grasp your elbow. He helps you out and onto your feet. There is no room for resistance.

Outside the Humvee, you’re able to see the base more clearly. The convoy you were apart of is lined up in front of several low buildings. It’s late, but the base is still active, soldiers moving about as if it’s the middle of the day.

Soap laughs. “Go on, Lt.”

Ghost rolls his shoulders. “Found her while we were out.” Soap snorts and Ghost glares at him. “Running from the rubbish we eliminated.”

“She not with them?” asks Captain Price.

“No, Captain. She’s not with them.”

“The lass put up a fight though,” says Soap. “Kissed Lt here.”

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Ghost.

“When he rejected her, she kneed him in the groin.”

“Fucking hell,” laughs Gaz. “Really?”

Price’s mouth is a grim, thin line. “Why did you bring her?”

“The mandate.”

All four men sigh, but you have no idea what they’re talking about.

Captain Price nods. “Will she be any trouble?”

Ghost turns his attention on you. “Are you going to cause problems?”

You shake your head. “No. I’ll behave.”

Price affirms your answer with a quick smile. “Then the restraints aren’t necessary.”

Ghost makes a “turn around” gesture with his finger. You comply. There’s a quick tug, the pressure around your wrists releasing. As you turn around, you gently rub at the spots that have gone raw.

“It’s too late to travel,” sighs Price. “She’ll have to stay here for the night. Turn her over to processing tomorrow.”

Processing. Processing?

“We have any empty bunks?” asks Ghost.

“You want her with the general population?” counters Price.

“No,” answers Ghost automatically.

Price glances away, his gaze on the four low buildings nearby. “Take her to a private bunk. Bring her home in the morning.” He turns his gaze back to Ghost. “We’ll follow after.”

“It’ll be good to go home. Been weeks,” murmurs Gaz.

There’s a mutual, silent agreement among them that you pick up on but don’t understand. Your home is behind you, waiting, and yet it is unlikely you will see it again any time soon.

Ghost’s hand on your arm tightens, pulling you against him.

“I’ll take her there now.”

Price nods. A dismissal.

The three men turn and stride off, leaving you and Ghost next to the Humvee. Ghost leans in, head bent slightly in your direction. “Did you mean it? That you’ll behave?”

You lick your lips. Swallow. “Yes,” you breathe.

“Come with me then.”

Ghost’s hand eases before releasing completely. It’s the first amount of freedom you’ve had in hours, and you suddenly dread what that might mean.

Walking beside him, you follow his long strides. Ghost walks right past the four low buildings, passing a larger, communal area, before heading for a squat row of cabin-like dwellings. Ghost heads for the furthest on the end.

Each step is harrowing, dragging you closer and closer to an unknown fate. Ghost is at the door, pushing it open, stepping aside to allow you entrance. You talk past him, enter, come to a stop a few steps inside.

The doors shuts. You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see solid wood.

“What are you doing?” you ask, shuffling backward.

Ghost engages the lock on the door. “Keeping an eye on you.”

“Are—are you staying with me? In the room?”

“That a problem?” counters Ghost, as if your concern is silly.

“I’m guessing my answer to that question won’t matter.”

“No,” replies Ghost. “It won’t.”

You nod weakly, turning away to take a deep, calming breath.

The room itself is just a room, no larger than your average bedroom. There is a single, full bed in the corner, a plain wood desk, a chair, a bedside table, and a lamp. It is free of all other decoration. The bathroom isn’t separate, but blocked off by a half-wall. The sink and shower are in full view, and the half-wall hides the toilet. There is no privacy to be had with Ghost in the room with you.

Ghost grabs the chair from the desk, dragging it over to the door. He pushes it up against the wood, and drops into the seat with a deep sigh. The urge to pee grows. You won’t be able to hold it much longer.

“I have to pee.”

“Then pee.”

“With you in the room?”

Ghost crosses his arms over his chest, settling into the small chair like it’s comfortable. “I can’t see.”

“But you can hear,” you protest. “Can’t you just…step outside?”

Ghost rests the back of his head against the door. “It locks from the inside. I step out and you lock me out.”

“Even if I did, you could easily get back in.”

“True.”

“Then step out!”

“No.”

You could be a child about this. Stomp your feet. Moan and complain. But Ghost won’t budge and your bladder is about to burst.

With an annoyed groan, you go for the toilet, dropping down onto it and letting it all go. It feels so goddamn good even though your pride has taken a blown. You turn your head to the right, and find Ghost watching you over the top of the half-wall.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp. “Creeping much?”

Ghost arches a singular eyebrow. “You really had to go.”

“Oh my God,” you breathe, reaching between your legs to wipe.

“Should shower,” mutters Ghost. “You’re covered in blood.”

You glance down at your top and the red that stains it. It’s not yours, and it thankfully isn’t Ben’s. It’s that fucker’s with the shitty teeth that knocked you to the ground. You want to be rid of him, rid of the grit and dirt and grime. But there is no curtain, and Ghost would see all of you.

“I’ll be fine,” you reply sharply, washing your hands.

Ghost leans forward. “There’s hot water here.”

“Just say you want to see me naked,” you retort, whirling on him.

With a sly swagger, Ghost drags his gaze up and down your body. “I could strip down. Join you.”

Your neck grows hot, and then your cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Then shower.”

“Do I even have an option here?” you ask, shaking your hands over the sink.

“What do you think, love?”

You stride toward him, suddenly frustrated. “Stop answering my questions with questions.”

“Shower,” insists Ghost. “You’ll feel better.”

“And then what? You’ll join me in bed?”

“Likely.”

“You—”

“Keep the attitude and I’ll give you something else to moan about.” You quickly glance away, nervously tugging on the bottom of your top. “What?” he chides. “You were eager earlier.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“There she is,” and you hear the smile in it.

Is he purposefully pushing your buttons? Teasing you because you have no way to wiggle your way out?

“Are you staying here all night, Lieutenant Riley?”

“All. Night,” he replies, slowly pushing up from the chair. Ghost stalks over, observing you like prey. You take a step back and Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t.”

You freeze, staying perfectly still.

Ghost’s gloved hand brushes along the side of your arm. It’s a soft caress, one that makes you shiver. This man is your captor. He has torn you from your home, from the future you imagined for yourself, and smashed it under his fist. There is no reason for you to respond to him like this.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

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[buotella]

There's one shot in [the film] where the Sex Pistols are on a boat on the Thames and there's like a party on the boat. And the police raid it because they're going crazy. The boat pulls up on the dock side and we wanted to do something that showed them walking away from this scene of mayhem, but they were kind of in their own world. So I said, 'Let's just do a handheld shot.' I walked backwards and it went on and on and on and it went all up this gangplank, and right at the end I thought, 'Oh, it's great. We got the London Town Hall, the City Hall, in the background.' So when they went out of frame we ended up looking down the river. It's just – it was a great shot. I was surprised when we shot it that it actually ended up in the film in its entirety.

Cinematographer Roger Deakins on ‘Sid and Nancy’

[niccolites]

green cliffs: - lessons in mortality. chapter one

highlander!soap x fem!reader. cw attempted sexual assault. read on ao3 here

On the same patch of land that you once took your first step, you are dragged out of your home by your hair.

There are things of little consequence: the blinding beam of the sun, how its heat doesn't reach you, snatched up by the snapping wind. The peeling paint of your broken fence, the pitchfork that has been abandoned in a bale of hay instead of with the rest of the tools in the barn.

You focus on this, the bite of the cold on your cheeks instead of the nails that are digging into your scalp. Easier to try and distance yourself from the fear that is gaping in your stomach, instead wondering if it was you or your brother who left that pitchfork out like that. You decide that it must have been your brother, he had been the one in the rush to get to the river to catch the ‘better’ fish this morning.

There are three strange men around you. You don’t know any of their names. You had seen them in the distance, the stark red of their coats along a distant hill, barely even a day prior. Your village had seemed to suck in a breath, air stilling with their approach. Now, the wind howls, the noisy exhale after that tense beat.

Trouble, your brother had warned you. Told you to stay in the house as much as you could. Tend the crops, feed the animals and keep your eyes down. He would go out, speak with your neighbours to get information on who these men were and what they wanted.

And you had done what you were told, had darted across to the barn, to the coop. Like a horse jumping at the sight of a snake before it even coils to snap.

It didn’t matter anyway. A spooked horse gathers more attention than a calm one. Your brother is sitting by still waters somewhere else, and you are here, gritting your teeth at the sting of your hair being ripped out by clumsy fingers.

Seemingly bored of dragging you, you are shoved to the ground, collapsing in a pile of skirts in the dirt. The men guffaw at you. They’ve clearly been drinking, the stench of whiskey is foul, and one of them still holds a bottle of it. Swings it around and you feel some of it catch the end of your dress. The laughs have a bitter edge to it. They’re angry, you realise, a new spike of fear shooting up your spine. You have just met these men, but they are treating you like you have wronged them in the past. Here to exact their revenge.

Soldiers, likely. One of them is still holding their bayonet, the other with a pistol slung around their waist. You don’t know how high-ranking these soldiers are, you don’t know if that would make a difference in how they are going to treat you. Worse, likely. Not even a month past and one of your neighbours had been strung up to the post, back bloodied with a whip until he collapsed. The punishment for not welcoming God’s own into your home, apparently.

Usually the English presence in your village is more official. A battalion, passing through and making sure that everyone is minding their own. There had been another Jacobite uprising, somewhere to the west of your village. Scottish men gathering to try and overthrow King George, reinstate the Catholic Stuarts. It had failed, but English law recently had become a lot more permanent, tangible in light of this rebellion.

These may be soldiers on your land, but they were operating as men. English law placed to the side, it’s overseeing eye shut for just long enough for what they were planning for you.

You are pulled up, arms yanked behind your back. Held in place by the first soldier while the other two prowl around your home.

“You know, I'm sick of you stuck-up cunts,” the first soldier hisses in your ear. There’s a twist in the muscle of your shoulder which makes you whimper. “You'd bend over for your sheep before you would us. I bet you have as well.” You can see his dark hair in the corner of your eye, smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Oh, come on, Grahams,” the second interjects, reaching over to catch your chin in his clammy hand. “She looks like a good girl. I bet you haven’t even been touched. Am I right?” His thumb pushes on your lower lip, his own mouth parting beneath the heavy curl of his pale moustache. Salivating, the way a rabid dog does before you put it down.

You stay silent. Feel his skin on yours, how he pulls your lip down. The parting of where you were and where he drags you down. Feel that ugly gap of space, an inch but it feels like a mile.

“Alone in that house?” the third asks, not even sparing you a glance. He’s pouring his drink over the edge of your field, just outside the second fence. The border between your yard and the crop you and your brother had laid down, scarcely a few weeks before. The third soldier has small eyes, and a pig nose, turns to give you a horrible, hating look. “Bet she’s had the entire village between her legs,” he sneers.

The first soldier distracts you, breath polluting you as he huffs a laugh. Tightens his arms around the lock of yours and ignores you as you grunt in pain. "Well, I’m sure that she wouldn’t mind the King’s own men from taking what they are owed, yes?”

The third man, apparently done with talking, throws the rest of his bottle over your fence and strikes a match. The catch of fire always surprises you. The match is suspended in the air for a flicker of a moment before it connects to the pool of liquor. A blink, and the fire roars, summoned into life and it eats all of the crop that you and your brother had laid on that once tilled field.

The memory of you and your brother, on your hands and knees as you planted that crop. The acceptance of exhaustion that comes with physical activity when you know it must be done and so you do it. Body connected to mind, an idea and then the yield.

Impossible to reconcile what had taken hours to do, lit up within a second. The fire branches across everything, almost licking the third soldier himself. Everything swallowed up, a horrible demon, brought by these men, a senseless cruelty that you can barely comprehend.

You howl, a wounded animal sound, lunging forward and then yanked back immediately. Everything is separate, suffocated by sensation. There is only the connection between the fire and your eyes, the conclusion that your brother is going to have to bow in that dirt again.

You shriek again, when you are stopped from preventing this, arms protesting in the twist that the first soldier forces them into. Told to stop your squealing. The second soldier steps back into your eye-line and grins down at you. Yellow teeth, dark eyes. Another demon on your land, seeking retribution in something that you have not even committed.

His mouth moves, but you barely hear it, blood rushing in your ears. Your face is hot, molten with tears. Brain and body disconnected. The socket of your shoulder is boiling, every yank pulling a tense groan from between your clenched teeth. You know that you are going to hurt yourself if you keep struggling, or maybe one of these men are going to hurt you. But you keep pulling, huffing with fruitless effort.

The second soldier reaches down, fingers digging into the collar of your dress. His fingers cold against the hot flush that has spread across your chest. A tear in the cotton cloth that covers most of your clavicle. Another shriek, ripping up your throat and into his face. He barely flinches. You are a cat with its tail caught, it doesn’t matter how sharp your teeth are anymore.

The first soldier with your hair in his teeth. The second with his hands groping down your chest. The third man, kicking your fence to get it to buckle and catch in the flames as well. Paralysis like a fist around the base of your spine. A yell that starts in the bottom of your lungs, builds until you are almost sick with the force of it.

Another yell, one that does not fully register until the soldiers take notice of it.

"What on -" the first soldier starts to say, before the rest is lost in a strangled noise. The second soldier steps out of your vision and you see what is stopping him.

Your father was no soldier, although he had been when he had to be, god rest his soul. He used to tell you about the true highlanders, the real soldiers and the swords that were as broad as they were, and how they would swing them as if they were an extension of their own arm.

It sounded like folklore. Mythology, until you see the swing of that broadsword, splitting the third soldier at the waist like the crack of an egg.

You barely have time to catch sight of the fourth man before you are thrown to the ground again, dirt catching on your palms and digging in.

It feels generous to call it a fight. There is a brief tussle between the new man and the two soldiers that had been holding you prone, before they are brought to heel. Blood seeping into the dirt. Half of the second soldier’s face thuds to the ground, his moustache halved. He stares sightlessly up at the sky, half an expression stuck and immortalised.

You lie in the dirt, watch as your tormentors are silenced, lives ended and left to pool in the soil that you used to dance across when you were younger. It is entirely unfair, the three men that were able to drag you around like a ragdoll, cut into like slabs of cheese.

It’s breathtaking, watching this man save you like it is the easiest thing in the world. He finally stills, the first soldier lying limp on his knees before he is kicked aside. You hysterically wonder if that is what would have been done to you, if these three Englishmen had gotten their way. A passage of time interrupted, snipped like the threads of fate. Time redirected.

You stare up at him, barely able to connect that your arms are your own now, even though you had been wrestling for them to be this entire time.

Your saviour, a bloody mess on his kilt and three dead men around him.

"Thank you," you manage. Voice crackling as you form full words now. The stench of gore is another presence in the yard with you. Thick, you resist the urge to gag as it seems to catch in your teeth as you inhale noisily through your mouth.

The man who saves you is silent, breath heaving out of him. He is massive, with dark hair that is pushed back out of his face. A light beard and red in his kilt. Red everywhere, actually. Staining the white of his cotton shirt beneath the crossover of his kilt, staining his skin. His broadsword is almost the same height as him, almost as wide. Metal catching the sun, glowing red as it drips blood.

It takes the man to stumble back to force you into action. You force yourself up, staggering towards him. You reach the centre of his chest, his breadth suffocating you, encompassing. You catch his bicep to right him, the equivalent of smacking your hand against stone. Now that you are standing chest to chest with him, you realise if he were to fall, you would not be able to catch him.

"Are you alright?" You ask, staring up at him. The blood on his face doesn't seem to be his, for the most part. There is a cut across his brow, leaking a lazy trail of blood down his temple and you almost reach up to touch it without thinking, before you catch yourself.

His eyes are blue. The sky brought down to you.

You almost laugh, delirious. Self-conscious under his rapt gaze. You tilt your head and catch sight of the fire again. As if other sensations had been halted under this man’s gaze, you are brought back to the present with the crackle of fire. You curse under your breath, stepping out of the pull surrounding this man, darting away to get a bucket to extinguish the flames.

You feel the ghost of a hand across your back before you are gone, furiously pumping the handle of the well and tossing the water across to the fire. It takes a few journeys, something that has your hands fumbling as you try to work faster.

The man is there, pulling the bucket away from you even as you try to stop him. He is able to swing the water further, catching more of the flames. His gait is longer than yours, but you notice that he seems to be stumbling as he is putting weight on his right leg.

After you pass him two more full buckets of water, the fire is finally put out. You take stock of the blackened field. All of it razed, deader than the men who are still sinking into the dirt a few feet away from you. You swallow harshly, angry tears pricking at your eyes. It will take a month, longer even, to fix this. You can imagine the devastation on your brother’s face when he sees this. Resist the urge to turn to the corpses and give them a few good kicks.

You want to give into the lump in your throat and cry over this, but the man fills you with purpose. You roughly swipe at your face before you face him, catching him already watching you. “Your leg - is it alright?” You ask, trying to keep the burned field out of sight. Better to focus on what can immediately be fixed.

The man stares at you for a beat too long. Almost as if waiting for you to speak again before he does. "One of the bastards caught me in the leg," he says. His accent is thick, deep in a way that has you flushing. He tilts his leg, lifting his kilt enough for you to see the gash on the back of his calf. The flesh looks torn open, which makes you wince.

"I can patch that up," you offer, grateful at the opportunity to take your mind off of the events of the past hour. You step closer, hands hovering, unsure if he should be walking. "My brother cut his arm on a scythe once, wrist to elbow, and I managed to stitch that up,” you add, even though the man doesn’t seem to care about your past experience with wound tending.

"You the village nurse then?" the man asks, reaching over to drape his arm over your shoulder. There is a moment of his weight pressed into you that almost makes your knees buckle before it is lifted. His hand stays though, warm on your opposite shoulder. He seems to be guiding you into your home more than you are. He is a hot line along your side, hip to hip. The sway as you acclimate to his walk, sturdier on your right leg as if to compensate for his.

“Hardly,” you manage to respond, kicking the door open for him to get inside. “My brother is just clumsy.”

You set him on the chair in your kitchen, bustling around for some cloth and a needle and thread. Your kitchen is like a picture in a book, just how it was when you woke up this morning. Time has not moved here, your mug is still by the sink. Your brother’s boots by the door where he had forgotten them this morning. Life before the fallout, perfectly preserved.

“It’ll look ugly, but it’ll do the job,” you warn, tossing a cushion on the floor to kneel on, gesturing for him to elevate his foot on the other chair.

“I trust you to make my leg as handsome as it was before,” he says, a smile that slips from his mouth when you come back to his side. You kneel down, a wet flannel in your hand that you cover the wound with, wanting to the extent of the damage beneath the aftermath that covers it.

You glance up at him, finding him watching you. Eyes dark now, water before a storm. You give him your name, suddenly realising that you haven't yet. Admonish yourself for being rude.

He breathes it back, like he wants to hold it in his mouth for a moment. “John,” he replies after another pause. “I get called Johnny.”

“Am I allowed to call you Johnny?” You ask, turning back to his leg. You catch sight of his chest stuttering over a breath. You tuck your hair behind your ear, frowning to yourself. You know if your brother were here, then you would not be speaking to this man so casually. That knowledge makes you feel like you are doing something inappropriate. Something to be ‘caught’ doing. Extra dash of sugar before the whip of the belt across your backside.

“Absolutely, angel. Well, dependent on the work you make of my leg,” he adds, tone musing. He seems amused by you, mouth smiling even as his eyes stay that dark colour. Trouble, your brother had described the soldiers. You aren’t so certain he wouldn’t describe Johnny in the same way.

You resolve yourself to your work. It’s not a bad gash, when most of the blood is wiped away. One of the soldiers must’ve stabbed it in, and then pulled it to the side, splitting the flesh. You wonder how he was able to stand on it, nevermind help you with the fire. You murmur a warning before you stab the needle in, threading the wound closed. A thin layer of poultice along the loose white cloth you have, an attempt to prevent any swelling before you wrap this around the wound. Tie the ends. The beginning of a thank you for what Johnny has done for you. His blood stains your hands, sticky into the crevices of your palms.

You squeeze the red out of the flannel and stand, roles reversed. He looks up at you, gaze reverent in a way that makes you faintly embarrassed. “The cut on your brow doesn't seem as bad,” you murmur, half-excusing yourself. You’re not doing anything untoward, but you feel the need to pre-emptively explain yourself. 

You wipe the blood on his face away, other hand hovering uncertainly, before you cup his chin. Hold him in place as you clean him up. It's something that you think would be normal, but feels outrageously intimate with how hot his gaze is on your face. Swallow and watch as his eyes drop to observe your throat move.

You avoid his eye, difficult when you can see that flash of blue darting around. You feel swallowed up by it. His attention feels like the sun has finally reached you, reaching through the wind to land on your skin. Scalding where his eyes land. You’re suddenly aware of the rip in your bodice, how it looks like you are bending over to show him the view down your chest. You snap up straight when you realise that he is looking.

You’re being ridiculous, you decide. This is the man who saved you from those horrible soldiers. A fate worse than death, most likely. Raped, murdered and burned most likely.

The cut on Johnny’s brow as stopped bleeding. “I think you’ll live,” you pronounce, voice falling flat at the end.

Another gap of quiet. Standing over a man who saved you, his blood on your hands. Three dead men in your yard. The burned crops, that smell wafting in, ruin and death.

“You live here alone?” He asks, accent catching on the ‘o’ sounds.

“No, my brother…he's away, fishing,” you explain.

Johnny barely seems to hear you, hand on your wrist. Thumb on your pulse, like he's listening to more than your words. “There may be more soldiers,” he says, gaze dragging away from you to the window. Darting back again as if he can barely stand to not be looking at you. “We have to go.”

You stammer, something in your spine locking at the idea of leaving your home. “I can't, no, this is my home - my brother - Ian - he’ll be -”

Johnny stands, a wall of muscle in front of you. The size of him silencing you. “There are English men dead on your land,” Johnny tells you, fierce suddenly. The snap of teeth. “Now, they may not believe that a sweet thing like you could do this, but they’ll make an example of you anyway.” His words blow the air out of your lungs, a shudder in the shape of a breath. You think about what he’s saying. You, on that post with your back whipped until everyone can see beneath your skin. Saved from the lawless and delivered to the law, the punishment eerily similar.

You shiver, fear worming through you. The scowl on his face smooths out, and he reaches up and cups your face. Sticky with gore, you can feel the print of hands left on your cheeks. “We have to go,” he repeats, firm. The full force of his will is something to bow to.

Your shoulder twinges, familiar with that sensation of being caught and forced into position. You twist your mouth, that ignored lump in your throat making itself known again. You blink up at Johnny, blood in the light beard across his face. The blood of the men who hurt you. Offering to save you. Again.

Your saviour is a stranger in your kitchen, and when you murmur your assent, he smiles like a wolf.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1.8k / 22 / soap soulmate au, part 3

…

Oh, shit, Ghost thinks. What the hell did you just do?

Ghost stumbles out in the road, looking after you in shock. You just... jumped out. In handcuffs. There's no way you think you can make it anywhere like--

Oh, double shit. You're running right for the cliffs in the distance. Looks like you might make it, too. That ain't good. Morally justified or not, he's still the criminal here. If you get to rough terrain and he loses you by car and on foot, you’ll go for help, and his squad won’t stand a chance.

He swears, grabs his pistol, and points it at your back.

He has a clear shot. He's sniped easier targets.

… He sighs and lowers his gun. Johnny, you owe me one.

…

You've got a good head start on him, but when he eventually catches up, he's going to be pissed.

Your ankle and hand sting from your rough landing. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing--you've got to get to those cliffs, and fast.

Behind you, the engine roars closer. Wheels crunch over gravel. He’s catching up. But the cliffs are right there. A river snakes through the rocky terrain. If you can just throw yourself across the water, you can make it. You can lose him on foot.

You pump your legs as fast as you can. The wind burns in your lungs. Keep moving. Just a few more seconds before you reach the water.

You’re so focused on the water that your foot lands wrong between river rocks and your ankle twists. You keep going, gait lopsided. You can’t stop. Once he catches up, you’re either a hostage again or you’re dead. But first, he's gotta catch up, get out of the car, open the door, grab his gun, sprint after you--

Then his car swings around you, pulling what should be an impossible drift over the rocks, one tire scattering river water into the air. You skid to a stop, making a break for the cliffs instead. There's a waterfall. You might make it if you jump--

Then Ghost is on you, a blur from the open car door to the edge of the rocks. He grabs you almost out of the air. You land stomach-first on the ground. You grunt, windless, gasping for air. Pain surges through your body. Fuck, that hurt. The rocks are harder than the grass was. You see stars.

Then you start to realize the position you're in. Your hands are still cuffed in front of you--over your head, now--and he's got his knee on your back. He's holding you down with all his weight, the barrel of his pistol pressed between your shoulders as he grits his teeth.

"Stay. Down," he growls.

He's not gentle. It'd be inconvenient to kill you, but you're really testing his sense of pragmatism. You're making him expend a hell of a lot of effort to keep you alive--jumping off a cliff, fucking seriously?--so he doesn't owe you any extra effort toward keeping you comfortable. Quite the opposite.

You shift your pained body under his knee, groaning into the sharp river rocks cradling your face.

"I said stay down," he growls, grinding his knee down against your back. You feel every individual sharp rock pressing into your skin. "I will hurt you.”

Normally he doesn’t give warnings like this, but he figures he owes it to Johnny to keep your stupid pretty face intact. As much as he wants to put a dent in it right now. And if you keep acting all resourceful…

You keep still, trying to catch your breath. Your hands curl around the river rocks and feel around for something loose and sharp. No such luck.

He grabs your shoulder with one hand to keep you still. His knee moves off your back for a second. You realize he’s trying to get a better look at the soulmate mark on your neck.

"Got to be another John MacTavish somewhere in the world," he mutters. "Bloody common name."

He grips the back of your vest and hauls you to your feet, practically scruffing you as he drags you back to the car. He growls something under his breath along the lines of irritating little shits finding each other.

Back in the car, Ghost’s phone rings again. This time, he glances back at you and switches his phone to his non-dominant hand. He picks up his pistol with his other hand and steers with his knee.

“Ghost,” he answers. This time, the reply has him shifting in his seat. “Negative. Didn’t see her.” Another long pause. The voice on the other end is louder and more animated than the one before. “I told you I’d look, and I did. Wherever she is, she’s fine.” The reply is clipped. “The captain told you not to go looking. Chrissake, Johnny, you’re not hanging out at base looking for a date. You’re a wanted criminal. Have a crumb of self-preservation.” Another long reply, this one rising in volume. “I know. Yes. I hear you. I know— Johnny—”

He goes quiet for a long while, uttering single-syllable responses occasionally. You can’t hear Johnny’s words, but you do hear his tone of voice. He doesn't sound happy.

“If the captain tells you to stay put, you stay put. End of story.”

You glance at the rear-view mirror again. Ghost is looking back like this is somehow on you. The sour face of a man getting chewed out.

Ghost and Johnny go back and forth until Ghost finally seems to tire of it. "No, not right now," he says. "I told you what I know. I’ll call you back."

Johnny curses from the other line right as Ghost hangs up.

Your fingertips are still tingling from the sound of Johnny’s voice, even at a distance, even over the phone. Maybe from the cuffs, too.

You don’t miss the irritated look on Ghost's face. "You in trouble?" you ask.

Ghost doesn’t hold your gaze. "He's a little pissed off, yeah."

After that, you don't speak for a long time. Your whole body hurts, and the adrenaline and sheer length of this day are taking a toll. Your eyelids sag. But every time you drift into sleep, you see Johnny's face again and jerk awake. It's torture. You don't have the mental fortitude to block him out anymore. You’re terrified that wherever Ghost is taking you, Johnny will be there.

You lean your forehead on the window, squeezing your eyes shut. "So..."

"What." There's no venom behind the response this time. He doesn't bother looking at you. But he's listening.

It takes longer than you'd like to work the words you're trying to form out of your throat. "John is still in one piece?”

He keeps driving in silence for a moment. You can almost hear his brain ticking as he considers. There's a tenseness behind him, a tension that's wound up and ready to snap.

"Yeah. Got a few holes in him, but it takes more than that to keep him down. Stubborn bastard." Another long, heavy silence. His hands grip the wheel, and he glares ahead. "Got a problem with that?"

"I'm not sure."

"You got issues with Johnny, you tell me. Got enough problems without you being all coy."

“Do you, uh, have a soulmate?”

Christ, he hopes you're kidding. He can only take so much of this from Johnny, and now you? Obviously Johnny hasn’t stoppedtalking about you. Can’t stop talking about what a pretty thing you are. Face like a muse, he keeps saying. Bastard described you in so much detail that, when Ghost was surveying the Las Almas base, you popped out like a neon sign the moment his sniper scope swept over you. He could've grabbed any damn Shadow, but no, he decided to do Johnny a favor and grab you. Now he can't bloody shoot you no matter how much you deserve it. Lucky Johnny’s not here to see what a bloody mess you’ve made of yourself under his watch. Not that he tells you any of that. Best to keep Johnny in the dark until they get the information they need out of you.

"You're a hostage," he says. "Act like it. And Johnny's off the table."

That’s a relief. You dread the thought of looking Johnny in the eye and trying to figure out how to make excuses for almost killing him. You can only hope to delay it as long as possible.

…

It turns out the "base" Ghost spoke of is a shed in the middle of nowhere. A barn at best—from the outside, but from the inside, it’s huge. You recognize a few members of the Mexican Special Forces, also your former allies before your company betrayed them on Shepherd’s orders. Rodolfo in particular gives you a hard stare as Ghost drags you past him and into a much smaller room. It's a weapons closet converted into a makeshift interrogation room. He pushes you down into the chair hard by the shoulder. You lean on the table, flexing your sore wrists behind you and wishing you could just put your head down and sleep.

He keeps a close eye on you once you're down. You show no clear desire to run again and no more than a passing interest in the impressive spread of rifles and launchers on the walls. You’re in the heart of an enemy safehouse. Even if you managed to grab a gun and escape this room, every other person outside wants you dead. You’re almost glad Ghost locks the door. At least there’s a barrier between you and them.

In the dim light, Ghost notes the bruise on your cheek and the scabbed-over cuts and gashes littered over your exposed skin. Your forehead sports a nasty, wet-looking burgundy splotch where your head hit the ground after he tackled you. You look about as defenseless as a wounded rabbit. If he weren’t busy trying to keep you from escaping as a hostage, he’d probably feel bad about hurting a friend's soulmate.

He's not his most charming self here.

"Stay awake, now," he warns you.

The overhead light clicks on. Ghost stands across from you, but the person standing by the light switch is Captain fucking Price. He stares at you, his hard gaze boring into the soulmate mark on your neck.

Then he smiles. "Good find, Ghost," he says. "This is the one. Guess Soap wasn't lying."

…

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more Soap / masterlist tag

[simp4konig]

Hello, someone forcing Nikto to show his face to his lover... Thoughts?

WARNING! HEAVY, HEAVY ANGST! VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

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"Look at them."

His knees buckled under him, Nikto was kneeling, body subdued and completely overcome with fatigue.

Pain no longer registered in his body, and it more closely resembled a dull ache — like the ache after ripping a tooth with no anesthetic, the gums numb.

Gunshot wounds had torn his flesh, and he was slowly losing consciousness, but he was gritting his teeth with enough pressure to unhinge his own jaw to stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake stay away stay awake.

A sharp yank of his collar forced Nikto's eyes to find meet Zakhaev's, but Nikto was committing your face to memory — your face, not the one of a corpse, or the ones from the photo albums which were burned before his very eyes.

His eyes were drooping, however, and any second now, he thought he would collapse, his body lulling of its own accord as if he was drunk.

But he was not. He was in so much pain that it made him delirious.

"This is your partner?"

Although the statement was directed at Nikto, Viktor's eyes bore into your own. As he smirked cruelly, the scar on the side of his face sneered at you with equal cruelty, the result of his notoriety and violence.

"Talk, dog. Tell me. Don't make me ask a second time."

Nikto was captured by Zakhaev, and was tortured. Nikto was willing to endure unimaginable pain, to be mutilated, to be ruined beyond salvation, so long as you were safe.

And you were. He was certain. He had taken several precautions, searched various locations for the ideal safe place. To keep you safe.

Somehow, your hideout was found. After all the precautions Nikto had taken, after all of the effort, the dedication, the certainty... in vain.

As if the physical, injuries which were irreversible, the beatings, the brainwashing, the everything wasn't enough, clearly Nikto wasn't sufficiently scarred for Zakhaev to be satisfied. Zakhaev wanted him broken. Destroyed emotionally, so that fight, that passion, and that strength would dissipate, and ultimately disappear. Since Nikto was too much of a threat to the organisation, and Zakhaev's plans.

Nikto's eyes were empty, sockets hollow, void of any emotion. Just a void.

Stubbornly, Nikto remained silent, refusing to humour Viktor with a response.

Instead, his heart ached, his gut clenched, his fists shook, and his eyes stung.

All he could do was look into your eyes. Hoping, praying to God, anyone, anyone at all, that you would be spared. That, for disobedience, one of the bullets in Zakhaev's pistol would go straight through his skull, not yours.

That at least you wouldn't have to face death first.

As if bored, Viktor turned his pistol this way and that, observing it with feigned interest...

...

...To Nikto's horror, instead of aiming the barrel of his gun at him, Viktor was walking towards you.

Zakhaev denied Nikto the sight of your face for your last seconds, deliberately shielding his line of sight. Not out of mercy, but out of spite, and to further rub salt into his wounds — which he would later do with sick, sadistic pleasure.

Every single cell in his body yelled, screamed, shrieked at Nikto to move, to lunge at Zakhaev, to throw himself, to do anything.

But he couldn't move. Not a muscle. Fatigue, pain, and numbness had invaded his bloodstream and paralysed his nervous system, rendering him incapacitated.

No bother.

You were smiling.

Tears streaming down your cheeks like rivers, sobs echoing as you sobbed and sobbed until your throat became hoarse and voice was broken, you were smiling.

You saw Nikto's new face for the first time.

Nikto's face mutilated, scarred, and ruined face of the man who you cherished, whose stubbled cheeks you'd often nuzzle your nose into, whose lips you'd kiss.

God. What had they done to him? You could recognise those blue-gray eyes any day, but they no longer resembled ice which would melt at the sight of you; instead, they were empty. Soulless.

Yet, as ruined and mutilated as it was, it was still the face of your Nikto.

Nonetheless, you saw Nikto's new face for the first time.

And last.

As, Nikto's face, was the last thing that you ever would see. Half obscured by Zakhaev's body, yes, and your vision blurred by tears, you still saw it. That was enough.

Before Zakhaev unceremoniously pulled the trigger, and your body became limp. Cold. Your mind at rest, but your eyes becoming blind, denied the sight of your lover forever.

Not at peace, though. You could only rest, since you wouldn't, couldn't find peace. Not after being burdened with the knowledge of what's been done to him, and what's going to be done to him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/Ns

second wip finished!!!!!

from a very fluffy fic to something gutwrenching... you're NOT welcome. you ARE however welcome to publicly execute me if u so wish ❤️ (u deserve at least THAT after reading this 💔)

no tag list bc i thought that this was very heavy and i did not want to tag my moots+followers in this lest this trigger them:(

anyways, ty anon for the ask !!! probably (definitely) NOT what you had in mind... but those were my thoughts 🥲

[sw5w]

Ascension Guns!

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:54:51

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ R.I.P Dinos

Sam Winchester x sister!reader

Summary: You have to make an active volcano for science class. Sam was more than happy to help!

Warnings: None!

"Jesus all of these assignments for what? I swear this school sucks," you mumbled as you walked down the bunker's grand stairs. Luck was not on your side today but it almost never was for you. Today, specifically, you got tasked with four different projects from four different teachers. Thankfully one of them was a group project.

You threw your bag on the table in the library, accidentally causing a beer bottle to shatter once it hit the ground. Again, luck was not on your side.

Sam ran around the corner with a gun in his hand causing you to put your hands up. "Oh my god it's just you," he breathed out relieved. He uncocked his pistol and put it back in his waistband.

"Ouch," you replied sarcastically as you bent down to pick up the shards of glass. Sam came over and crouched on the floor to help.

"You know what I meaann." Sam rolled his eyes.

You chuckled softly, tossing a handful of glass shards into the trash bin nearby. "Yeah, yeah. Just messing with you," you muttered, brushing your hands off on your jeans.

Sam flopped down into one of the library chairs with a dramatic sigh. "So, what’s with the whole bag slam? You mad at the table or what?" he asked, leaning back and propping his boots up on the edge.

You groaned and pulled out the stack of assignment sheets. "Four projects. Four teachers. All due next Monday," you grumbled, spreading the papers out like a bad poker hand. "One of them’s a group thing, though, so I’m hoping I can trick someone into doing most of the work."

"Dang. Only a week to prepare," Sam’s eyes flicked over the papers disinterestedly, but then he snatched one up. His lips curled into a mischievous grin. "At least one of these seem fun! A volacano! Oooo."

You pursed your lips in a line with a unfazed look. "Are you serious right now?"

Sam shrugged as he read the projects details on the paper. "Yeah, actually. Why don't we do it together? Who's better at exploding things than me?"

"Dean is pretty good at exploding things with that grenade launcher," you smirked when Sam raised an eyebrow.

"He used that thing?! Without me-" Sam took a breath to stop himself. "You know what? It doesn't matter. I'm better with mixing things to explode. I don't need a gun to do it."

"Fine, we can do it together. But we can't make it actually explode. If I get in trouble I'm blaming it on you." You point your finger at him with your warning.

"Okay okay. Minimal property damage." Sam put his hands up like he was swearing to it. "No fun," he mumbled.

"I am fun! Just don't want the attention." Sam hummed in response understanding what you mean.

⛧

You guys got started later that day after getting the supplies and your workspace was a mess. Newspapers covered the entire table, and somehow, you had managed to get some powder in your hair from the mâché. Sam, who has clay all over his hands, was vigorously shaping the volcano’s body with a mixture of paper-mâché and clay.

"Okay, okay, hear me out," Sam said, voice full of excitement. "What if we carve out tiny lava paths down the sides? Like, little rivers of doom?"

You raised an eyebrow as you smoothed another strip of paper-mâché onto the volcano’s surface. "And what happens when the 'lava' doesn’t follow your little paths and just explodes everywhere?"

"Then we know it’s realistic," he shot back with a grin.

You shook your head, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "Fine. But if this thing floods the classroom, I’m telling everyone it was your idea."

Sam dramatically placed a hand over his heart. "I’d expect nothing less."

After another half hour of slathering on layers, the volcano finally looked somewhat presentable—if you ignored the fact that it was still dripping with glue.

Sam leaned back in his chair, hands on his hips. "Dude. We made this."

"Yeah," you said, admiring the lumpy, yet oddly charming volcano. "And somehow, neither of us got hurt in the process."

Sam grinned. "Yet."

⛧

The next day, once the volcano had dried, the real fun began.

You were painting the gray and white paper-mâché into green and brown hills on one side. On the other side, that was already dried, Sam stuck little plastic dinosaurs into the scene. He gave one of them a dramatic shove, sending it tumbling down the side of the volcano. "This one knows what’s coming," he narrated ominously.

You rolled your eyes, but you were trying not to laugh. "Sam, I don't think the dinosaurs even knew the difference between a volcano and a mountain."

"Shhh," he hushed you, gently placing a palm-sized T-Rex on the peak. "This is the Volcano God. He watches over the others."

You looked at him, unimpressed. "You’re ridiculous."

"And yet, you keep me around."

Shaking your head, you grabbed a couple of tiny fake trees and positioned them at the volcano’s base. "Okay, I think this actually looks pretty cool."

Sam clapped his hands together. "Now we just have to make it erupt."

The moment of truth had arrived. The volcano sat on a metal tray, ready for the test eruption. Sam held the baking soda like it was a vial of liquid gold, while you carefully poured the vinegar into a cup.

"Okay," you said, taking a deep breath. "If this explodes too much—"

"It won’t," Sam interrupted confidently. "I measured this out."

You gave him a skeptical look but still handed him the vinegar. He dramatically lifted the cup over the volcano. "And so, the Volcano God awakens!" he proclaimed before dumping the liquid in.

For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a satisfying hiss, thick red foam bubbled up from the crater and poured down the sides. The tiny T-Rex at the top was quickly swallowed in the fizzing mess.

Sam gasped. "The Volcano God has fallen!"

You burst out laughing as the foam dripped onto the tray. "Dude, this actually looks sick."

Sam grinned proudly. "Told you."

As the eruption slowed to a stop, you sat back, arms crossed. "Okay. We definitely deserve an A for this."

Sam nodded, wiping a bit of foam off his sleeve. "Agreed. And if not, we threaten to make it actually explode next time."

You shot him a look.

"Kidding!" he said quickly, but his smirk said otherwise.

⛧

Today was the day. The day you had to turn in all four of your projects. After a week of nonstop researching, putting things together, and writing. You finally finished and jesus, you were tired.

Unfortunately Sam had to leave after helping you finish with the volcano to go do a hunt. He didn't want to just leave you alone with all this stress of school. Every time you were stressed out or very focused on something you wouldn't take care of yourself that well.

Sometimes you'd forget to eat meals. Sometimes you don't drink enough water and you don't realize until you have a huge headache that won't go away no matter how much water you drink. You also stay up at night making sure everything is perfect. That trait is from Sam himself and you mentally thank him every time this happens. However, you still convinced him to go and that you'd be fine.

You walked into the bunker, down the stairs and into the library as quickly as you could. You were happy that you were done and happy that Sam was coming home soon. You had planned to get some snacks so you could watch a movie in Dean's man cave which was one of your favorite things to do to pass the time.

You set your volcano down on the table and your bag on one of the seats when you heard the bunker's garage door opening.

"Sam?" You called out to see if that was him.

"Yep. I'm back!" He announced as he walked into the main room with his warm smile. You went down the little steps with arms open wide to hug him which he accepted with no hesitation.

"Welcome back," you said softly as your grip slightly tightened around him. He rubbed your shoulder with his thumb in response.

"Thanks, sweetie. So, how was school?" He asked not wanting to get out of the hug just yet.

"Better now since I'm not worrying about any projects," you bluntly spoke with annoyance about those assignments. "Speaking of..." you broke the hug to go back in the library with a curious Sam following you.

"Tada!" You put up jazz hands to show off the volcano. "I brought it back!"

"What grade did you get on it?"Sam asked as he smirked a little as if he already knows.

"Well, she hasn't officially graded it since she's slow at grading things but I may have saw good points on the rubric she was writing on," you returned the smirk to Sam.

"Ayy that's my girl!" He ruffled your hair a little but you didn't protest like you normally did. "But why bring it back? I thought you'd just throw it away."

"So we can make an actual explosion!" You said which warned a big smile from Sam.

"You're the best sister ever."

[n0vaisnthere]

Hey, Huge fan of your work!

Could you write a Wanderer/Scaramouche x Reader apocalypse au? Where reader is the polar opposite of Scara and is happy and giddy? And Scara is overprotective of Reader?

Scara best boy

Gilded Lily

Scaramouche/Wanderer x GN Reader

SUMMARY: Together with your overprotective boyfriend during the aftermath of a post-apocalyptic world.

APOCALYPSE MASTERLIST—☆•

CONTAINS: Pre-established relationship, protective Scara, ?Pet names/name calling? [Idiot, stupid, ect]

When the apocalypse started, it was sudden

You were walking back from the Akademiya after a long day of studying

You were basically half asleep when you felt somebody grab your hand and start dragging you along

"Come on, [name]." Wanderer said, though it wasn't in his usual annoyed snarky tone. It sounded concerned.. maybe even scared?

"What's wrong, Where are we going?" You asked, unaware of the dangers wandering around the city right now. Unaware of the virus that was spreading person to person.

"No time, just trust me." He said, his hamd guiding yours towards the nearest exit to the city.

—☆`~—

He was by your side at all times after that.

Needed to bathe in the river? He was waiting for you on the grass.

Wanted to take a break from walking to eat? He was sitting next to you.

He was scared of losing you like he did with so many others.

"Are you almost done?" He asked, cleaning his pistol and trying to avoid looking at you as you bathed.

"Yeah, about to get out hold on." You said, squeezing the residual water out of your hair.

You stepped out of the water, slipping on your damp clothes. Scara was already by your side, kneeling down next to you and helping you slip on your shoes.

"You're taking too long, stupid.." he said, tying up your laces. Hands lingering on your skin a bit longer before pulling away. He would never admit it, but he loved quiet moments like these.. it was like there wasn't brain eating zombies out and about everywhere throughout the nation.

—☆`~—

Worried about you getting sick

Seriously, a simple cold is the equivalent to the plague without any proper medicine nowadays.

So whenever he rains, he tries his best to keep you as dry as possible. Even if he had to get wet himself.

"Are you sure you dont mind?" You ask, a bit worried about him. The hat on your head slightly slows you down. Wobbling a bit.

"Just keep walking, Stupid. Stop worrying about me." He mumbled. His hand pressed against your back, gentle to try and stabilize you a bit.

You hummed, your hands coming up to try and hold up the hat. The rain pattered on the ground, the winds harshly blowing as the both of you moved on. Weather was started to pick up.. you would probably have to stop soon if it kept up. For now, it was just the two of you. Relaying on each other to stay alive.

You can find my masterlist here! -> HERE

[zombaebitez]

I have an idea but if you don't like it you can discard it!

Maybe something like Ellie x reader where reader is a runner?

It's 3am and that's the only idea that came to my mind haha. Love your writing btw.

-🌮

I Love You (Too)

ellie williams x runner reader

synopsis: it went too fast, you got bit; now she’s alone again.

zom’s note: im so glad you like my writing, tysm! since there was no specifics, i wanted to branch out and write smthg angsty, bc why not. i lowkey feel bad… my shayla.

word count: abt 955

warnings: angst, death (ellie shoots reader), just pure sadness not gonna lie.

Love

noun

A deep feeling of adoration and affection. Complex and utterly fucked.

—

God- It wasn’t supposed to make this turn, literally and figuratively. It was supposed to be a simple scout… in a foreign area. Red Flag. It was quiet, Green Flag? No infected, right? Fuck no. A major fucking fuck of fuckest nos. Open street, Green Flag, Houses… Red Green Flag? It all happened way too fast. One minute you and Ellie were walking, chatting quietly, still alert, but not as sharp as you both should be.

First came one, round an abandoned truck. Then came another… then another… that alerted another. Then before you know it, A WHOLE DAMN LOT OF THEM. Two people against what felt like hundreds, constant moving, running, dodging, shooting, stabbing.

A means for survival, you had Ellie’s back, Ellie had yours. Well for the most part… Ellie split from you just for a second? A minute…? Three or seven. It was a frenzy, her mind was running miles. Yours also in a panic until then last infected.

—

She had an arm around you as support, holding your waist with the other. Both covered in grime and blood, that was hopefully not your own. With an effort you both managed to huddle inside a safe house, deemed that way by Ellie’s check through. Green Flag. It's okay, everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t… that’s when Ellie noticed the copious amount of blood near your calf, running down your to your ankle like a fucking river, splitting into streams. Red Flag. Ellie damn near felt her knees buckle, immediately drawing your attention to where she blankly stared. You assured her it was nothing, before turning your leg fully to reveal the ripped fabric of your jeans… a few scratches littering under the rip… then a bite. No that was fucking obvious…

“Oh…” was all you could muster out, before glancing back at Ellie. She stood there, frightened as you tried to console the situation. She was gonna puke.

—

That was almost a week ago. Maybe a week. Ellie couldn't be certain… a few days definitely. You told her you weren’t going to let her see your certain demise. You both knew what was meant to happen. That was days ago, She didn’t let you. She said… she’d do it, so you two can savor each moment left. Red Flag.

‘Ellie, pull the damn trigger’, is what she’d tell herself.

She wouldn’t… not now… not on you.

So here we are, Ellie sitting outside the house you ultimately turned in, because she couldn’t do it. Reminds her of that couple that ran from Jackson some time ago. She understood… well related.

Life was a cruel mistress. The amount of times she held the pistol to you, your cordyceps infected brain not caring, body working on instinct. She knew you were gone… but the moans and cries felt a little too human each time.

She grabbed her journal, scribbling in the worn book, scratching your face… a face that made her feel more sane… especially after Santa Barbara. Or maybe she never was. She felt the same as she did on that goddamned beach.

Broken down, lost without him, or her... Or you. Alone again. No one. Just her mind. Cruel.

Did you feel alone in that head of yours too? Was sitting prisoner in your own body as your last bits of sanity where taken from you by a fucking fungus petrifying? Did Ellie being the last thing you could grasp mentality give you peace… or sadness?

It didn’t bring her peace thinking about it. She found it hard to even think about you without the fear in your eyes, a primal fear that sinks deep into your bones. You unknowingly clawed her down with you once you turned, or maybe it was the other way round. She knew it was fucked up, keeping you here… she knew it was wrong. It was selfish. You aren’t even you anymore, yet she still holds onto the thought of you. It's twisted. It’s sick… it’s the second time this has happened. One time too many. Melancholic.

She tossed the journal down next to her; thinking was too much. She couldn’t, her hands shook, her body trembled. In, out. Inhale, exhale, she reminded herself.

Standing, Ellie looked at the house behind her. Quiet… Red Flag. She wanted to hug you, play ignorant to the fact you got bitten…

She went inside, your reaction is always immediate and hostile. Could there be guilt lying somewhere in your brain…? Maybe she was personifying you too much, you weren’t human anymore. She watched you attempt and attempt to reach her, bound by some old rope she found in the garage of this stupid house. Inhale, Exhale. She grabbed her handgun, trying to tune out your screams and snarls, struggling.

She adored you, she tried to hold on to what she had of you… she couldn’t. Red Flag. All she could grasp is your last words, before the day your mind wasn’t yours. The sobbing, and the denial.

“Ellie, you know meeting you was amazing…

She steadied her hand.

…I wish we could have had more time together, you’re so so special to me…

Ellie aimed towards… the runner? you.

… don’t worry too much, and please don’t lose yourself…

Ellie fired ???

… I Love You, Ellie.”

—

She slung her backpack on her shoulders, walking outside. Her movements— mechanical. Ellie crumpled, she sobbed. Alone, scared, tired. Her own type of infection clawed through her body. One that didn’t kill her, not physically. Dissociated… it all went too fast, yet too slow, like trudging through tar.

Ellie took a deep breath, shaken up and ragged.

“I Love You Too.”

[zepskies]

The Honorable Choice - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: The last chapter! Hold on, it's about to get bumpy...

Disclaimer: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

**Pronunciation guide at the end!

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: @jacklesversebingo Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 5.7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Protective Dean, survival situations, smut (mutual masturbation, fingering, and more), angst, and fluff.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 3: Worthy

They travel together for two more days. Dean isn’t really a talkative man, but inevitably, he finds himself speaking to fill the comfortable stretches of quiet plodding across the grasslands.

He tells her about growing up on his family’s farm, where his father was firm but fair, and a larger-than-life presence when Sam and Dean were kids. His mother though, she was the only one who could ever go toe to toe with John Winchester and win.

“She tamed him,” Mila remarks with a smile. Dean’s lips quirk in response.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckles, “but he knew he couldn’t pull a whole lot of shit with Mom. She’s a real pistol when she’s gotta be.”

Talking about them makes his heart heavy and sobers his mood, so he deflects with other stories, other chapters of his life. 

He talks about going through basic training alongside Benny Lafitte. As privates, Dean pranked his friend by filling his lumpy old pillow with raw eggs and chicken feathers. In retaliation, Benny swapped Dean’s morning coffee with actual dirt and hot water. Their boyish games escalated until they were nearly kicked out of the military.

Dean managed to smooth things over though. He’s always had a way of charming people, even the gruff Sergeant Major, Bobby Singer.

Mila admits that she and her cousin Šóta used to sneak out of the village when they were younger. He taught her how to climb trees, how to fight and protect herself, and how to ride a horse astride, like a man. He was the only one who ever encouraged her to have the “free mind” her mother dreamed about.

The more she confides in him, her eyes sparking with life and her hands gesticulating along with her words, the more Dean listens.  

On the third day, it’s nearing mid-afternoon when Dean slows Baby to a stop. After miles and miles of forest and grassland covered, they’ve finally approached a large, wide river. Mila stops beside him.

“My tribe lives beyond the river,” she says, “but the current is strong now.”

Dean looks over at her. A question he hasn’t wanted to ask crops back up. He feels that now is the time to voice it.

“Yeah, about that…I’m thinking your tribe doesn’t take very well to outsiders,” he says. “White men in particular.”

Mila presses her lips together. He can tell she’s been thinking the same thing, but she turns to him with a determined set to her features.

“I will protect you,” she says.

Dean frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that. On one hand, it warms him that she seems to really mean it. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to know what it’ll take for her to protect him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

She turns her face away and doesn’t seem to want to answer at first.

“Mila…”

“The Chief is my uncle,” she says at last. “He will listen to me.”

Dean blinks. Well, that changes things…maybe.

He’s still not convinced, but at this point, he really doesn’t have many options. It’s either take his chances with her tribe, or become a vagabond. He’s not sure how long he could survive in the wilds of the West alone, especially while trying to dodge military patrols.

In the past three days, it’s taken Dean all that time to come to terms with a simple fact. He’ll likely never see his brother again, or his mother. It’s a pain that cuts into him deeply, down to his bones. It stings behind his eyes.

But if he only has two choices, then he at least wants to make sure Mila gets home safely…even if that means he won’t be.

He’s come this far. If his career is worth the price of what he feels is right, then his life is worth it too.

With that decision made, Dean expels a long, somewhat faltering breath. He locks away the rest of his uncertainty, his apprehension, and even his grief. He hides it deep inside, where she won’t see it. 

“All right, the current doesn’t look too bad over here,” he says, pointing to farther north along the river. “The horses can make it.”

Mila nods in agreement. She still looks uneasy, though she tries to hide it too. She ventures ahead into the river. Dean follows close behind.

The water is shallow at first, but it all too quickly gets deeper. The horses plod over the river stones and vegetation under the surface, and the humans are led deeper, until they’re submerged into the water up to their waists.

It’s good that Mila rides that giant mustang; if she were on a mare, like Dean, she’d already be sunk up to her shoulders. Baby’s a big girl, to be sure, but Mila is nearly a foot shorter than him, with a smaller frame. He watches her carefully as she makes her way ahead of him.

That’s why he’s able to act fast when Mato slips, dunking Mila under the water. She gasps and tries to cling onto him, but the current is fierce. It pushes Mato down the river no matter how much he scrambles and kicks at the water, braying wildly in distress.

Shit! Dean tugs sharply at Baby’s reigns and strives to catch up to them. He grabs Mato’s reigns and pulls and pulls, until he and Baby are able to drag him to the other side of the river where he can get a foothold with his hooves.

Mila is starting to fall off his back. She struggles to cling on while the river pushes at her, with her wet hair falling in her eyes. Dean leans back as far as he can to try and pull her up.

“It’s okay, I’ve gotcha,” he calls out, even though his heart hammers with alarm.

She reaches out for his hand in turn. Just as his fingers begin to close over hers, a wave from the current crashes into her. A short scream tears from her throat after she loses her grip on Mato’s neck. Without her weight, he’s able to pull himself back up onto the bank along with Baby.

Damn it! Gut-wrenching alarm spears Dean into action. He leaps down from Baby and removes his gloves, his hat, and his uniform jacket, so he can dive into the water. Thank God he’s a strong swimmer.

Mila seems to be too. She carves through the water against the current the best she can and tries to keep her head above the waves, but Dean can see it’s a losing battle. He manages to grab hold of her arm, and then wraps an arm around her waist to keep her close. Both of them work together to try and cling to any passing rock or low-hanging vine as the current sweeps them out toward an ultimate end.

A waterfall.

Of course. Goddamn it. Dean doesn’t know how steep it is on the other side, and he doesn’t want to know. All he’s trying to do is keep himself and Mila above the water.

She hooks her hand around a sharp rock. It bites into her hand, making her cry out, but she clings to it for all she’s worth. She holds onto Dean just as tightly, even though the current wants to take him. She tries to pull him closer, close enough for him to get a hold on the rock as well.

This time, it’s Dean who loses his footing. The rocks slip beneath the soles of his feet when he attempts to gain some leverage.

A shout of surprise escapes from him when he fails, and it gets swallowed up by water rushing down his throat.

“Dean!” Mila yells, for the first time using his name. The last thing he registers is the fear in her eyes—afraid for him.

The river takes him over the edge of the abyss, and he falls.

He never expected that he would get to open his eyes again, let alone to the sight that greets him. Mila’s familiar face, framed by the dark, drying waves of her hair, is bright with firelight. It dances in orange-gold across her features. Her eyes are warm like rich molasses when she looks down and finds him awake.

She smiles in relief.

He realizes that he’s lying on soft grass with his head pillowed in her lap. She’s taken off his boots and half of his white undershirt; she tore one of his sleeves to wrap around a mercifully shallow gash in his shoulder.

The horses are drinking from the river nearby, with a pile of apples split between them. There’s a fish roasted over the fire, but all Dean cares about is the way her fingers are running through his hair. She sings a soft song under her breath while she passes her other hand over his injured arm without touching it.

He doesn’t understand the words, but he thinks she might be trying to heal him. He’s heard plenty of stories about the Sioux people, most he’s taken with a grain of salt. He does remember Cas saying that their healers are different from doctors.  

Dean’s never given their hoodoo much thought, but right about now, he hopes it works.

“Mornin’,” he croaks.

Mila’s relieved face becomes touched with amusement.

“It’s night,” she says. “You slept for a long time.”

Dean wants to sit up and take an inventory of his injuries, but he can’t make his body move just yet. He’s too tired and bruised. He also likes being in her arms. He likes her fingers in his hair, now moving to his cheek. He sighs through his nose in contentment as her thumb drifts over his overgrown stubble. 

“Thank you,” she says. Emotion is thick in her voice.

Dean meets her eyes again, and he smiles. He raises the back of his hand to touch her smooth cheek, gently. He lets his fingers glide across her tan skin, down the column of her neck. Her breath hitches.

She takes his calloused hand in her slender one. Her long hair falls like a curtain over her shoulder, almost like it’s shielding them from whatever is left to come for them beyond the forest. Dean wraps an ebony strand around his finger, just to feel it fall loosely again.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he says.

Mila graces him with another smile from her lips. He wants to know what they taste like.

“I guess you are pretty, for a White Man,” she says teasingly.

Her fingers trace his brow, his jawline, even the tip of his chin. She seems to be avoiding his plush mouth, even though her gaze keeps dropping there. Dean pretends to frown.

“Sweetheart, that’s not the way you talk about a man,” he says.

Her brows raise. “No?”

“Handsome. Strong. Toothsome, if you will,” he says, enjoying the way she begins to blush. “That’s what you wanna call a man.”

“Toothsome. I don’t know this word,” she admits. “Am I supposed to eat you?”

Dean resists the urge to say the first incorrigible thing that pops into his head. Instead, his body shakes with laughter.

It’s difficult at first, all his muscles pulling at him in protest, but he raises himself into a sitting position. He cups Mila’s cheek, dragging his thumb across her lower lip. Her lashes are dark and long. They move when she looks up at him. He knows the look in her eyes, wanting, desiring, but also unsure of what she should allow him.

Dean leans in slowly, giving her time to decide.

She tilts her face up to his. He noses at her cheek, his eyes falling closed along with hers.

He finds her lips with his own on instinct and feeling alone. Soft and tender movements, testing, asking.

She answers him. Her fingers tangle in the front of his tattered shirt as her lips begin to move against his. Dean wraps an arm around her waist and gathers her against his chest. His other hand glides down her arm, down her side and along every soft curve. Her clothes are still damp, and so are his.

“It’ll be faster to dry our clothes if we’re not wearing ‘em,” Dean rumbles. His voice is deep with desire. He presses kisses along the side of her jaw, behind her ear, down her neck and shoulder. He earns her pleased hum, her heavier breaths, and her fingers once again in his hair.

“I can’t,” she gasps. She says something in her native tongue, too fast for Dean to even register. He slows down so he can meet her eyes.

“What was that?” he asks. Her face falls, and she starts to trip over her words.

“I am not…how you say, married. I have to be…”

Dean smiles ruefully, sliding a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Chaste?” he offers. She nods, her brows furrowed. Her grip on his shirt tightens.

“Yes,” she says. “In the eyes of my people, it is…”

“I get it,” Dean says. When she still seems conflicted, he presses a kiss to her forehead. 

“Really, I understand,” he says.

His problem is that he stares into her eyes too long, and at her kiss-swollen lips. He dives back in for another taste.

This time, he’s a little less gentlemanly than he promised. His tongue sweeps along her lower lip, begging entrance. She makes a sound of surprise, but she opens up to him. Her gentle hands slide up his chest to hold his face, and her thumbs stroke his cheeks. He holds one of her wrists to keep her there as his tongue dances with hers. She tastes like the river, and like salty tears.

Had she cried for him? How long did she sit with his body, waiting to see if he would wake up?

Despite those worrying thoughts, Dean knows this feels right. More right than he’s ever felt.

It’s harder than he might’ve imagined, but he still pulls away, before he won’t be able to stop himself. Mila pants for breath. She seems to feel she should let him go, but also doesn’t show any sign of wanting to. Smiling, Dean caresses her cheek one more time before he turns to the fish she roasted.

“This looks good,” he says, clearing his throat. “What kinda fish is this?”

With a sigh, she attempts to steady herself and moves to join him by the fire.

That night, Mila dreams.

She dreams of wings, white and beautiful. She hears the cry of an eagle before she sees his great wingspan take off in flight. He soon finds his mate, and they dance together in the sky. 

When she wakes, the fire has gone out and it’s still dark in the night. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s safe. Finally safe.

And she’s lying securely in Dean’s arms.

She’s no longer conflicted when she stares up at his face.

She will bring him home to her tribe, and she will explain. If they still don’t welcome him, then she prays for the strength to keep to her honor. Because now, she begins to realize…

Her heart has already chosen.

“Kimmímila, what have you done?” her uncle asks in the language of their people.

He is Tahatan, Chief of their tribe.

Mila’s father, Chatan, and her cousin Šóta have tied Dean Winchester to a post in the center of the Chief’s large tipi. Dean kneels with his head bowed in respect, even though he keeps sneaking looks at Mila to try and gauge what’s happening. He doesn’t understand a word of any of it.

“You’ve brought this outsider into our village, this White Man!” Tahatan shouts, his voice deep and resounding.

Mila steps forward, despite her mother’s embarrassment and her father trying to grab her shoulder. For the second time in her life, she defies her father for what she believes is right. The first was to rescue a member of their tribe—because even a horse’s spirit should not be broken by greed.

“Uncle, I’ve told you the story, though you don’t want to believe it,” she says. “Dean Winchester saved me when he could have killed me, or worse. He defied his own people. He is dead to his own people, for me, and because of me. You may think they lack all honor, but this man is different.”

She looks over at Dean, and he meets her gaze. He wears an anxious frown as he looks between her and the chief, but she has a feeling that his fear is for her, not for himself.

She kneels beside him, then looks up at her uncle with all the stubbornness she’s ever possessed in her life. She feels it’s led her to exactly this moment.

“And we are one,” she says. Nerves trill up her spine as she says it. She predicts the way shock falls over the room. The way her father curses out loud, angry. The way her mother covers her mouth in dismay. The way the Chief takes a step back, tilting his head at his niece.

“You would take it that far?” he asks.

Her face doesn’t change. “It’s already done.”

Tahatan is beside himself, both angry and perplexed. He goes back to his chair of wicker and wood that lies centered in the room. He drops heavily into it. After a long while, in which he thinks in silence…he releases a heavy sigh. He gestures for his brother and his son to untie Dean. The men do so, but they don’t let him go free. They force him to stand and bring him forward to kneel again before the Chief.

“Dean Winchester,” Tahatan says.

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies.

“You prove yourself to be a man with honor,” he says in English. “Kimmímila has chosen you. She claims you have chosen her in return. Do you deny this?”

Dean glances over at her. She bites the inside of her lip, a bit worried about how he’ll react. She’s not sure he completely understands what Tahatan is telling him, but he nods, regardless.

“No, sir. I don’t deny it,” Dean says.

“Then, you will be allowed to stay, and live among us,” Tahatan declares. "We will see for ourselves what you are. We will see if you are worthy."

Dean gives a nod, crossed with a bow of some kind. He obviously isn’t sure of what he’s supposed to do, but he does say thank you. Mila wraps her hands around his uninjured arm and helps him to his feet. She smiles at him to let him know that the worst is over. He blows out a breath in relief.

“Is that it?” he whispers. He expected more of a thrashing, if he’s honest.

“Almost,” she replies. The two of them stop short before her father, Chatan.

Dean straightens up and holds out his hand. “Sir.”

Chatan glances down at the white hand extended toward him. His gaze raises back up to Dean. 

He grunts in acknowledgement, but he turns on his heels and storms out of the tipi. Her mother comes forward next. She examines Dean from all angles. She takes his face in her hand, somewhat squishing his cheeks, so she can look deeply into his startled eyes.

She seems satisfied by what she finds, and she lets him go. Afterward, she takes Mila’s hand and heaves a deep sigh.

She kisses her daughter’s hand and says nothing else, leaving them to find her husband and calm him down.

Dean turns to Mila with a look that says, please tell me that’s it.

She smiles more genuinely.

“Come,” she says.

She leads him by the hand out of the Chief’s tipi and through the village. Dean takes in the rows of other tall, cone-like structures covered in buffalo skin, as well as all the faces that turn to stare at him in a mix of curiosity, wariness, and even fear. Some of them whisper to each other, taking their children by the hand and keeping them close.

Dean’s still on guard himself, even when Mila takes him to a smaller tipi. It’s been closed up for a while now, by the look of it. Weeds have grown right outside the entrance. 

“This one’s yours?” Dean asks.

She pauses, giving him another small smile. “Ours.”

Dean raises a brow. Ours. Really?

She opens the flap in the front and beckons him inside. There’s still enough daylight to shine through the outer lining. Inside, his gaze flits over the old pile of stones in the center for heating, clothes folded in the corner, some cooking pots and utensils, paintings on wood and clay, and a couple of beaded decorations. Buffalo skin bedding is laid out on the other side with a couple of soft looking furs. 

Son of a gun. Dean doesn’t even blink as he processes it all. He’s in a damn tipi. This is really about to become his life.

Shaking his head a little, he forces himself to focus on Mila. She’s his anchor, and she seems to sense that he’s reeling. She guides him to sit beside her on the bedding, holding his hands in hers. After a moment, he reaches up to tuck a curling strand of hair behind her ear.

“You didn’t get in too much trouble because of me, did you?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. My father and uncle are very similar. Strong to anger, but it is quick to run out. At least with me.”

Dean thinks he understands. Short fuse, quick fizzle.

“There is just…one thing,” Mila says. Her eyes fall away from his, like she’s embarrassed. He squeezes her hands.

“What?” he asks, his brows furrowing. It gets her to look at him again, but she seems worried to tell him.

“To convince my uncle to let you stay, I told them that we…” she trails, trying to find the right words in English. “That we are married.”

Dean’s brows raise high. His heart trips up faster. Okay, “ours” makes a lot more sense now.

“I am sorry,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want you hurt—”

“Sweetheart,” Dean says, cupping her cheek. Even with the hammering of his heart, he grins. “I’m pretty sure that’s where this was going anyway.”

In fact, this is a best-case scenario, as far as he’s concerned. He leans in to kiss her, and it doesn’t take long at all for her to sigh in relief, melting against him.

“We’re married, huh?” he asks. “No ceremony? No white dress?”

“We are bonded,” she replies, nodding as she meets every one of his kisses. “Or, we will be.”

She tugs him closer and revels in the feeling of his hands beginning to roam her body, sliding down her waist, her hips and thighs.

“Guess that means we have to seal the deal,” he grins. His lips drift away from hers to burn a familiar path across her cheek. He takes to nibbling her ear, making her flinch and laugh as it tickles.

“Seal-the-deal. What does that mean?” she asks.

Dean chuckles lowly in her ear. “Oh, I think you know.”

He guides her onto her back, over the comfortable mess of furs. He wants to take his time exploring every inch of soft, tan skin, but he first sweeps her hair away from her eyes, the back of his hand brushing against her cheek. She smiles up at him softly.

“Do you regret?” she whispers, reaching up to touch his chin with two slender fingers. “Do you regret helping me?”

Dean considers her question. He knows he’ll carry his family in his heart until the day he dies. His brother, his mother, the memory of his father. Benny and Cas, even Jack, and so many others.

It’s already a heavy burden, but he had always been prepared to lose his life on the battlefield, in service of his country. At least this way, he gains a new life. 

“No. Never did,” Dean replies. “Not even once.”

He bows his head toward hers, and he proves it to her. His lips capture hers, fueled by passion and wanting. Mila’s hands slide over his shoulders and down his back. Maybe without her realizing it, she implores him to let go of the weight heaped on his shoulders.

When he begins to bunch up the hem of her dress, she sits up to help guide his hands. Her quickening breaths mesh with his as the first layer of clothing drops beside the bedding. His tattered shirt joins her dress, along with pants and shoes and boots, until all that’s left is skin against warm, bare skin. He lays on his side right beside her and explores wherever she lets him begin.  

“Beautiful,” Dean murmurs, as his lips follow the column of her neck, down between her breasts. Her breaths rise to meet him, especially when he begins to toy with a dark, pebbled nipple. Her fingers slip through his hair, and his name falls from her lips. He palms one breast while kissing and gently teasing the other, exploring sensitive flesh and grazing her sensitive fleshwith his teeth.

“No man’s ever touched you?” he asks, despite knowing the answer.

She shakes her head, her fingers gripping his hair tighter as his lips and tongue move against her skin.

“No,” Mila gasps a reply. Her hand slides down the back of his neck, and the more he teases her, her nails soon create faint red lines down his back, her thighs squeezing together. She feels a throbbing ache at the very center of her. Despite her inexperience with men, she knows what it means, and she knows what she wants.

Dean’s mouth drags away from her breast. He pulls back so he can meet her eyes. A smile curves his lips, and he takes one of her hands from his shoulders. 

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asks. He guides her hand down her body, brushing over a wet, sensitive nipple, down her stomach, and between her legs. This time, Mila nods in answer. She stares up at Dean with eyes like molten honey. He leans in to kiss her neck.

“Show me,” he says.

She shudders at the depths in his voice. It increases the flood of wetness she already feels, even before she slips two fingers between the folds of her sex. She gathers some of that slick and circles it over the source of her pleasure, the small nub above her entrance.

Dean takes his hardened length in his hand. While she writhes by her own hand, he drinks her in with his eyes. A soft groan falls from his lips as he pumps himself a few times, sliding a thumb across the weeping head of his cock.

He can’t be a spectator for long though. He nips tantalizingly at her neck, creating a zing of added sensation across her skin. She whimpers, though she tries to stifle it, her knee bending further.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Dean says. “Let me hear you.”

He releases himself and replaces her hand with his own. He slips two long fingers inside her drenched entrance, earning a gasping moan from her. She latches onto his shoulders and buries her face into his neck. She whispers fervent things he doesn’t understand, but it only spurs him on.

His thumb circles insistently over her clit as his fingers pulse inside her. Her hips buck a needy rhythm against his hand, until her thighs begin to shake, and her inner walls squeeze even tighter around his fingers.

“Shit, that’s it, baby,” he pants gruffly against her cheek. “Let go for me.”

Warmth snaps and floods from her throbbing core, and she cries out near his ear, her nails biting into his skin. Her release coats his fingers.

Mila drops her head back against the furs underneath her. Her chest rises and falls quickly while she tries to catch her breath, her eyes tightly shut. Dean surprises her with a soft kiss.

“Mila,” he prods. He wants to see her eyes again, so pretty and wanton when she comes. He veers away from her lips to kiss her cheek, and then the other side of her neck. “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

She huffs a small laugh. Opening her eyes, she gestures to her bare body. “This is not enough?”

Dean’s lips tug at a smile. He shakes his head. “As a matter of fact, no.”

He shifts over her, finding his place between the cradle of her thighs. His elbows come to rest on either side of her head. She feels trapped by his body, even as she welcomes his weight and the feeling of his arousal, long and heavy and hard, trapped between their bodies. This man fills every corner of her world in this moment.

“If I’m your husband now, that means I get all of you,” he says with a grin. She gazes up at him, both in blushing amusement and affection.

“All of me,” Mila repeats. She takes his face in her hands and brings him closer, until her lips are a whisper from his. “Then I want all of you.” 

Dean chuckles. “You sure about that?”

She smiles in satisfaction, and her lips claim him this time. One kiss turns into many, each one mounting in passion and desire. Dean groans into her when she begins to touch him. Her hands are soft, but direct in their seeking; they caress his shoulders, run down his chest and stomach, and then, more tentatively explore the now painfully hard length of him pressing against her.

He makes a grateful sound of pleasure when her hand wraps around his cock, squeezing gently. His fingers bury themselves in her hair.

“I want all of you,” she says, this time a plea and a demand all at once as she strokes him.

Dean nods in agreement. He’s come this far. He can do that for her too.

He spreads her thighs a bit wider and encourages her to adjust the angle of her hips for him. His hand glides down her plush thigh and gets a healthy grip. Then he slides his hand under hers and guides his cock through her folds, first just holding himself at her warm, wet entrance.

He manages to wait for a second, in order to meet her gaze. She’s already holding onto his arms tightly, like he’s become her anchor. Her thighs wrap around his hips and beckon him closer.

Slowly, he pushes inside. He takes care in how he works her open. She winces at the sting of his girth stretching her, but his fingers once again massage her clit, stroking her arousal back into a keening flame. He swallows her gasps and moans as he bottoms out inside her, fully sheathed. Tears prick at her eyes, but not from pain.

Mila’s dream flashes like a waking vision behind her eyes. Wings take flight, along with the gleam of a golden beak and a sharp eye.

She blinks, and the image disappears. She’s left with the man who has become hers, making love to her with every stroke of him deep inside her. She presses grateful kisses across his neck and shoulder, wherever she can reach while she clings to his strong arms.

The thick head of him brushes a sensitive place over and over, one that tightens the coil in her lower belly and makes her core tremble again with warmth, until her body convulses against him, pulsing in pleasure, gripping him tight from the inside. Mila’s fingers clench in his hair just as tightly as her release hits her in a powerful wave; even her voice becomes lost to it.

Gritting his teeth, Dean grips the soft flesh of her hip and chases his own end. The way her inner walls choke his cock, he has no choice but to come hot inside her, his spend mixing with her own release. A strangled shout tears from his throat.

He has to brace himself before he crushes her. With his forearms resting on either side of her head, he lowers his forehead against hers. Her legs slip from where they’ve been tightly molded to his hips, her feet meeting the floor. Eventually he slips out of her. He watches his seed drip out and create a mess on the dark furs. The sight of it satisfies something primal deep inside him.

Later he’ll ask her about washing up (and about supper), but for now, he just turns onto his back beside her. She inches toward him, and he raises an arm so she can splay out against his side. They both lay there for a moment in the quiet, just catching their breath together. It marks the end of a long journey, and yet, the start of one too.

Mila turns to raise onto her elbow. She reaches over to wipe the sweat from his brow in a tender touch. Dean smiles up at her. He takes her hand and presses a kiss into her palm.

“I could get used to this,” he says.

Her eyes widen in surprise, but then she laughs softly. “Yes.”

Her hand moves down to his chest, over his heart. She sobers as she considers her people, and how much trust has yet to be bridged—not only her own father and uncle, but the entire tribe. When she led him through the village, they called him wašíču.

Fat-taker. Greedy White. Not one of us.

“It will be hard for you here,” Mila says. She worries it will be too hard for Dean.  

He just squeezes her hand, earning her attention through tumultuous thoughts.

“I’m not afraid of a little hard work,” Dean replies. His usual confident charm is infused in his smile, but she has a feeling he’s just trying to reassure her.

Sensing she’s not convinced, Dean reaches up to hold her cheek, guiding her to look at him and not the floor.

“Listen. I made my choice, and I’m sticking it out, come hell or high water,” he says.

Mila’s brows knit together. “Hell-or-high… What does that mean?”

Dean sits up on his elbow along with her. He takes her chin between his fingers and meets her gaze.

“It means if you want me, you’ve got me. The rest, we’ll figure out as we go along,” he says.

A smile slowly lightens Mila’s face. She tilts her chin up to meet him with a kiss.

“I will be with you,” she says. It’s a promise.

Dean smiles back.

“Good,” he says. “Because that’s just about all I need.”

AN: There we have it, friends. 💜 I really, truly hope you enjoyed this mini series! To be honest, I have more ideas for this little world (like how Dean might try to assimilate into this culture), but I'll leave it to you guys to let me know if that's something you'd be interested in reading.

Until then, I would love to know what you thought of this chapter! 

Pronunciation Guide:

Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew")

Read the Sequel:

Dive into more Cowboy Dean with the sequel of this story, Outlander:

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won?

▶️ Keep Reading: OUTLANDER (PART 1)

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