#we lit up campfires in the middle of the woods and the enemy thought it was a trap ...

[smilepilled]

i love having a FEB (brazilian expeditionary force) theme because you'll think im queer from the outside of my acc -> think i'm a conservative for the theme -> Scroll down and get slapsticked with queer rambling + evil wokeness.

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

Divided We Fall (OUAT - Peter Pan x Reader) Part 1

Requested by @ajakral

Synopsis: Who said there were no girls on Neverland? Who said Peter Pan ruled over this world on his own? On the other side of the island, far from the mermaid lagoon, the echo cave and the skull rock – that's where (Y/N) and her girls lived. Because behind every great man there is an even greater woman, what would the king be without his queen?

A/N: Doesn't star any OUAT characters apart from Pan, Felix and Wendy.

Word count:2.5k

>>> part 2

MASTERLIST

The delicate rustling of the leaves lulled them, making it hard not to fall asleep. They were surrounded by dark – night had fallen hours ago and there was no way to tell what time it was. The girls, however, knew better than to give in to their exhaustion and allow themselves to doze off, unbeknownst to anyone but them. Somehow, She always knew. There was no hiding anything from Her. One of them moved her weigh from one food to the other but this movement alone made a lot of noise in the middle of a tranquil night. The girl to her left gave her a worried glance and it seemed to wake them all up. No, they couldn't fall asleep, they had to keep an eye open and watch camp for the night. Once a week the camp's safety was in their hands, they could not disappoint Her.

“Report.”

It was an all too familiar voice, one that sent shills down the girls' spine and inspired a mixture of awe and fear. She was as nurturing as she was fierce; no one in their right mind would consider getting on Her bad side.

“It's been quiet all night,” one of the girls said, her voice a little raspy. They hadn't uttered a single word in hours and the stiflingly hot air of the jungle had them suffocating and thirsty.

“Night's far from being over. If a Lost Boy so much as steps on our land, I want him to run back to camp with an arrow through his leg,” She told them, leaving no room for argument. She had trained them for this. “They came raiding our camp one too many times lately, methinks they need a little reminder who rules this part of the island.”

“We won't disappoint you,” the girl who moved earlier spoke up, looking up at their leader with glowing eyes, sweat trickling down between her brows and feet unsteady on the humid ground.

She turned towards the brave girl and stood before her a long while, minutely watching her, scrutinizing her.

“I expect not,” She eventually said before disappearing in the night.

A collective sigh fell from the four girls on watch and suddenly, they didn't feel too hot anymore – cold, fear induced sweat now covered their back.

(Y/N) reappeared on the highest spot of her territory and scouted her surroundings, squinting her eyes to try and see if the Lost Boys' campfire was still lit. Everything was eerily still – she didn't like it. The island was fast asleep for the first time in what felt like forever, yet she found herself unable to get any shut eye that night. Be it because she wanted to savor that peaceful night or because her own paranoia prevented her from sleeping, that was another question. For now, all she could do was to help her girls make sure the camp was safe.

Peter Pan. His name, although she hadn't pronounced it in ages, always left a bitter taste in her mouth – after a while she figured that this must be what hatred and contempt tasted like. There was something else too, that feeling lingered on her tongue whenever she talked with her girls. The tangible terror she inspired to all of them – even though it was one of the things she most despised about Pan, she realized it was a necessary thing to make sure her soldiers stood in line and remained loyal and obedient.

All the power this authority gave her was exhilarating and more often than not, (Y/N) had to remind herself not to turn into the monster He became. He still had tremendous power over her – more than the power he was actually deploying to keep on her Neverland. Sometimes she wondered why he didn't use more of it, because she knew he could, she knew she left before he could teach her how to use all of her power. What was holding him back? Was this a part of a bigger scheme? All these unanswered questions were probably the reason behind her insomnia and paranoia. All the more reason to have the girls take turns to watch over the camp at night, when they were the most vulnerable.

There was only one thing her girls couldn't fight off. One lurid thing that was too incorporeal for them to combat. The Shadow.

From the corner of her eye, (Y/N) saw its moving silhouette fly between the trees, silently making its way toward her. Her hands clenched into fists each side of her body – she hated this, she hated herself for this. It felt like a betrayal – towards her girls, who trusted her, and towards herself.

“What do you want?!” She spat at the dark form floating in the air a couple meters in front of her, out of arm's reach and over the precipice.

It didn't answer. It never answered her harsh questions or colorful curses. She knew who sent it – over and over again, almost every night, for the last eternity. Because that was how long she had been there - an eternity.

Its ghostly hand pulled a flower seemingly out of nowhere and it stretched its arm out for (Y/N) to take the gift. She remembered in vivid details the first time this happened, she remembered she screamed and attacked the shadow relentlessly for hours until she was too exhausted to keep going, she remembered that the flower didn't suffer any damage from her fireballs and still glowed its gentle blue color, she remembered reluctantly accepting the offering and crying for the rest of the night.

She was alone back then, none of the Lost Girls had come yet. Now she wasn't alone anymore, so why was this oppressing loneliness weight on her shoulders? An eternity later nothing had changed. To this day she still did the exact same thing – she reached out, took the splendid flower from the Shadow and waited until it disappeared into the night before collapsing on the rocky ground and crying, just crying.

*

She was the one exception – the only one in centuries, the only one in forever. Peter Pan didn't make exceptions, he was known to be a treacherous, ruthless leader and showed cruelty rather than mercy. His army was solely composed of young clueless boys - young enough for him to mold and shape the type of person they will become, and clueless enough to do it without them realizing it. Soon, his Lost Boys became cruel too, in their own way, even if his own viciousness could hardly be topped. Like any power-thirsty king, Peter Pan wanted more and more, always more power. There was never enough, never enough authority, or power, control, never enough enemies to defeat or magic to learn.

Neverland, as practical and symbiotic it was, was limited. It was surrounded by gallons and gallons of water, going as far as eye can see. There was no land to conquer, no enemies to challenge his authority. He was bored – like any child who had grown tired of their toys, he wanted new ones.

Peter Pan regularly left Neverland and wandered from village to village in the Enchanted Forest, searching for more innocent souls to corrupt and lure on his doomed island where everything and everyone stood still – frozen in time and space.

He was known under another name in the Enchanted Forest, though there was whispers about the identity of the boy who took kids from their parents, stole them right out of their little beds. The Pied Piper they called him and nobody knew where this curious name came from.

One day, (Y/N) found out though, but she was never able to go back and tell anyone. A pull stronger than anything she had ever experienced forced her to get out of her tiny bed, it compelled her to leave her room and she barely managed to slip on her shoes and throw a coat on top of her night gown before her feet dragged her out of her room and silently walked down the stairs. It was like they had a will of their own – they managed to reach the ground floor without stepping on any of the creaking wooden steps, something that (Y/N) couldn't even achieve when she tried.

Soon she was outside. She used both her hands to hold her coat closed and the freezing autumn wind made her eyes tear up but she couldn't fight off the urge to walk forward, closer, always closer to the mesmerizing sound that came from deep into the woods.

Before she knew it, she was in a small clearing with a bonfire in the middle. Around the flames were half a dozen boys of different ages – though all younger than she was – dancing madly to the tune. Once again guided by her feet, (Y/N) joined them. She didn't know how to dance but her body instinctively followed the music, her hair twirling around her as she spun in circles, her arms drawing invisible patterns in the air. Time was suspended – she lost track of it the moment she joined the dance. Her mind was foggy but at peace, she was one with her dancing companions despite not knowing any of them.

Everything came to an abrupt halt. (Y/N)'s arm fell down to the side of her body and she looked around, wondering how she even got here in the first place.

“Look boys, we have an unsuspected guest,” someone said. “What a treat! Here I thought tonight would be fruitless.”

“Who are you?” (Y/N) questioned immediately, wary of this boy.

He was the only one wearing decent clothes and not dancing. In his hands there was a pied piper and immediately, she knew. She knew who he was and she knew this was tonight was the last time she ever saw her village. In the morning her parents would wake up to an empty bed, like the parents of the boys around the bonfire.

“You'll know soon enough,” he simply told her with a sly smile that she would never forget. Every time she heard his voice, (Y/N) would associate it with this twisted smile and it made her shiver. “For now, I ask the questions and you answer.”

The boys suddenly resumed their mad dance, but (Y/N) heard no music.

“You can't hear it for now, I want to have a private conversation. Now tell me, who are you? The possibility of you being a boy with really long hair and pink lips seems highly improbable,” he said.

He was walking in circles around her, studying her, his eyes going up and down and up again. (Y/N) wanted to run but her feet were as good as glued to the ground. When she looked down she realized roots had grown out of the ground and around her ankles. She was trapped.

“I'm a girl,” she told him. “What is this? What are you doing?”

He smirked again. In a rather unpleasant way, but she didn't feel too threatened.

“I recall telling you that I was the one asking questions,” he reprimanded her. “You don't look like a fool. You know me, I see in your eyes. You're scared.”

“I'm not scared of anything,” she shot back right away, making him stop circling around her.

“A tough one, aren't you?” He huffed and resumed his walking. “How do they call me in this land again? Something to do with my flute,” he said, trailing off and waiting for her to complete the sentence.

“The Pied Piper. You're the one that takes children away during their sleep,” (Y/N) said accusingly.

“Do they seem asleep to you?” The boy asked, pointing at the dancing boys.

She didn't follow his stare but took this time to study him too. He was tall. Maybe older than her, but not much. He wore clean clothes and seemed clever. His eyes trained back on her.

“Are you asleep?”

She didn't like the way he emphasized the 'you' in his sentences. He might as well be poking her in the chest it would feel the same.

“You came here by yourself, just like you'll follow me by your own free will.”

“Following you while under the spell of an enchanted flute does not qualify as free will in my book,” (Y/N) spat at him. An odd feeling stirred inside her – like she was talking to a serpent rather than a boy. “What do you want from us? Where are you taking them?”

“Questions again!” He exclaimed, this time looking annoyed. He raised his hand and suddenly, (Y/N) was off the ground and hanging in the hair, an invisible rope tightening around her neck to keep her quiet. “Much better.” He smiled again. What was wrong with his smile? “Why not include yourself dear? I'm not taking them, I'm taking all of you. You'll be thanking me soon. There is a reason why none of the children ever came back. The place I'm taking you is a land of unlimited magic where all your dreams become reality.”

(Y/N)'s hands angrily grasped at the invisible rope but she only managed to scratch her neck. It wasn't tight enough to kill her, she could breathe but simply not talk. As an answer she glared down at him, putting as much hatred as she had in her in this one look.

“Fiesty, aye?” The boy said. “I'm going to enjoy having you around, I can tell already.”

“I won't go with you!” She protested weakly, the words coming out as merely a whisper.

The boy opened his palm and (Y/N) fell limpy to the ground in a muffled thud. A surprised yelp escaped her, it was followed by a groan. She rubbed her back as she stood back up.

“You were saying, love? I didn't quite understand your inarticulate mumble.” He beamed with self-complacency – he gave her a tooth grin that was anything but friendly.

“I said I won't go with you, you psychopathic man-child!” She shouted, her hands grazing her sore neck. It would bruise, that's for sure. “I'd rather die!”

“Careful!” He raised a finger in warning as he stopped walking around her and walked towards her instead. “Where we're going wishes have a tendency to come true, I'd watch my mouth if I were you,” he told her.

“What is it that you don't understand when I say that I will not follow you on your Neverland not even in a million years?” (Y/N) stepped back as she barked at him – she refused to be stepped on like a doormat but she certainly was no fool and this boy was dangerous.

“Oh but you will, I assure you,” he told her, closing the gap between them by disappearing and reappearing right in front of her. “A million years is exactly the time you'll spend there, with us.”

“Us?” She asked before she had a chance to bite her tongue.

“The Lost Boys and I- oh, I'm sorry, I still haven't properly introduced myself, have I? I'm Peter Pan, King of Neverland, and you, (Y/N) of Albridge in the Enchanted Forest, are going to come with me, whether you like it or not.”

If you like my work please consider buying me a coffee <3

A/N: Leave a review to tell me how you like it this far - the more I get the quicker you get next part :)

[hands-of-the-king]

Casually feeling like drabbling. I’ve got a character whom I’ve been writing as for a bit now, seeing as Privateer Press created Company of Iron which allows for a much more customized setting for the otherwise fantastic Warmachine & Hordes gameplay mechanics.

So, Former Trencher Officer Clancy Archer is going to be someone I write about here and there, because I like the dynamics he personifies.

For reference and background information, here’s this, a collection of small stories I’ve written about Clancy and his journey through undeath. This will be entry 05.

Or, if you want to see just the introduction to Clancy’s character and his background, that would be here.

Without further ado, let’s drabble.

In the months since Clancy’s first arrival in Llael, he’d faced a number of unfortunate circumstances. Two run-ins with Mercenaries donned with Trencher armor and having Trencher training weighed heavily on his mind. He’d killed them. Slaughtered as many as he could. And for what? For once, not even the rhythmic and endless impacts of shovels on soft earth could stir him from his desolation.

Dead eyes looked downwards, and the dead Cygnaran watched as his taut flesh obeyed the forces of necromancy, hands clenching and relaxing in a mockery of life. The pale, sickly green skin of his hand was contrasted with the robe around his waist - weaved of leather taken from his unit’s discarded uniforms. 

His eyes were cast upwards as one of them waddled through the trench. He was lucky in that his corpse had slimmed in undeath - but theirs were not so lucky. Undeath had accompanied a grotesque transformation, from well-built soldiers for crown and country into hideous, bulbous thralls, filled to the brim with a cruel alchemical soup. He’d outfitted them in their old pauldrons where he could, but their bodies could no longer support the uniforms. So, ever the opportunist, Clancy stitched himself a cloak more befitting a Trencher such as himself.

More befitting of a Skarlock Thrall lost in the nostalgias of a life he could never return to.

Clancy stepped up out of his trench, arms folded behind his back. He began to pace. His eyes scanned everything under the light of dawn, but he saw none of it. His thoughts clouded his senses. Perhaps it was that tunnel-vision that made him wander, far from his unit, and far from the trenches that they had been digging.

Llael’s border was so very close to the Black River. If he could just fashion a raft... eventually he could make it back to Corvis. To see his friends, his family... They never knew what happened to him... did they? How silly of him.

He took a sharp breath and jerked visibly. Coming to his senses, Clancy realized he was in the middle of a woodland. Raising a foot from the dirt path, he inspected his shallow footsteps, seeing them trail out of sight. How long had he been walking..?

Darkness peeked through the trees. Clancy frowned, and started to walk back to his men. To his ‘home.’

There was an air of danger around him, as the undead slowly retraced his steps. The darkness was encroaching, each tree could house a threat that would try to sink its teeth and claws into fragile skin.

Dead eyes flickered from here to there, peeking between trees, all too aware that hunters stalked the dark. Even the insects and birds of the woods were still, as if their breaths were held.

Clancy too found himself stilled and quiet, looking for any sign of trouble. It could be anywhere, creeping up on him, stalking him, ready to kill him in a place where not even his men would know. Where he’d never be capable of seeing his family again. He couldn’t die here. He wouldn’t allow it.

But like hell he didn’t scream in terror when the ghostly form of his brother sprang from the tree in front of him, arms outstretched and howling. Clancy jumped backwards.

And his scream was drowned out by the report of a rifle, that shattered the bark of the tree he’d been standing in front of. Clancy had no time to chastise Rick for his sudden appearance - nor for scaring the jumpy Skarlock - because the threat he was in had become immediately apparent.

Clancy began to run, even as he heard incomprehensible orders shouted from deeper into the forest. His feet fell soundly, as if he knew the area. He couldn’t stop and question it, but there were enemies here.

Instinctually, Clancy found a fortified position. A tree that had been rooted in loose soil and fallen. Loading his rifle, the undead pressed his shoulder to it, staring over and scanning the direction of the shouting. He was breathing heavily.

...Then he stopped breathing altogether. “...Oh wait, I’m dead. I don’t get tired.” He affirmed, then looked back down the sights his rifle. “...I’m dead. I don’t feel fear.” he too noted, collecting himself and frowning.

“I’m dead. They should fear me.” was his final reaffirmation, grimacing, and preparing for a fight.

More gunshots rang out in the distance, and Clancy gritted his teeth. But no bullets found their way in his tree. If not him, then what were those rifles firing at?

The answer came when Rick’s ghostly form weaved through the trees, taunting their pursuers, even as bullets riddled his incorporeal form. His cackling rang out, even as he came to rest before Clancy’s makeshift barricade.

The footsteps in the distance were growing closer now, and even as Clancy hid, he heard their voices.

“...We need to get it! Before it can warn any other Cryxians!” “Shoot the damn thing! Don’t let it get away!”

They were Cygnaran. Clancy’s own kin and men. He gripped his rifle, and inhaled again. Rick disappeared beneath the tree, and came to rest beside Clancy, grinning sadistically in his direction.

The wraith’s hands moved into position, and an incorporeal rifle was soon held in those wicked claws. A mimicry of his role in life. Clancy Archer was the unit’s Officer, but Rick Archer was their sharpshooter, their sniper. 

It was then that Clancy looked at his surroundings again, noting the destruction of the forest, and suddenly realizing that it was familiar. He’d known this tree was here. He knew the paths and trails here.

His eyes widened in shock. He was back in the Thornwood Forest. Where he and his unit had been stationed. This was where they’d patrolled. Where they’d had their last major engagement.

And only a mile away was where he and his men were slaughtered and taken to be resurrected by the foul necromancers of Cryx.

He’d come to this tree, and set up just as he had in life, with Rick beside him, shouting orders to his men and women to fortify the hillside, and to hold their ground.

He and Rick had noticed the weakness of the tree, as the rain poured and the ground was slick with mud. It took a few shovels filled with dirt to cause it to collapse, but it served as a vital tactical obstruction to help protect them against the advancing Cryxians.

...Clancy looked to his brother, and for a moment he wished he could cry. He lowered his weapon, even as orders to spread out and check the area were shouted.

It took all he could muster to close his eyes, and dissociate from everything, one more time. He needed to tell them. He needed to make sure his country knew what had happened to him. He needed to ensure that his family knew what happened to their sons.

The Skarlock ground his jaws together, grabbing some dried sticks and leaves from around his position, and soon had a small fire lit.

“Over here!” he shouted, teeth clenched, knuckles white as he gripped his rifle.

“...We’re over here.” The shouting stopped, and bootsteps were rushing towards the log. 

His impromptu campfire was pitiful, at best. But as a Trencher rounded the corner, Bannfield 603 Military Rifle trained on his eyes, Clancy could only imagine how awful he must have looked, with a Wraith formed of coils and cloth sitting next to him, each donned in the armor they died in, in possession of rifles they’d fired thousands of times in their lives.

He saw the young soldier’s face, saw confusion and then hatred in his eyes, as he reaffirmed the grasp on his rifle, and was a moment away from pulling the trigger.

“...First army, second division. Who’s the officer, soldier?” The kid trembled slightly. Clancy knew those eyes. He repeated himself, asserting a persona he’d long forgotten.

“First Army. Second Division. Who, is your Officer, Soldier?” He saw him grit his teeth.

“Officer Diana Falcone. Who the hells are you?” More bootsteps, as the other members of his unit followed the shouting and saw the fire. One by one, he saw widened eyes and confusion written on their faces.

Each of them had a weapon trained on Clancy and Rick. “Well, had to get replaced sooner or later. Can’t be MIA forever.” “Who’s got a cig? This’ no way to treat your former CO.” He reveled in the looks of confusion written into every single one of their faces.

“First Army, Second Division. Officer Clancy Archer of Corvis’ Blight. Nice to see you’re all still in one piece.” One of the soldiers came up to the undead Trencher, and grabbed him by his pauldrons, lifting his light and skeletal form to his feet, and shaking him vigorously.

“You mean to tell us that our CO went and BETRAYED us all to those fucking MONSTERS!?” Clancy looked unfazed, and frowned instead.

“No, you idiot. My squad and I died on patrol, and were resurrected. The reason I’m here now is to tell you what the hell happened, before I have to go and disappear back into the wastes.”

This was met with further disdain from the man who was presumably the unit’s sergeant. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in towards Clancy’s skull, peering through his dead eyes and seeming to judge everything he’d done.

“Who in the hell do you think you are, coming here and showing us that this is what you’ve become!? If you had any shreds of decency you’d let us put you out of your misery right now! How many more of your own men have you killed, Clancy!? How many more are going to die because they’ve turned you against us!?”

The skarlock grit his teeth, and the Machine Wraith behind him rose threateningly. “Corvis’ Blight has been reanimated alongside me. I fight because I’m the only one who can keep them safe, and out of the hands of those undead horrors who would unleash them upon the innocent civilians of Llael and Cygnar. I do what needs to be done so that at the end of the day, we can finally rest in our own graves. Got it?

Send a letter to my family. Tell them we got killed in our foxholes, holding off the enemy down to the last man. You never found the bodies, but they were there all the same.”

The trencher pushed Clancy back, gripping the chain that had been around his neck, and pulling it free with a snap. The Skarlock Commander clenched, as the sergeant inspected his dog tags.

“We’ll take these back, and tell our commander that one Clancy Archer has lost every right to call himself a trencher. With all due respect, sir... You’ve lost yer goddamn mind. Yer wearing our armor, leaving trenches in your wake, holding on to some poor bastard’s fantasy, hoping you’ll get a happy ending.” The Trencher’s sorrow-filled eyes were judging the undead creature, and all at once, Clancy could feel all of their eyes upon him.

“We were devastated when you were gone, sir. We couldn’t believe it. We din’ want to believe it. And now yer here. Alive, kickin’, and stirring shit for the men who fought with you. We’re gonna do you a solid, sir. We’re going to put you out of your misery. Put you to rest, so you can finally pass to Urcaen.” With that, the sergeant raised his rifle, pointing it between Clancy’s eyes. In that moment, the Skarlock was ready to embrace death, at the hands of his comrades, seeing the truth in their statements. He closed his eyes, standing there, waiting for the bullet to end it all.

But the shot never came. The darkness ceased when Clancy opened his eyes again, and the crackling of fire was now joined by the choking, dying breaths of the trenchers around them, throats slit, spilling a red ichor soaked into the hungry earth.

Clancy looked on in horror, as he found the culprit. His own brother, clutching the last survivor by the breastplate, removed his metal talons from his throat with a swift, surgical motion. His very real claws returned to incorporeality, once again shielding him from the weapons of the mundane.

Clancy felt a strong sensation in his chest, as he looked down to see the light dying from these soldiers’ eyes. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, however.

So it was in complete silence that he set to work, carving runes into the trenchers’ skulls and bodies, re-fitting them with armor, and pouring necromantic magics into their lifeless corpses.

As dawn broke again, Clancy strode forth from the Thornwood Forest. Ten pairs of footsteps followed in his wake. Each soldier had been freed from the shackles of death, and the burdens of life.

They had so much work to do, and Trencher Officer Clancy Archer was so very happy that a squad from his former company had volunteered themselves to serve alongside him in undeath!

Clancy was giddy at the prospect, naturally. Ten more shovels to work alongside Corvis’ Blight? The trench networks they could build would be fantastical!

Elsewhere, back in the depths of the Thornwood Forest, a unit of Trencher Infantry stumbles upon a derelict series of trenches, at least a few years old.

BLIGHT OF CORVIS I is emblazoned above the officer’s quarters, crudely carved into a plank of wood. Inside, the Infantry find a concerning sight: twenty-two dog tags are arranged on a small table, each one accounting for one member considered MIA by the military, with a message carved into it.

           THESE GRAVEDIGGERS    WALK AGAIN