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buildgrist · 7 months

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I wrote this last year on Twitter, but since Empty Spaces has sort of abandoned ship, I'll post it here too:

"Funeral"

A woman's whole life changes the first time she sees a combat doll.

First-person, combat doll setting by Twitter user mars_phobos_L1

CW: Harassment, violence, military context, blood, personality changes, conditioning, surgery, unreliable memory

Story below cut:

I washed out of combat training almost immediately, but it wasn’t enough to get me off the hook. I’m sure you all know how it goes – just because you can’t fight doesn’t mean you can’t support the ones who do. If you can’t carry a gun, you can fix a gun, if you can’t fly a plane, you can fuel a plane.

Nothing wrong with that, of course! It’s simply efficient use of resources, and I’m certainly in no place to criticize that, especially not given my current status, so to speak. But even then I wasn’t exactly bothered by it -- I would have rather not been conscripted at all, but maintenance would be safe and interesting and I was already pretty good at it.

The first time I ever saw a combat doll was when I was at the range, trying to get in enough practice to pass my pistol qualifications. I didn’t even know she was there, at first - there was no fuss, no fanfare - but as soon as her handler started barking those sharp, staccato orders I realized what was going on.

I looked over, of course. I know, we’ve all been taught not to make eye contact with the dolls because they might take it as aggression, but how could I not be curious? Can any of you say you wouldn’t be tempted to take a peek?

I hadn’t expected her to not be wearing her mask. All the publicity photos, all the technical diagrams, all the battlefield footage always shows dolls with their masks on, so I assumed that was just their usual state – but no, I was wrong. That was her natural face, with her implant jacks and her surgical scars and her delicate-looking skin. I truly hadn’t expected her to be so pretty…

She caught me looking, of course. Dolls are the apex predators of the battlefield, and noticing a maintenance trainee staring at her was trivial in comparison. She met my eyes before I could look away, and then I couldn’t look away. I knew nothing except her eyes and my heart pounding in my ears, and I had no idea what was coming next… and then she grinned at me.

That grin did something to me, something strange and frightening and wonderful. It felt like lightning running down my spine, like watching a sunrise after being blind my whole life, like finding my way out of a forest I’d been lost in since birth. I was never the same again.

I needed to know who she was, of course. She could pick off targets faster than my eyes could follow, with a perfect bullseye every time. Her handler ran her through everything in our arsenal, and more besides - pistols, rifles, machine guns, throwing knives, on and on - and she was perfect every time. How could I have not wanted to know more after watching a display like that?

Well, apparently, that made me the weird one in the battalion. Everyone I asked about her just shrugged or gave me sidelong glances. Why would they want to keep track of which doll was which, they asked? They were all equally frightening, after all. What did it matter what the shark swimming next to you was named?

It took more than a week - and a couple cases of beer - for me to find out who I’d seen. My buddy on the security team had seen the handler’s name and done some quick research, and he was willing to pass on that information… for the right price, of course.

Victoria. Her name was Victoria, and the next thing he said to me was “be fuckin’ careful around that one,” which didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me at the time. We’re taught to use caution around all dolls, combat or not, why the extra warning?

Because, he told me, there were stories about the Victory-class dolls. They weren’t the fastest dolls or the most powerful dolls, but they were notoriously unpredictable, and dangerous even to their allies. I won’t get into the details right now, that’s not what I’m here to do - but some of your classmates went pale the moment I said her name, so ask them about it later.

But what did that have to do with Victoria? I had to ask, because I used to be a little slow on the uptake sometimes. In case any of you haven’t put all the pieces together: Victoria is the first Victory-class, the flagship, the template upon which all others were modeled – and that meant if there was some fault with the Victory-class dolls, some flaw in their design or their conditioning, Victoria would definitely have it.

Even with all he’d told me, and all I’d learned on my own afterwards, I still couldn’t get her off my mind. Not that I was thinking about her every second, or even every day, but that moment never quite left my mind. I’d lay down and try to sleep, close my eyes, and behind my eyelids I’d see that bare face, that grin, and my heart would start pounding all over again.

By the time we were given our assignments, I knew what I was going to do. I knew what I had to do. I got the cushiest possible position – 8th Supply Battalion, well away from any combat zones, where the greatest danger would be a private driving a forklift drunk. The perfect position to serve out three years of compulsory service and go back to my old life, right?

Except I didn’t want it. I hadn’t wanted it since the moment I’d seen her.

As soon as we were dismissed, I went straight to the commander’s office and asked for a transfer – which they don’t usually do, of course, but he was willing to hear me out anyway, so I told him I needed to be on Victoria’s maintenance crew. Once he was done laughing he asked me what I was really there to ask for, and I repeated my request. I explained to him that I was serious, that I wanted, needed more than anything else, to be assigned to maintenance for Victoria.

He didn’t understand – which is no surprise, because I don’t think any of you do either. Why would I have wanted to be transferred to the only role that had higher casualty rates than front-line infantry, right? Truth be told, I didn’t understand either, and I still don’t. There’s nothing I can point to, no specific reason, just this surety that I belonged there and nowhere else.

Someone needed to do maintenance on the dolls, right? Why shouldn’t it be someone enthusiastic about it, someone fully committed to their role? I don’t know if my argument won him over or if he was just tired of listening to me, but in the end he just shrugged and wrote out my transfer orders: maintenance crew, Victory-class combat doll “Victoria”.

I still remember what he said when he handed me the orders:

“It’s your funeral.”

Just because I’d volunteered for the position didn’t mean I was any less nervous when I first reported for duty! The rest of the crew had already been giving me a hard time - I was the squeaky-clean new girl, fresh out of training - but honestly, they weren’t why I was nervous. That was just some laughs and some hazing, nothing I wasn’t used to by that point.

No, I was nervous because of the six-plus feet of exquisite purpose-built killing machine standing in the middle of the maintenance bay.

The thing is, though.. the reasonable thing would have been to worry that Victoria was going to kill me, right? That’s what you’d be afraid of, that’s what any sensible person would be afraid of! But it wasn’t what I was afraid of.

I’d done my research, I knew the numbers, and I was certain - beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt - that I wasn’t going to survive three years in her maintenance crew. I’d made my peace with that before I ever even walked into the commander’s office.

I was worried that Victoria wasn’t going to like me.

I know that probably sounds bizarre to you - after all, nobody worries about whether their tank likes them, right? - but trust me, it was absolutely the biggest thing on my mind. So much so, in fact, that I decided to introduce myself to her immediately! Why hang around hiding behind the rest of the maintenance crew when I could just walk right up to her and make a good first impression instead?

So that’s exactly what I did. Right into the maintenance bay, right past the rest of the crew, right across those painted lines on the floor… one foot in front of the other, listening to the pounding of my heart until I was within arm’s length of an active combat doll.

I took one more deep breath, accepted that it could have been my last, and gave her the usual introduction: name, rank, and role. She just stared at me, with those intense eyes I remembered so well, and I offered a little bit of extra politeness – just a simple little “I look forward to working with you, ma’am.”

The moment the words were out of my mouth, she grabbed me by the collar and dragged me in, my body pressed up against hers, and as I stared up at her in shock and fear and excitement, I heard her voice for the first time.

“You’re cute,” she said.

There were teeth in my neck before I could even make sense of her words - combat-specced teeth, the kind that can slice through bone - and it was unbearably painful… but also something about it felt right. I was helpless in her grip, completely powerless, and I realized that I’d wanted that all along.

I saw her true face for the first time, then. That flat, blank non-expression she’d been wearing when I walked up to her had simply been another mask, another disguise… and she’d let it fall away. As she licked my blood from her lips, I understood – she was a hunter, a predator, hungry for more and strong enough to take whatever she wanted… and I was her prey.

I suspect your instructor would kick me out of this class immediately if I described what she did next, so I’ll just say ‘she had her way with me and I had no desire to stop her.’ You’ll have to use your imaginations for the rest… or come find me sometime and I’ll be happy to tell you all about it!

Anyway, even though it seemed like I’d made an excellent impression on Victoria, the rest of the maintenance crew was pretty clear that I’d made a pretty poor impression on them. As soon as we were off-duty and the dolls had all been escorted back to their bunker, they made their feelings known in a very direct fashion.

I got off easy, they told me, pointing out maintenance staff for other dolls. One man had a bloody bandage where his ear had been, and another was completely unresponsive – just blankly staring at a wall. In comparison to things like that, a bite and some fucking was downright gentle for a Victory-class doll!

The crew insisted that I’d better not expect special treatment from Victoria to mean they’d give me special treatment too – I protested that I’d never once expected that, but I don’t think they were listening to me by that point. From all the shouts and cursing, it seemed like they were upset that I, the death-wish rookie who walked right up to a combat doll and introduced herself, had been treated more gently than maintenance staff who simply wanted to carry out their duties safely.

I tried to answer them, I tried to explain that all I’d done was to be friendly and polite, that I’d just wanted to treat Victoria with the respect she deserved. They didn’t like that answer.

Nobody told me about this, so I’ll pass it on as a warning to you just in case: maintenance crews aren’t just wary of their dolls, they’re downright resentful of them. From their perspective, the dolls are the thing that stands between them and getting home safely, and they’re not particularly fond of people who see the situation differently.

I, not knowing this, made some helpful comments about the dolls not being our enemy, about our purpose being to support the dolls so they can carry out their Purpose. Shortly thereafter, in a totally unrelated event, I slipped and fell down a staircase – completely by accident, of course.

I’d been hoping that the maintenance crew - and the staircase - had gotten all the vitriol out of their system by then, but it only got worse. Someone had found out that I’d volunteered for the maintenance crew, while they’d all been unwillingly forced into that position, and it was all over. That was all the proof they needed to decide I wasn’t like them in some indescribable way. They might not have been able to explain how, exactly, I was different from them, but they all agreed that I was, and they all wanted to make that my problem.

I next saw Victoria for post-mission diagnostics two days later. The procedures would be routine, and yet the crew was far more anxious than they had been for our previous visit to the maintenance bay. A doll just back from an operation, having spent only a few minutes being gentled by its handler before being sent off to maintenance, was the most dangerous kind of doll as far as the maintenance staff was concerned: all keyed up on adrenaline and battle stimulants and potentially unsure as to whether or not it was actually safe or still on the battlefield.

The crew all talked like they were off to the firing squad, and I had no idea what to expect as we all walked down to the hall… especially when they all hung back, in ones and twos and threes, lagging behind me while I walked up to the maintenance bay first.

I was the tribute, the offering, the fresh meat tossed to Victoria to sate her hunger - and oh, did she ever take the bait. She ran to me, snatched me right off the ground, and sprinted back to her designated zone as if to convince everyone she’d never left.. except now she had me clutched in her arms, her deadly teeth tracing up and down my neck, that beautiful voice giggling in my ear.

The maintenance team had to conduct their diagnostics around me, in the end. Victoria simply didn’t want to give me up, no matter how they tried to convince her -- and I had absolutely no desire to argue with that. Where could I possibly have wanted to be more than her arms?

In fact, I didn’t want to leave her arms. Even once our duty shift was done and she’d turned me loose, bloody and weary and deeply content, I lingered in the maintenance bay as the others fled for the mess. I knew what was waiting for me there - the same thing that had been waiting for me since I first met Victoria - and I wanted to avoid it for as long as possible.

10.

I hadn’t expected her to notice me hanging around - surely I was unworthy of her attention, right? - and yet, as I lingered behind, she spoke to me for the second time. “Not joining them?”

“No ma’am,” I told her, quietly enough for nobody else to hear. I hadn’t meant to say anything else, but the prospect of having a sympathetic ear was just too much, and the words just tumbled out of me. As she stared down at me with that blank expression, I explained how the crew had decided I didn’t belong, and how they’d been treating me since – the punches, the kicks, the fish in my bunk, the thousand other little reminders that they’d decided to hate me.

Eventually I ran out of words and found myself simply staring up at Victoria. She hadn’t said a single thing the entire time, and her expression was the same unreadable blankness that I’d seen before. While I tried to figure out whether she was sympathetic or simply bored, I suddenly realized that she’d met my gaze, staring into my eyes as if she was looking for something. I couldn’t imagine what she was looking for - and, truth be told, I still don’t know what it was - but I stared back up at her and let her look for it.

I guess she found what she was looking for - or perhaps found an absence of the wrong things - because she simply grabbed me by the arm and practically dragged me right out of the maintenance bay. What was she doing? Where was she going? She ignored my questions, of course, so I stopped asking them and simply walked along with her in silence.

You probably haven’t seen a doll bunker yet, but they’re extremely sturdy – downright overengineered, even. They’re even more heavily reinforced than munitions bunkers, and the only route in and out is through an extremely sturdy-looking steel door. It’s the sort of thing that makes the vault doors in heist movies look like tissue paper… and that was the door Victoria had led me to.

Even though I’d walked to the bunker with her willingly, I couldn’t help but protest a little as she swung the bunker door open. I had been told, upon my assignment, that only handlers and commanders were permitted to enter the doll bunker – all support staff were required to stay out in order to avoid ‘unnecessary manpower shortages’. Not that that stopped Victoria, of course! She simply picked me up by the back of my uniform like an uncooperative pet and tossed me right through the door.

11.

Have you ever walked into a room and found eight combat dolls staring directly at you? Sixteen eyes fixed on you, unblinking, like cats that have just spotted a mouse? Presumably not, but if you’re very lucky - or very unlucky - you might get to someday.

That’s where I found myself as the bunker door slammed shut behind me – gracelessly picking myself up off the floor under the hungry gaze of eight combat dolls. They waited a moment, graciously permitting me to get back to my feet, and then… well, I guess the best way to describe it is to say each one started trying, in her own way, to draw me away from my host.

Not a word was spoken, but carnal offers were made, and one or two dolls began to creep toward me as if stalking prey – and then suddenly they all froze at once. I couldn’t receive dollchat yet, so I didn’t know what Victoria said to them - and even now she just giggles when I ask! - but whatever it was, it was enough to convince the other eight dolls not to steal her guest away.

I spent that night in her bunk. I didn't do a lot of actual sleeping, of course, but the moments I did get... having a combat doll holding me close and murmuring sweet reassurances in my ear was maybe the safest I'd ever felt in my whole life. To be told I'm safe now, that the squad will look out for me, that I'm theirs forever…

12.

I hardly ever left the bunker after that. I would have never left, if I’d had the option, but there were still two things I was expected to handle: work and food.

I was still a member of Victoria’s maintenance crew, expected to be present for those duties, and since the necessary hardware was in the maintenance bay, that was where I had to be too. My first duty shift after being taken to the bunker, I’d hesitated – I was even more uncertain about showing my face around the rest of the crew now, after all! Victoria had just returned from a mission, so she would be waiting for me there, but I still had to get from the bunker to the maintenance bay on my own…

Before I figured it out myself, one of the other dolls took pity on me. She took my hand in hers, as if I was a child, and led me to the maintenance bay herself. It was permitted - after all, she was being escorted by maintenance staff - and nobody dared to say she couldn’t stand by while we Victoria received her post- mission diagnostics and I received an entirely different kind of post-mission attention.

I’m not sure if the crew ever appreciated just how much lighter on them she was when I was around, you know? I don’t know if they even noticed, or if they were too busy hating me. It didn’t matter, though – when we were done, Victoria and the other doll walked me back to the bunker, hand in hand, as if they were concerned I’d stray – or flee, perhaps, but there was already no chance of that.

If any of you ever get invited to a bunker, be aware: there’s nothing for you to eat. There is food for the dolls, although it’s terribly bland, but those meals are measured out to the last bite. Even once the whole squad had fully accepted me as their own, they still didn’t have anything to give me – every bite of food for me was one less for them, and dolls are always hungry.

The only way for me to get food would be to get it from the kitchens myself. I’d have to brave the hallways solo, avoiding any other staff, and throw myself on the cook’s mercy in the hopes that they’d be willing to let me take something back with them – and I’d have to do it two or three times a day! It’d be absolutely miserable, right?

As it turned out, that was practically a nonissue. The kitchen staff recognized me on sight - word spreads quickly, especially when you’re escorted to the bunker by two dolls! - and realized that we could solve each other’s problems: I needed food, and they didn’t want to interact with the dolls. If I could come out of the bunker to receive each day’s rations, rather than the staff needing to hand-deliver it directly to the dolls, they’d be more than happy to throw in each day’s worth of meals for me! Teamwork and problem-solving, that’s what we’re trained for, right?

13.

With food resolved and my duties sorted out… well, one day started to blur into the next. There are no windows in a doll bunker, after all -- there’s no sense of time unless you’ve got a chronometer built in, and I sure didn’t. I slept when they let me, I did as I was told, and every time the rations were delivered I felt a little more like I was walking through a dream.

The kitchen staff stopped looking straight at me, eventually. It wasn’t that they were afraid of me - I was no doll, no battlefield predator - but something about me unsettled them. Maybe my body language had changed – after all, I’d been spending more time around dolls than humans, even I could tell that I was picking up their mannerisms, that I was absorbing the way they spoke and moved and held their bodies.

Or maybe it was something else. Maybe there was something in my eyes. I had prostrated myself before the squad and worshipped them for the goddesses they were. I had licked blood from a doll’s body without ever stopping to wonder who it had belonged to. I had given myself to them over and over, even after my stamina was exhausted and I could do little more than accept their desires.

They had made me theirs - with pleasure and pain, with fear and adoration - but they decided I was ready for more.

14.

I’d tell you it was a day like any other, but I don’t even know if it was a day. It was just another moment in the bunker, a moment of laying on a bare concrete floor, my limbs tangled with giggling dolls who simply couldn’t bear to let their plaything go… and then it wasn’t.

They hauled me up off the floor and pushed my back against the wall, one on each side of me, and the rest of the squad parted as Victoria approached, as the doll who’d claimed me first stood over me once more.

“You’ve been fun,” she told me, “but you can be better. We want you to be better. Don’t you want to be better for us?”

Even after all the time I’d spent with them, I still hesitated. I knew what they meant, and I had learned exactly what it entailed. The surgery, the conditioning, the experience of not being human anymore – but wasn’t I already seen as no longer human?

Victoria saw that hesitation, she saw the fear in my eyes, and stroked my head like a pet. She promised me she’d stay by my side the whole time… and she promised to do my conditioning herself.

How could I say no to that?

15.

The surgeons broke me. There’s no way to sugarcoat that. Even without all the modifications combat dolls get, having an arrhythmia control device implanted in your chest without any anesthetic is simply more than any human can bear and stay sane – so I didn’t. I screamed, I struggled and I let myself fall apart.

Victoria put me back together. She reminded me how much I liked being helpful, and how much I enjoyed being useful. She dug up my memories of how much I loved each and every member of the squad, and she made those memories into the core of my personality so I could never, ever forget again. As for the rest of my memories… well, I told you this whole story, didn't I? But everything before the dolls took me in feels distant, removed from me, as if they're someone else's memories instead of my own. It's better that way – I have a whole new life and a whole new family to love.

Speaking of which, Victoria had a surprise for me once I'd recovered, a way of celebrating me as the newest part of their family. One at a time, each doll got up on one of the bunks like it was a makeshift stage and delivered maudlin, overdramatic speeches about the person they imagined I had been before, and we all giggled along together.

In the end, it was my funeral after all.

16.

There you have it, that's the whole story. That's how I went from being just like you to being who I am now. Your instructor wanted me to share it as a warning, a cautionary tale, and I'm sure for most of you it is. But for one or two of you, if it appeals–

Yes, sir?

Understood, sir.

Thank you for your time, everyone! May fate preserve us! Good luck on your quals!

#empty spaces #09bdc9 #combat doll #dollposting

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theold-ultraviolence · 1 year

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Could you do what Aemond would be like reacting to y/n almost dying after giving birth to his daughter, but after a long fainting spell she manages to recover?

I really like your headcanons <3

Thank you so much for requesting and your interest in my oc's for Aemond's children!! Hope you don't mind I'm centering this around Elaena (the eldest). Also, thank you so much for your patience, I know this took me so long!! Words: 900. CW: dad!Aemond, pregnant!reader, little bit of angst, mentions of childbirth difficulties. Set in my 'Aemond's children' au. (but you don't have to read any of my rambles or hcs to understand this)

The Warrior Princess (drabble) • Aemond Targaryen x reader

When Aemond is high up in the skies with Vhagar, sometimes his ears start ringing because of the altitude, and his heartbeat accelerates in a way that makes him scared that his body won’t resist and he’ll end up falling from the safety of the dragon’s saddle.

It’s the exact way he’s feeling at this moment, only he isn’t on dragonback, now a familiar thrill. He’s kneeling by your side as you give birth to your first child. A moment he always imagined to be blissful, despite the conventional nervousness of the meeting of your baby, of knowing the gender of the newest heir of the Targaryen bloodline.

Instead, his heart feels as though it’s being twisted with an iron first inside his chest as you squeeze his hand and let out continuous guttural screams. There’s a brutality in childbirth he can compare to a battlefield, only worse.

Because your body hasn’t been trained to endure battle. It’s easier to protect yourself with armor and a shield. There is no escaping the searing pain that’s coming from within you and he feels so helpless.

He peppers sweet kisses to your forehead, brushes your drenched hair away from your face and neck, and cleans up the sweat dripping from your chest with a cloth – even if the midwives assisting the Maester insisted he leaves such tasks to them.

If anyone was going to offer you comfort it was him. He had sworn to you he was going to be with you all throughout the birth, unlike his ancestors before him, who waited patiently in the comfort of a faraway room – distanced from the blood and tears and guttural wails from their wives as they fought for their lives to bring heirs to the Kingdom.

There’s this lapse, amidst your cries, where you turn to look at him, and his blood turns cold.

His heart drops to his stomach and white noise engulfs the room.

Your gaze is drooping, unable to focus on his face as you slur, “I don’t think I can do this…”

“No, no, no, absolutely not. You can, dear love. You’re the strongest person I know, strongest of all the Seven Kingdoms.” He murmurs with conviction, fiercely gripping your hand – panicking when your hand feels languid in his, your head dropping to the side.

He calls for you desperately, growling and squeezing your cheek to wake you up.

It’s the stuff of his worst nightmares.

Your skin is cold and clammy, your beautiful eyes closed with a certain finality.

He turns to the Maester with fury blazing in his eye.

The Maester quickly leans into your frame to check for your pulse and visibly relaxes. “Your lady wife is alright, Prince Aemond. She’s just fainted. But we need to proceed quickly or the child will be endangered.”

Suddenly he’s being ushered out of his spot beside you, as the midwives who assist the Maester crowd around you to bring you back to consciousness.

He’s going to collapse, he’s certain.

It’s a moment that lasts mere seconds – and in that rush of time, the worst images flood through Aemond’s mind.

He cannot deal with a life without you, he’d rather die.

This he repeats over and over until his intrusive thoughts are cut by a loud gasp as you wake up in great need of air.

Aemond’s ears ring again, and the whole room spins.

He hears the ruckus of the birthing room all distorted and remote as if he’s underwater.

He staggers to reclaim his position behind you, taking your hand once more, even if his grip is weaker than before. He cannot compare his pain to your own, but still, he’s feeling delirious.

Time moves in slow-motion, as he turns to look towards the Maester kneeling in between your legs, declaring, “Dear lady, we’re nearly there. Just one more push!”

You arch back with a jarring scream as you make one last attempt to push – when suddenly, your screams intermingle with the high-pitch wails of your baby.

“A girl, your majesty.” The Maester announces, “From the fight that this little one put her mother through, it seems as though you’ve given birth to a warrior princess.”

The babe is cleaned up and swaddled with nothing but the softest, finest of linens before she’s handed down to Aemond – whose arms shake with a mixture of relief and happiness as he welcomes his daughter into the world.

Aemond smiles down at the chubby little angel with silvery hair and a flushed face, leaning down so that you could see your daughter.

“My darling girl…” your voice is hoarse, and you look ready to slip into an unbothered sleep for all the moons to come. Still, you smile tiredly before blessing your daughter with her name. “Elaena…”

“Our warrior princess." Aemond strokes her soft cheek, heart swooning over the sensation of skin as soft as silk. "I’ve got a feeling her arrival is a preamble of what awaits us as she grows. A feisty little lady she’ll be,” Aemond fondly murmurs, relief washing over him once he sees you calm at last.

You nod, before falling asleep once you’ve been cleansed and accommodated into clean sheets.

Aemond can finally ease, as the worst passes, and none of his biggest fears had come through. He thanks The Seven as he rocks his baby in his arms, sitting by the fire as you sleep. Praying that if the Gods have truly blessed him with a warrior of his own, that she’ll be great and fearless, always protected in her fights.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #dad!aemond #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen drabble #aemond targaryen blurb #reader insert #fanfiction #drabbles #my writing #ewan mitchell #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond's children

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ellecdc · 2 months

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What about the kids (CBBH) seeing the ‘mudblood’ scar on Vix arm for the first time, and then the kids, specially Draco, trying to comfort her.

James and Sirius feeling guilty again because (James) “abandoned” her (no he didn’t) and (Sirius) cause he couldn’t protect her

Thank you so much, feel free to ignore it if you want to, but thank you anyway

Take care and don’t forget to drink water❤️

Ps: I love everything you write, thank you so much for providing us those precious chapters

*Takes a big ol' sip of water* *Cracks knuckles* *types furiously*

I LOVE these kinds of requests...I love diving deeper into the relationships and the histories further than what CBBH covered, so thank you for giving me the opportunity to write this! 🫶

CBBH Sirius Black x Vix!reader CW: hurt/comfort, discussions of war, PTSD, trauma, guilt, reference to death of a loved one, children, spoiler alerts if you haven't finished CBBH

The Mind Forgets but the Heart Doesn't

It had been a really trying week.

Percy and the Twins had gotten into it during class one day this week at Potter Manor, and though James and Molly did what they could to placate the situation when it happened, it seemed to bleed out into the other kids as well.

Harry and Draco didn’t seem to be able to agree on anything at all anymore, Jasmine felt the need to play mediator to their squabbles which just aggravated everyone further, and Aurora was far too sensitive for her own good and took everything anyone said personally.

The adults didn’t seem to be fairing much better either.

You and Lily were expecting at the same time. It was very funny when Lily & James went to announce that they were expecting only to have Y/N & Sirius laugh and say ‘same’. Remus never stopped joking that the family would finally have a ‘set of twins’.

Lily stopped taking the jokes so well as her pregnancy progressed, however.

“This is absolutely, without a doubt, the last one Potter!” She screeched as she excused herself from the dinner table for the sixth time to pee.

You were such a trooper, but Sirius knew that this pregnancy was taking far more out of you both emotionally and physically than your last one had.

The part that hurt (everyone) the most, was that your brain still associated pain and discomfort with your trauma from the war, and the wounds felt far more fresh lately than they had in a long time.

This left both James and Sirius feeling horribly guilty – James for having left you on the battlefield, and Sirius both for being the cause of your current discomfort and for the months during the war that he spent wallowing when he should have been fighting for you.

Sirius would wake up in the middle of the night and reach for you to find the bed empty. He’d go to check both Aurora and Draco’s room’s first before moving on to the rest of the house.

One particularly upsetting night he found you hiding in the shower after you had a distressing and disturbingly realistic nightmare.

But usually, he found you in the kitchens.

“What are you doing up, my love?” He spoke quietly into the room.

You must have heard him coming because you never even turned your head from where you were sitting; you just offered him a quiet hum in response as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and nuzzled his face into your neck.

His hands would migrate lower to what was usually the reason for your midnight wanders.

“Little one hungry?”

You were quiet for a moment, clearly far away from Potter Manor, before you responded.

“There were times I was only ever able to eat at night... when someone could sneak something to me or I could sneak to the kitchens. But sometimes, now, I wake up a little hungry – and my heart tells me that this is going to be my only chance, and I have to make it count. I tell myself it’s not true but... the anxiety doesn’t go away until I do something about it.”

Sure enough, in front of you on the table was a half-eaten granola bar; evidence of your late-night forage for food.

“What was it that Lily said about those muggle dementia patients?” Sirius asked you as he rubbed up and down your arms.

“The mind forgets but the heart doesn’t.” You responded quietly.

Sirius hummed into your hair as he pressed his lips to the top of your head.

“You’ve done so much work, love. But I don’t think you’ll ever be able to convince your heart to let it go – not fully.”

You sighed miserably, suddenly sounding very close to tears.

“Please be patient with yourself.” He pleaded.

“I’m trying.” You whispered wetly.

“I know, baby. I know.”

This was why the following morning at the breakfast table when Harry – seemingly out of nowhere – asked what a “mudblood” was, the room fell painfully silent.

The adults all seemed to share horrified glances before Regulus spoke up.

“Where did you hear that word, Harry?”

Harry, slightly ashamed now that he seemed to have sucked the air out of the room, looked at you and motioned towards your arm.

Sure enough, as you had reached across the table to pass Remus the plate of bacon, your sleeve had ridden up and your scar was on full display.

Why’d we teach these ankle biters to read? Sirius wondered to himself.

To Sirius’ absolute horror, you seemed to completely shut down. You hastily pulled your sleeve down and moved your arms into your lap, and your eyes turned foggy.

“Please don’t occlude baby, stay with us.” Sirius begged quietly as he began to rub your arm.

“Haz, when you and Draco were very little, there was a war – do you remember me and daddy telling you about it?” Lily started cautiously.

“Uh huh, when the bad guy hated people who were different and stole Auntie Vix?”

James grimaced before confirming. “Yes, and how Uncle Reggie and Draco’s mummy Narcissa helped her escape and then defeat the bad guy.”

“Well, the bad guy and his friends did hate people who were different than them. Mostly, they hated non-magical people,” Lily continued.

“Called muggles.” Harry interjected proudly.

“Right, he hated muggles. And he hated muggle-born witches and wizards as well.” James finished.

“But...mummy and Aunt Lily are muggle-born...” Draco added quietly from his place.

James nodded. “That’s right. And because they hated them, they made up a bad word to call muggle-born’s.”

“That’s what mudblood is, Harry. It’s a bad word to call a muggle-born witch or wizard.” Regulus spoke softly.

Jasmine gasped. “Mum! Did Harry say a bad word!?”

“I was only asking a question!” Harry screeched in his own defence.

“But... why is the bad word on your arm?” Draco asked quietly, looking at you.

Your son addressing you directly seemed to pull you out of yourself a little as you offered him a sad smile. “Well, when the bad guy stole me, I wouldn’t tell him what they wanted to know.”

“What did the bad guy want to know?” Jasmine asked curiously.

Harry elbowed his sister for interrupting, which earned him a whack on the head in return, which caused Remus to switch seats with his niece in an effort to keep the peace.

“They wanted to know where your mummy and daddy and Harry were. They also wanted to know where Pads and Moony and everyone else in the Order were.”

“Like the Weasley’s!?” Harry asked in horror, as news of your best friend potentially being on some maniac’s hitlist would do to an almost nine-year-old, even though said maniac was already after him and his entire family.

“But you wouldn’t tell them.” Jasmine stated solemnly.

You nodded at your niece. “That’s right.”

“But why was my mum and Uncle Reggie there?” Draco asked.

You and Sirius both grimaced as you looked to Regulus, whose jaw seemed more tense than usual.

“Our family comes from a long line of very bad people, Draco. The Black’s...mine and your dad’s family, as well as your mums, were not kind to people who were different from them. They supported the bad guy during the war, I-”

“But dad didn’t support the bad guy...and he’s a Black.” Draco interrupted as he turned to look at his father pleadingly.

Sirius smiled softly at the boy. “Yes, but you see, Draco, I had friends like Uncle Prongs and Uncle Moony, and your mum here, who taught me that it was okay to be different. And Uncle Prongs’ family also gave me a place to go when I no longer agreed or felt safe with my family. Uncle Reggie didn’t have the same kind of friends.”

“Your friends were bad guys?” Harry asked plainly.

“Yes.” Regulus answered just as plainly.

“So...my family was...bad?” Draco asked quietly, looking between you, Sirius, and Regulus.

“Not all of them baby, not Uncle Reggie, and not your mum.” You tried to placate, but Draco didn’t bite.

“But they were there! Supporting the bad guy! That makes them bad!” He insisted.

“No, it made us cowards.” Regulus corrected the boy. “I was too afraid to ask your dad or his friends for help, even though I knew that Sirius would take me in if I asked him to. And your mum did what was expected of her, Draco. Your mum believed marrying your dad and having you was the right thing to do.”

“Draco,” you said quietly as the boy tried to fight back tears. “If your mum and Uncle Reggie hadn’t been there, I would not be alive today. And quite frankly, I think that could be the same for a lot of us in this room. They saved us, baby. Your mummy saved you. There’s nothing bad about that.”

Draco still seemed perturbed by this but looked back down to your now hidden scar.

“But someone...hurt you? With that word? Was it my family?”

You shared a look with Sirius who offered you a small nod before you answered. “It was. It was your aunt...your mum’s sister.”

Draco seemed distraught at the news; his mouth turned down miserably and his eyes filled with tears. “My family was bad.”

“Dad, was my family bad!?” Harry asked severely.

“Haz, hang on, okay bubs?” James asked quietly.

“That’s right Draco, your family was bad.” You said.

Every head – child and adult alike – whipped to face you.

“They were bad people...but they’re not anymore. Your family is the people in this room, and your mum who died protecting you. You have Uncle Reggie, who was so brave to save me and to turn against the bad guy he was supposed to be loyal to. You have Uncle Moony, who despite doing very hard things every month, doesn’t ask anything of anyone and gives so much of himself to the people he loves. And you have Uncle Prongs and Aunt Lily, who helped us raise you when daddy and I had no idea what we were doing. And you have Haz, and Jazzy, and Rory and two new siblings coming soon. That’s your family, Draco, and they’re not bad at all.”

Draco scanned the room of all the people he loved the most as a few tears fell, and Sirius was quick to catch them with his finger from his place beside him.

“I’m sorry the bad guys hurt you, mummy. I wish they hadn’t.” He offered finally.

“Oh! I know!” Aurora piped up out of nowhere (Sirius actually sort of forgot his own daughter was present at the breakfast table) and quickly stood from her seat to hurry away.

Before the adults had time to ponder where the child had gone, she reappeared beside her mum with the first aid kit from one of the loos and her toy Mediwitch Kit.

“Okay, mummy. Show Healer Ro where it hurts.” She demanded you in her most authoritative tone, which still sounded far too much like Alvin the Chipmunk to be taken at all seriously.

Sirius grinned down at his girl and pulled her up into his lap (for better access, of course) as you pulled your sleeve up on your arm to expose your scar.

Aurora tapped a fake wand to the injury and held a stethoscope to her ear. “It sounds good mummy; means you’ll be fine.”

“Oh, good.” You sighed in faux relief, failing to bite back the proud smile adorning your face.

“Yup, now just needs plasters. I have some golden snitches, unicorns, or bowtruckles, mummy. Which would you like?”

“I think she ought to have some of each, Ro.” Harry interjected from across the room.

“Quite right, Haz. Healer Ro, could you use some assistance with the plasters?” Sirius asked like a spokesman on a game show.

“Yes sir!” She answered, and each kid took turns applying plasters to your scar and kissing it better.

“Looks better already!” Jasmine cheered after their work was complete.

“Hmmmm...I don’t know...” Sirius said skeptically. “Could use a few more kisses I think.” Before he attacked you with kisses, and the kids followed in suit shortly after.

@ttulipwritezz

#marauder fanfiction #marauders era #marauders au #marauders come back be here #marauders fanfiction #sirius black x reader #reader insert #self insert #sirius black #padvix #jily #marauders fix it #sirius black x you

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daisynik7 · 7 months

Text

Iris

And I don't want the world to see me, ‘cause I don't think that they'd understand. When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x f!reader

Rating: Mature – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~4.5k (I went way over than I was supposed to, lol)

cw: switching POVs (2nd person reader, 3rd person Eren), canon-universe, VERY canon-divergent, consider this a what-if scenario, major AOT spoilers up to season 4, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, smut – PIV sex (cowgirl position), fingering

Summary: At the Battle of Fort Slava, Eren Jaeger, hell-bent on launching his ultimate attack on Marley, injures himself to pose as a wounded soldier, granting him admittance to the hospital to finalize his plans. You, an Eldian volunteer working at the hospital, start treating this new patient, nervous about his mysterious demeanor. Eventually, you learn that you have much more in common with each other than you think.

Author’s Note: Thank you @ichinosejager13 for your second request for the y2k karaoke party! I did something totally different this time; I wrote a fic set in the canon universe. I thought it fit well with this song, so I hope you like it! While it’s set in the canon universe, it is very obviously canon divergent, so please remember I took a lot of liberties with this. I am in no way suggesting that any of this is what I wish happened in canon. I just think it was an interesting idea to write. Also, I understand that this will seem very out-of-character for Eren, but let’s just roll with it because it's all in good fun, lol.

Like, reblogs, and/or comments are ALWAYS appreciated! Thank you for reading! MDNI banner by @/cafekitsune.

Fort Slava, huddled in the trenches. Blade through his leg, bullet in his eye. This is the last vivid memory Eren can recall as he stands in line outside the hospital, waiting to be admitted. Some asshole Marleyan imitates explosion sounds, causing all of those around him to fall to the ground, cowering in fear. They suffer trauma from the battlefield, and even Eren, with a clear conscious now, is affected by it. A kid, another Eldian dawning the same yellow armband as he is, steps towards them, kneeling down to help them up. He even assists Eren, correcting his armband to his left arm instead of the right. Luckily, it goes unnoticed by everyone else, which is exactly what he wants.

It's all part of his plan; the attack on Marley. It’s been in the works for months now, starting with his infiltration of the army, fighting alongside Marleyans and Eldians alike. He thought he’d have better clarity of the situation, maybe get convinced to call the whole thing off after bonding with other solders through the tragedies of violence and war. Unfortunately, it’s only made him realize how much more he needs to follow through with it. Nothing will ever change in this cruel world unless he’s the one to do it.

There are days when he gets cold feet. He’s tempted to re-evaluate, find a way back to his home of Paradis, reunite with his friends, devise a better plan and figure it out together. But in all the futures Eren can see, his current plan is the only one that will work. The only one that will grant him the freedom he’s been chasing his entire life.

The process is slow to get a room in the hospital. Luck remains on Eren’s side when he’s assigned a private room. It’s barren; a single-bed, just long enough to accommodate his stature, withered sheets and rusted iron on the frame. There’s a small nightstand beside it with two drawers to hide his belongings, which is essentially nothing, and atop is a small lamp, illuminating the room in a dreary glow. It’s not luxurious, but it’s enough for the time-being. Because that’s all Eren needs right now: time.

Eventually, Zeke will find him. They’ve been contacting each other for a while now, and Eren has a firm grasp on what his older brother is trying to convince him to do with the Founder’s power. While he doesn’t agree with his idea to euthanize the entire race of Eldians, Eren needs to entertain it long enough to manipulate Zeke into letting him use his royal blood.

It's all convoluted and fucked up, he’s aware of that. Somedays, he wishes he could escape this curse without doing anything at all. That one day, he’d be gone from this world, liberated from his Titan power, saved from this burdened life. This isn’t what he imagined while reading all those books he and Armin would marvel at as kids. This isn’t the freedom he was hoping for.

He rests in his pathetic, yet oddly comforting bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. His leg and eye are still wrapped in bandages, so a nurse should be coming soon to check on him. There’s a faint commotion out in the hallway, but Eren is too lazy and too uninterested to investigate. Soon, it subsides, and the door swings open, revealing a women around his age, wearing a nurses uniform and the yellow Eldian patch on her left arm. He recognizes the attire from battle; the army had a few nurses stationed at the fort for casualties.

“Mr. Kruger?” she asks.

It takes him a second to remember the alias he decided to use. He confirms it, nodding his head silently.

She gives him a warm smile, introducing herself. “I’ll be helping you from now on.”

~~~

You started working at the hospital a few months ago. For Eldians, it’s nearly impossible to be accepted into higher education, so nursing school was never an option. With opportunities so scarce, your best bet was to apply for a volunteer position at the hospital in hopes of using that as a steppingstone for an actual paying job. You don’t expect a promotion any time soon, not even in the near future, but at least you’re spending your time helping others.

While it’s rewarding, it isn’t glamorous or pretty in the slightest bit. Because you lack the proper education, your tasks mostly include bathing, feeding, cleaning up any accidents or messes. Occasionally, if your patient is open to it, you spend time with them chatting, doing activities with them, listening to their stories. This is rare, though. Most that are admitted are Marleyans who refuse to speak to you because of your status. Some are even reluctant to have you help them in the first place. The Eldians, sadly, are usually too traumatized to open up, so you do your best to make them comfortable however you can.

When you meet your newest patient, Eren Kruger, you don’t expect him to be any different from the rest. You are, however, surprised at how young he is; he can’t be any older than you, judging by his appearance. His records show nothing except for his name and his status as an Eldian, which isn’t unusual, so you don’t think much of it. “Mr. Kruger, I know you must be hungry,” you start. “Lunch will be arriving soon. If you need assistance, I’ll be here to help you.”

He acknowledges you with another curt nod, remaining silent. You can’t help but notice how brilliantly green his eyes are. Have you ever seen irises like his before? You let the inappropriate thought vanish quickly before you ask, “Would you like me to bathe you now or after you eat?”

At this, his brows tighten. “Bathe?”

“Yes, Mr. Kruger. We can bathe you before or after lunch, it’s up to you – ”

“I don’t want to bathe,” he says, avoiding your gaze.

You blink at him, unsure how to respond. “Surely you must want to be clean – ”

He interrupts you again, muttering, “How can I, when I’m like this?”

You understand his hesitation now, not needing further explanation. Sometimes, patients with missing limbs have expressed concern submerging themselves in a tub full of water, not wanting to get their bandages wet. Quickly, you clarify, “It would be a sponge bath. We can do that while you’re lying in bed, actually. And your bandages will stay intact.”

This seems to be the answer he’s looking for. His expression relaxes when he says, “After. I want to do it after I eat.”

You smile softly at him, noting it on your checkboard. “Understand. I’ll go check on your meal now. Is there anything else you need from me?”

A beat passes before he replies, “Pen and paper. For letters.”

You write it, reminding yourself to bring it when you return with his meal. “Got it.”

A few minutes later, you return with a tray of food along with a wad of paper and two pens. You set it on his nightstand beside him, waiting for him to move it. When he doesn’t, staying still, staring blankly at the foot of the bed, you clear your throat. “Mr. Kruger?”

“I’m not hungry,” he murmurs.

“But you haven’t eaten all day. You need nourishment if you’re going to get any better.”

“And who says I want to get better?” He glares at you, startled by the intensity in his gaze.

You swallow hard, nervous, but still resilient. “You have to eat. You owe it to yourself after what you’ve been through.”

“And how would you know what I’ve been through?” His voice is steady, a hint of venom, barely enough to sting. But you’re determined. You sit at the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him. Reaching for the tray, you set it down on your lap, sighing. “I don’t know. I have no idea what war is like out there. All I know is that it’s not great for us here. At least out there, you’re fighting together as a unit. Marleyan, Eldian, it doesn’t matter. You’re working to defeat our enemy. And who knows? If we ever win the war, maybe life will be better for us here.” You shove the tray towards him, glaring back at him. “So the least you could do is try to see it through and survive, right?”

He studies you carefully, contemplating how to respond. Glancing at the tray in front of him, he smirks, scooping a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. You ease up, tension releasing from your shoulders.

After a few more bites, he speaks. “Who do you think the enemy is?”

Just when you thought you were in the clear, he asks you another question. “It was the Mid-East Allies. That’s who you fought at Fort Slava.”

“But who do you think the real enemy is?” He’s finished with his potatoes, now moving on to his meatloaf.

“Well, I suppose it’s whoever the government says it is.” You’re unsure what kind of answer he’s searching for.

“And if they say that we’re the enemy, then what?” He points between you, leaving you confused.

“We…?”

“Eldians. Devils.”

“No, no. The Devils are on the island. We’re…we’re not like them.”

“Are you sure?” He stuffs the rest of the meat into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it all down. “What makes you think you’re any better here than you are there?”

Your face feels hot now, and you start to stammer. “Because…because that’s what we were told. We’re on the right side. They’re on the wrong.”

His plate is nearly clean now. He slides his fingers on the remnants, licking it off before chugging half a glass of water. “What if I told you there’s a place for people like us? A place where you wouldn’t have to walk around with an armband. A place where you were treated fairly. Would you want to go to a place like that?”

You feel yourself drawn in by his words. The idea of it sounds impossible. Ever since you were born, you were taught to know your place in this world. That place was here in Marley, destined to be a second-class citizen. You were told that the island across the sea was full of devils like you, but because you’re here, you’re better. You can’t deny that you’ve been curious what life is like out there. All this time, you thought it must be worst, secluded on an island, hated by the rest of the world.

But is this life any better? Secluded in your own community and still hated by the rest of the world?

You pick the tray up from his lap, muttering, “I’ll go get your sponge bath ready.”

He doesn’t add anything else, watching you silently. You walk towards the door, ready to leave. Before you do, you say, “And to answer your question: I would.”

~~~

It was supposed to be innocent banter, that’s what Eren intended. He figured he could chalk it up to the trauma speaking for him, that she wouldn’t even be remotely interested in what he had to say. He thought she’d be like all the other naïve, brainwashed Eldians, ignorantly believing everything that was told to them. He realizes soon enough that he was wrong to underestimate her.

She comes to him every day, fulfilling her volunteer duties. Their daily routine begins with breakfast, then a morning stroll in his wheelchair out in the courtyard. Sometimes they’ll play chess at one of the tables, sometimes it’s checkers. Lunchtime comes, and then it’s time for a bath, one of Eren’s favorite parts of the day. Her hands are always gentle, gliding along his skin with a damp sponge. They’ll do another stroll outside, this time on his crutches, where he practices how to walk. Dinner arrives when it’s already dark out, and occasionally, he’ll ask her to read the latest news from the paper.

While all this happens, they talk. They talk a lot.

As expected, she figures out that Eren is from Paradis, though he bends the truth about his true intentions for being here. She doesn’t know about his Titan powers, thinking he’s a refugee seeking sanctuary here. Surprisingly, she isn’t offended about it; in fact, she’s curious. They spend most of their time together sharing stories of their childhood. Eren describes life in Paradis, she describes life in Marley. While there are stark differences between their upbringings, there are also blatant similarities. And together, they come to the gut-wrenching conclusion: Eldians are terrorized wherever they are, whether it’s here, or across the sea.

Eren has only sent one letter in the past two weeks, and that was to his friends back home, informing them that he is in Marley, safe and sound. He doesn’t disclose his plan to them yet. In all honestly, he’s not sure what the plan is anymore. Zeke still hasn’t found him, nor has Eren gone out of his way to be found. What Eren does know is that he enjoys spending time with the woman who helps him. So much that he’s losing grip on what he’s supposed to be doing here. He has to do something soon.

It comes to a head one night, three weeks after he was admitted to the hospital. Eren requests for another sponge bath after dinner; it was a hot day and he worked up a sweat during their afternoon walk. She helps him strip his shirt off, starting with the wet, warm sponge at his chest, massaging small circles onto his sticky skin. He watches her carefully, noticing her eyes lingering on his body more so than usual.

He speaks softly into her ear, leaning in close. “I have something to tell you.”

She continues above his waist, hands gently scrubbing, not bothering to look at him when she responds. “What is it, Eren?”

He’s thought about this all day. The plan. “Would you like to visit Paradis?”

This time, she does look at him, confused. “What?”

Louder now, and more confident, he says, “Come to Paradis with me. See what it’s like there.”

She scoffs. “I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is my home.”

“They treat you like nothing here,” he argues. “At Paradis, you’re somebody. We can be safe at Paradis.”

She stops, tossing the sponge into the bucket of water beside her, frustrated. “Safe? After everything you’ve told me? You said it yourself; you’ve been terrorized by Titans since you were a kid. Every nation in the world wants Paradis gone. How can it be safe?”

He swallows thickly, gripping her hand delicately in his. “I can’t explain everything right now, but I have a plan. We have a plan.” He recalls one of the last memories he has of Armin, his brilliant friend, suggesting a small-scale Rumbling, enough to scare the rest of the world from attacking Paradis for centuries. He dismissed it quickly then, but now, he considers it. Could this be their best option? Instead of the billions of casualties Eren had originally devised? “You just have to trust me for now. Once we’re there, I can explain everything.”

She stares at him, clearly in shock from his suggestion. He doesn’t blame her. Eren is asking her to give up everything she knows.

“Eren,” she starts, squeezing his hand tighter. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

He smiles at her, brushing his thumb across her knuckles delicately. “I understand. I know it’s a big ask, and I shouldn’t have expected you to say yes. I just…I just think I know what I can do for Paradis to make it safe for people like us. Somewhere we can be ourselves, where people will know us for who we are, and not for what they see on our armbands.”

“It sounds like paradise,” she says quietly.

“It does. And I think I could make it that way. I know I can.”

She sighs, retrieving the sponge again. “I want to believe you, Eren. But I don’t think I can throw away my life for something I’m unsure of.” She starts to slide his pants off, ready to wash below his waist.

“Please, just consider it. I plan to leave soon, within the next few days. I just have to send out a letter tomorrow, and I should be ready to go.”

“You’re leaving? Already?”

“I know what I have to do now. I can’t waste any more time when we can end this war now.”

She peers at him, tears welling in her eyes. “I…”

“What is it?” He sits up, leaning in close to cup her cheek, brushing away her falling tears.

“Will we ever see each other again?” Her voice is trembling, lips quivering. His heart sinks into his stomach, seeing her like this.

He presses his forehead to hers. “I’ll find you when this is all over. I promise you. Whatever you do, don’t go anywhere near the shore, okay?” The small-scale Rumbling should only affect the fleets, which will be in the middle of the ocean, far from the shore. Still, he can’t risk anything happening to her. Not when he isn’t there to protect her.

She nods, not asking for any further explanation. He presses a small kiss to her forehead. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring us peace.”

~~~

Eren asks you to drop off a letter in the mailbox, addressed to someone named Azumabito. Apparently, she is an ally to Eldians who is stationed here in Marley, so she can arrange a ship for him to head back home.

There are still so many questions left unanswered, though you decide not to ask them. Maybe it’s foolish to trust someone you’ve only known for a month. But Eren has given you more truth about this harsh world that anyone else the entire time you’ve been here. And he’s the only one who’s ever promised you a better life.

Two days after you mailed the letters, you receive a response. It’s addressed to you, though you’re sure it’s meant for Eren. There’s a fancy insignia stamped to one corner of the envelope: a circle with a triangle in the center, formed by samurai swords. You keep it safe in your pocket as you head for the kitchen, ready to deliver Eren’s dinner.

He reads it when he’s finished with his meal. You watch as he scans the letter carefully, mouthing a few words under his breath. When he reaches the end, he looks up at you, a small grin on his face. “She’s arranged a ship for tomorrow morning, before sunrise.”

You gasp, surprised at how soon his departure is. “Tomorrow?”

He nods, folding the letter and tucking it beneath his pillow.

You let out a deep breath, unsure what else to say. Noticing your quiet demeanor, he reaches for your hand to hold it. “I know this is happening so fast. But I’ve never been more certain about what I need to do until now.” He interlocks his fingers with yours, smiling. “And you helped me with that.”

“Me? How?”

“By being you. By giving me a chance to explain myself. Even when you found out I was from Paradis, you didn’t judge me. You got to know me. It showed me that there are people, good people, on this side. That even in a ruthless place like this, there is beauty to be saved.”

You don’t say anything, throat too heavy with emotion to respond. Blinking away your tears, you take his tray from his lap, walking quickly to the door. Before you can leave, he asks, “Can you please come back to help me shave?”

Without turning to face him, you nod, exiting his room, stifling your sobs on your way down the hallway. Your heart yearns for more time with him. For the past few weeks, being here has been an escape from your painful reality. You’re not seen as an Eldian, you aren’t considered a second-class citizen. With him, you’re just you.

You know that you can’t keep him caged here forever. Like a bird, he’s ready to spread his wings. He’s ready to be free. While you’re heartbroken to see him leave, you’re thrilled for him to fulfill his destiny. All you can hope is that one day, you’ll be reunited in a better place than here.

You return to his room a couple of minutes later with everything you need to give him a close shave. His facial hair has grown out quite a bit since he arrived. You lather his face with a small amount of soap, scrubbing the suds off with a warm, wet towel. He closes his eyes, indulging in your relaxing touch. After mindful preparation, you begin to shave his goatee with a straight razor, pulling his skin taut, gliding the blade carefully across his chin, cleaning it after every stroke. When you’re done with his beard, you focus your attention on his mustache, delicately moving the razor until his skin is smooth and shaven. You smile as you wipe off any remaining residue with the towel.

With everything discarded into the bucket of water set on the nightstand, you take this time to admire his face, memorizing every detail. The flutter of his lashes, the bridge of his nose, the sharpness of his jawline, the plush of his lips. It’s only now that you realize how close to him you are. You’re kneeling beside him on the bed, noses almost touching, your fingers grazing his smooth skin. He opens his eyes to look at you, and his breath hitches at the intimacy, glancing at your mouth.

Before you can move, he closes the short distance, kissing you on the lips. As quickly as it happens, he pulls away, blushing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have asked first. I’m sorry – ”

You cut him off with another kiss, hungry for more. It’s his last day; in mere hours from now, he’ll be gone, and you’re not sure when you’ll see him again, if ever. It’s crossed your mind many times by now, how it would feel to be with him like this. The feeling of his lips on yours, the slide of his tongue in your mouth, the taste of his spit. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you’ve never thought about it. In fact, it’s been on your mind every night as you fall asleep, wishing you were in his arms instead of alone in your bed.

He doesn’t pull away this time, sinking in deeper, slipping inside your mouth to swirl his tongue with yours. He’s just as sweet as you fantasized he’d be, luscious and rich in your mouth. His skin is smooth against your fingertips, tracing his jawline. One hand slides around your waist, tugging you closer to him, the other wraps around the nape of your neck, holding your head steady. You swing one leg over him, straddling his lap, hoisting the hem of your dress past your hips, revealing your panties. He moans, shifting beneath you in the bed to slip his trousers down, displaying his erection bulging in his underwear.

“Is this okay?” he huffs, catching his breath. His voice wavers, his only visible eye half-lidded with arousal, unable to keep his cool.

“Yes,” you answer, grinding yourself on him, kissing him sloppily. His grip is on your hips, guiding you to rut against his cock faster. The friction between you is enough to make you wet, your slick soaking through the fabric.

“You’re an angel,” he whispers, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to make you feel good.” His thumb teases the elastic of your waistband, hand slipping inside to rub your clit against his fingers.

“Eren,” you moan, his sensual touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. He slowly slides two digits inside you, massaging your bud with his palm while he pumps his fingers into your sopping cunt. His cock is stiff beneath you, watching you ride his hand, cursing under his breath until you reach your climax, coating him in your arousal.

You’re breathing heavily, in a daze from your orgasm. He removes his hand from you, slipping it past his underwear to jerk his cock. You reach for him, tugging his bottoms down his legs, replacing his fist with yours, stroking him eagerly. He whispers your name, bucking his hips in tandem with your movements. You’re aching for more, desperate to feel him inside you, feel him deeper. You position yourself correctly, pulling the crotch of your panties to the side to tease the head of his cock up and down your folds. He sits up on his elbows, watching you with a nervous expression on his face. “Are you sure?” he asks.

You nod, smiling at him. “I’m sure. I want to be close to you, Eren.”

He swears, letting his head fall back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. You sink down on him, his dick stretching you out smoothly, still sleek from your previous orgasm. He moans, craning his neck to take in the lewd sight before him. “Oh my god,” he groans, thrusting his hips into you.

You ride him slowly, his entire length filling you up to the brim. He plants his feet into the mattress to fuck you deeper, the metal frame creaking with every thrust. It doesn’t take long until you’re both coming together. He shoots his load inside you while you gush all over him, creating a wet mess between you that you couldn’t care less about in the euphoric state you’re in. You lift off him, rolling to his side, relaxing into the pillow with him beside you, cradling you in his arms. He gives you a smooch on the cheek, nuzzling his nose with yours. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“What?”

“You really are an angel,” he says, smiling at you.

~~~

Eren wakes up alone, and he’s almost convinced that it was all a dream until he spots the small note scribbled on paper laying his nightstand.

It’s too hard to say goodbye, so I won’t. I trust you to keep your promise. We’ll see each other again soon.

With daybreak approaching, Eren leaves for the docks quickly with only the clothes on his back and letters in his pocket, including hers. With sunrise teasing the horizon, he makes it to the meeting place just in time. He recognizes Azumabito and greets her, explaining the situation as they board the ship. She informs him that they are waiting for several other passengers, so he makes himself comfortable by a window.

A few minutes pass and one of the crew approaches him. “Mr. Jaeger, there is a woman trying to board, claiming they are with you. Do you know anything about this?”

He glances out the window towards the docks and to his shock, he sees an angel with a suitcase in hand, talking to Azumabito. His heart races, overjoyed as he jumps out of his seat, sprinting out of the ship to meet her.

#eren smut #eren yeager #eren jaeger #eren jaeger smut #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x you #eren yeager smut #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager x you #aot smut #attack on titan smut #attack on titan fanfiction #eren fanfiction #y2k karaoke party #milestone event

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auspicioustidings · 5 months

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Bannockburn

Summary: Your boyfriend Johnny has come home in a strange mood, and you are about to get your shit rocked at Bannockburn.

Technically, if you squint, a sequel to Savage set just over 700 years later. Like I will perhaps write a proper sequel at some point, but you can blame Bunny for this one.

Words: 3.6k

CW: CNC, smut, implied character death

You were getting nervous. You were getting really nervous. There were two Johnny’s and you never knew what one you were getting when he came home from a mission. Most of the time you got your Johnny, sweet and loving and tackling you to the bed with a laugh while he showed you how much he missed you. But sometimes whatever happened out on mission got his blood up. Whatever he usually did to get himself settled and out of war mode didn’t take. Sometimes you got the Savage Johnny, the one who heard your English accent and became more animal than man. The one who went into such thick Scots that you hardly understood what he was growling into your ear as he took you.

Usually you knew what Johnny you had the moment he walked through the door. Not this time. This time he seemed like he was boiling with energy under the surface, but he kissed you nonetheless and ate dinner with you and held you as you slept. When he got you both up and packed into the car the next morning for a trip you had the sense to at least be a little worried. Now, hand held in his as you listened to the guide, you had some inkling that you might be in for it.

“Now King Edward the second invaded as a result of Bruce’s demand to his people to recognise him as their King. He summoned 25,000 infantry and 2000 horses, the largest ever army to invade Scotland. Bruce only had command of 6000 men.”

You could feel the blood draining from your face as the guide went further into the background of the battle. Around about the time she briefly mentioned how Wallace had been hanged, drawn and quartered, limbs displayed in different cities, just shy of ten years before the Battle of Bannockburn, you absolutely knew what Johnny you had on your hands. And this Johnny? There was nothing you could do to save yourself from this Johnny. This Johnny was taking in every word, ready to punish you for your ancestors' transgressions against his.

You were trying to pay attention, but your eyes were darting around trying to pinpoint any little nooks that might spell danger if he got you in them. Only that was dangerous in itself, because the first time you felt your attention drift from what was being said Johnny had let go of your hand and moved to instead hold you firm by the back of the neck, fingers massaging a little too hard in warning. That got you to pay rapt attention to all of it, to the whole history of the Scottish wars of Independence as it related to Bannockburn.

It was strange sometimes, you and Johnny. There were times like now when you would be learning about the history of your countries and it felt like some long forgotten memory. There were times when you met his Lieutenant and swore you knew him from somewhere. Like there was some ancient part of you that trusted them when they fought together to watch each other's backs. No matter what Johnny you got, you held such a deep love for him that it scared you sometimes. Your heart twisted as they described what the battle would have been like for the soldiers, the sights and sounds and weapons. It must have been awful.

You were stuck on it. Stuck on the image of a Johnny with a sword on the battlefield. That was your mistake, zoning out and just following along when he led you out to the grounds. Only when you had been walking for a while did you realise how far you were getting from the safety of a building full of people.

“Where are we going?”

“Dinae pay any attention at all did ye? Must naw have been interesting tae ye learning about how my people battered yours when they tried tae grind us intae nothing.”

“No, I was paying attention. Of course I was” you said, trying to be meek and quell some of his building fury.

“Couldnae even hunt a bunny without some English noble claiming it wisnae our right. Punishing us” he ranted before turning to you with a feral look in his eye. “Cannae stop me from hunting one right now though can they? Ye going tae run for me wee bunny?”

Fuck. He looked ready to tear into your throat with his teeth. You felt every bit a prey animal, eyes darting around to find a way out of this. The woods. There were woods here. That was where he had been leading you while you had been busy getting stuck on the idea of him as some ancient warrior fighting to the death. Gillies Hill. The guide had told you about it, how the Scottish had made their camp here. It was where they had attacked from.

And it was where you found yourself sprinting through, heart pounding. Your logical mind knew it was a mistake, you running only meant he could chase. You should have just stayed where you were, tried to talk him down. You were stumbling and tripping, trying to get your bearings as the woods became dense around you. Every snap of a twig or sway of a branch sent you darting away in the other direction until you were shaking from exhaustion and no small amount of mounting terror.

You had never been hunted like this. Johnny had been rough with you before in the warmth of your own home, had fucked you into the bed like he was trying to mould you permanently to him. But this was a different creature entirely. This was the monster under the surface that you only caught glimpses of, that you never thought you would meet face to face. The woods were silent of another human, had you managed to escape him?

“Yer naw even trying little bunny, ye want me tae catch ye is that it? Slut.”

His breath was hot on your ear and you choked on any response you had tried to come up with. How had he gotten right behind you without a sound? You were running again, tripping and scraping your knees but clawing your way back to your feet to keep going. The little summer dress was not suited for this, but at least you were wearing boots. At least Johnny had told you to wear boots this morning.

It was with a sickening dread that you realised he had planned this. He knew you would be running from him, knew he wanted you in a dress for easy access but boots for fleeing into the woods. At least you knew that your Johnny was still in there somewhere, enough to care about you not breaking an ankle. Not enough to care about breaking you in other ways.

“Aww wee English princess got her knees all scraped up? All yer kinfolk are going tae ken how ye love getting on them for good Scottish cock when they see the marks. Wee whore down in the dirt fucking gagging on it, crying over how much ye love it.”

You couldn’t properly tell what direction his voice was even coming from. The shame of his words was flooding you with a sickly humiliation that only increased when your body reacted differently to how it should have. When you throbbed with need for him.

“I’m not! That isn’t what’s happening!”

You were flustered and scared and needy and felt like you were yelling at nothing as you kept catching sight of him on your periphery only to turn and find nobody there.

“Naw? Slick is practically running down yer plush fucking thighs princess, bet yer clenching down on nothin’. Dinnae even have tae catch ye dae I? Could just wait until ye come crawling tae me, begging me tae claim ye. Fucking pleading for it right here, right where my army celebrated before decimating yours.”

His words sent a shiver up your spine. Out here felt removed from time, it really did feel like you were betraying something by finding yourself drawn to this savage. By imagining that his prediction would prove true, that you’d beg for him. You couldn’t, it would be too much, too shameful. So you kept stumbling through the woods even when the deep tenor of his voice rang through in a mocking little song.

God he had translated this for you once. Told you that brose and butter was a euphemism, that it was about fucking a girl full of cum. It had made you blush and laugh at the time when he playfully sang it over to you now that you understood the meaning, but now? Fuck now it just scared the hell out of you with how the words were tinged with a promise. This was hardly playful, he really meant to hold you down and shove himself inside you out here in the woods where anyone could walk by.

“We can’t! John please, not here” you pleaded, pausing to try and find where he was. “I… you were gone for months, I’ve not…”

He had made you promise before he left that you’d save yourself for him, wouldn’t even put your own fingers inside yourself while he was gone. And you hadn’t. Fuck you would be so tight now, not ready for him to take you hard. Had he known even then that this was the plan?

“Maiden are ye? Scared it’s going tae hurt, princess? It will, did they naw teach ye that we’re animals? We dinnae treat wee English lassies the way yer own men would. Ye’ll get treated the way ye should, like a fucking whore. And ye’ll take it won’t ye? Ye’ll take it wherever I want tae give it tae ye.”

Fuck, you were starting to slip away to whereever he was. You were starting to feel less like yourself and more like the poor English maiden being hunted by the enemy. The bunny being hunted by the hound. Starting to drift away into pure animal instinct, pure fear and arousal. You could hardly breathe now, feeling tears prick at your eyes.

“Please…” you sobbed quietly, not even sure what you were begging for.

And then he was there, towering over you and wrapping a hand around your throat, thumb beneath your chin to tilt your head and force you to look at him.

“Wonder whit they’d think of ye begging so pretty for the enemy. Cannae help yerself can ye?” he said, as if fascinated by you, slipping his other hand up your dress and under your panties. “Fucking English slut. Y’er dripping.”

Your reaction to those words was violent and unexplainable. It made your legs shake and your pussy clench painfully hard. It was confusing how much it affected you, causing such a flood of wetness that Johnny noticed, his pupils dilating as he squeezed at your throat and laughed when that made you whimper and claw at his hand. He only kept on squeezing until you were starting to see stars.

“Dinnae fucking move princess.”

The pressure of his hands was gone in an instant and the flood of oxygen made you dizzy. There was no time for you to recover before he was on his knees in the dirt, treating your pussy like it was a mouth and sloppily kissing it over your panties. The press of his tongue was insistent and overwhelming, like he was trying to bully it past the fabric. When he ripped at your waistband with his teeth the lace tore.

He continued his attack like he truly was a wolf sinking his teeth into a fresh meal, completely ruining your underwear until the mangled scraps fell to the floor and left you bare. Your hands were woven into his mohawk and you tried to pull him away, earning a growl that reverberated into your bones and a heavy handed smack to your ass before he assaulted your clit with tongue and teeth and spit.

You felt yourself clench so hard that you almost felt nauseous. Fuck. You were trying to keep some sense of self, trying to remember that you were out in public and he was some feral version of the man you loved who was saying horrible things to you and promising he was going to hurt you. But there was a creeping haze taking over, turning you dumb for him.

It wasn’t even something you had been aware was happening when you came on his tongue. It was just sensation, just the desperate need for more. The primal desperation to be fuller even as he pushed his tongue into your over sensitive hole while your walls fluttered through the pleasure of that high.

“Please, need you.”

“Aye, that right? Needy wee slut.”

You were too far gone to notice that while he was rough in getting you onto your back in the dirt, one hand was gentle in cradling your head to make sure it landed softly.

“Use those pretty wee words. Ask me for it the way ye’d ask a good English man.”

Ask me for it the way ye’d ask Simon.

When all you could do was wriggle underneath him and whine he grabbed the neckline of your dress and yanked it down to let your breasts spill out, slapping hard at one and making you howl.

“They naw teach ye how tae talk proper ye wee slut? Ask fucking nicely.”

“Please, please I want you inside me.”

“Aye, can tell that princess. Whit else?”

“Want you to cum inside me.”

“Good fucking girl, wisnae so hard now was it?”

He didn’t take any of his clothes off, just fished his hard cock from his jeans, hooked your knees on his shoulders and pressed into your wet heat in one fluid motion. You both groaned as he bottomed out. It had been so long, you were so fucking tight around him.

“M’so full, thank you thank you ,m’yours, need you. Fuck, ah. Made for you, it’s so much” you rambled, incoherent in your bliss.

“There she is, needed this naw? Needed my cock deep in this tight wee English cunt. Cannae be a person without it, it’s whit ye were made for. Fucking built tae be on yer back with yer legs open for me.”

He stayed like that for what felt like forever, the fullness pushing any coherent thought out of your head. Fuck he was so deep like this, with you nearly folded in half. It felt like you were choking on his dick. You were clawing at the dirt by your sides so hard that you thought your fingers might bleed, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head before they could.

You were so cock drunk that you were only distantly aware of the look in his eyes now, the almost obsessive adoration as he took in how you looked pressed into the earth like this, dress rucked up from the bottom and pulled down from the top, palm print visible from where he had slapped at you, knees by your ears, hands pinned over your head and yet despite it all so blissed out you were salivating and babbling at him how you needed him.

When he pulled all the way out to the tip and then slammed back home you choked on the wind being knocked right out of you. It only encouraged him as he started to fuck you hard and deep, taking him time to make sure every thrust settled him so incredibly deep inside of you that you were floating.

“Braw wee creature aren’t ye? Feart of me and gagin’ fer it anyway. Dinnae fash bonnie, gettin’ yer hole proper.”

You knew vaguely that he was close because you could hardly understand what he was saying. You were so unable to do anything in this position, no leverage on your arms and legs that you could use to pull him closer.

“Inside, need it inside. Please, please ah!” you cried, no shame left in so as you begged like a bitch in heat for him to cum inside you.

He shifted and sped his pace, nailing that spongy spot inside you that was making your vision black out with every thrust. You’d have marks on you from the buttons and zipper of his jeans. You’d have marks on your throat and your wrists, on your tits. He needed more, he needed anyone to take one look at you and know who you belonged to.

“‘at’s it, take it. Fuck. Good lass” he groaned as he sunk his teeth into your throat and your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you came, clamping down on his cock.

He jackhammered into you, forcing his way in while your pussy tried to force him out. The tight heat of it was too much and he growled and stilled after one more brutal thrust had him cumming deep inside you. He collapsed on top of you, the painful stretch from being folded as you were a delicious burn with the extra pressure forcing you to stretch further.

You stayed like that for a while, both panting. Only when you were slowly coming back to your senses did you feel a sharp pain in your back from what must have been a particularly jagged stone. Ah, you thought you were probably bleeding on it, feeling something sticky.

“Bannockburn” you breathed out softly.

The pressure was off of you almost immediately and he let go of your wrists and kneeled up, pulling out with a soft sigh leaving both of you at the feeling. He was quick to tuck himself in before his hands were back on you, gentle this time, fixing your dress and rubbing at all the spots he had marked.

“C’mere bonnie, ye did so well. Hurting anywhere I need tae look at?”

He looked at your back when you told him, laying soft kisses of apology on you as he cleaned it up. You used to tease Johnny for the little first aid kit he always had strapped to the back of his jeans whenever you went out, but it was coming in incredibly handy. Your panties were toast and he sheepishly tucked the remnants of them into his pocket before getting you to unsteady feet.

“Creeping Jesus, I’ve made a right mess out of ye” he said with a bashful sort of grin, doing his best to try and fix your hair.

“Hmm, s’ok” you replied, still a little hazy.

He kissed you soundly and then gave you an absolute squeeze of a cuddle before scooping you into his arms in a princess carry.

“Let’s get ye all tucked up in the car then we can have a bath and dinner when we’re home eh?”

You nodded and nuzzled into his chest to get comfortable. He would take care of you, he always did.

–

John MacTavish didn’t know how he got so lucky. Not any woman would be softly dozing off in his arms after what he had just put you through. Fuck you were beautiful all of the time, but when you were like this? Fucked out and marked up but achingly soft for him in the afterglow? Jesus, he loved you. He would love you forever, through lifetimes.

He’d explain obviously, he should really have warned you how hard he was going to go, that should have been pre-negotiated. But he had been so wound up. Fucking Simon Riley and his little comments about you, winding him up by putting thoughts in his head about how demure an English man could get you. It should have just made him laugh and shove at him, instead it made his blood boil and his cock hard and he had taken it out on you. You had let him, you always did until either of you thought it wasn’t safe.

He paused on his way out of the woods with you, considering waking you so you could see the little glade he had come upon. It was pretty as anything, almost felt like hallowed ground with a giant stone right in the middle. Something about it called to an ancient longing within him. Fuck. He wanted to marry you out here. Was that ridiculous? Maybe just post orgasm stupidity.

Still as he settled you in the car and took you home so he could love you properly, he thought maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

–

“Fuck, Johnny.”

Simon Riley was an Englishman through and through. Everytime he stepped into battle it was to strike down those who would oppose his King and country. Yet he had left the battlefield. He had tracked into the woods, to where he knew MacTavish had crawled off to die. He found him leant against the stone that sat in the centre of a glade. Of course this is where he would want to die. Not on the battlefield, but here. The place he had married you. The place they both had.

“Ye come tae watch it for yerself Si?” Johnny said with a laugh that turned to a hacking cough.

“Course. Been trying to kill you for years, not about to miss it.”

Simon sat next to him, both of them looking at the sunlight filtering through the trees. It was peaceful here. Maybe in another lifetime they would not have been enemies. Maybe in another lifetime they could have been brothers.

“Ye’ll look after her until I can find her again?”

“Always.”

#mhairiwrites #cod #cod au #fanfic #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #look I am very much implying that Simon is going to get in on this action #I used all my smut braincells on Savage so the smut is not really hitting as good #had to let some of the angst braincells out for a bit or it wasn't going to get written #personally I think having Bannockburn as a safeword was sick and twisted of me <3

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kneelingshadowsalome · 4 months

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As a history and Mythological lover, I love your works, they are so addictive, and you write so well, and the Minotaur konig fic was such a pleasure to read. I remember when you first uploaded the Roman konig story and I was so ecstatic about it, I remember checking on my break at work, If you’d uploaded another part haha, I mean I still check tumblr on my breaks to see who had uploaded so I know what I can read after I get home lol.

I think you’ve found your niche!

Also if you don’t mind answering what other time periods you’d think konig would fit in? Victorian era?

Nasty, oily and covered in coal, konig is walking home through the streets and bumped into a clean wealthy beautiful young woman, ooh do I love forbidden romances, just like your nun fic lol.

Ahh thank you! Mythology, fairytales and historical au’s are a passion of mine 😭

And puh-leeze, a forbidden romance between a dirty worker and a rich uptown girl? Filthy coal miner König who bumps into this fancy lady dressed in white? How can he ever make up for his clumsiness?? Please don’t have him beaten like the poor bastard he is, he already fucked up today by accidentally destroying boss’s new machinery by showing off his strength...

Tries to steal a peek at her ankles, and under her dress while dusting off her skirts with some napkin that’s hardly much cleaner than his hands. And she’s just giggling at him – great, now he’s hard... How is he going to explain this when he rises from here?? (Rich lady also being protected at all costs from dirty dogs like him! He's soon panting at her door!)

As for other historical au’s and fairytales... >:)

CW: Fear of SA (historical au), wife stealing (yandere fairytale imagine)

Obviously I see König as this dark knight of the Teutonic Order, punishing pagans with his sword somewhere in the wild woods of old Europe. How about another forbidden romance between a cold-hearted crusader & a cute pagan girl who lives in the woods and worships the old gods?

She gets captured during some awful raid, and is pulled into the camp by her hair, angry tears streaming down her face. The soldiers tie her to a thick wooden cross and leave her in the rain, probably to have their way with her later, taking turns with her after they've gambled and had a drink. Then this dark, giant knight happens to walk by, not a regular foot soldier but an actual knight with armor as black as night. She remembers him from the battlefield, wielding a fat morningstar, splitting people’s skulls from atop the huge black destrier he rode...

A terrible beast, dark and silent and big, the rain batters his helmet as he takes one look at the shivering maiden on the cross, her white linen dress glued to her skin in the downpour, and stops.

The soldiers have a crude sense of humour and what’s arousing, but he has seen worse… The knights of the Holy Order are even more perverted when it comes to having “fun” with women. But something pierces his defense when seeing the frightened stare of this pagan girl, her weak body trembling on the cross, the wide dark nipples perked up from cold. He’s seen so much death, his soul is drenched in blood by this point, but somehow, this woman who hasn’t even been broken in is the last straw.

Ends up taking her down, and she attaches herself to him like he’s her saviour, even the cold black armor apparently warmer to her skin than the cold rain. The cruelest of knights feels a moment of pity for this girl and sets her free, pushes her to the woods and waves his hand in a gesture of Get the hell out of here while you still can. (=gtfo before I get hard enough to take you in the mud...)

Months later, she finds him bleeding to death under a tree after a battle. All the other soldiers are screaming and crying for their mothers, but this one is silent, eyes darkening when he recognizes her. He says something, already delusional, and she can’t help but kneel and offer him water…

(and from this point on it would go somewhere in @wordstome s Kosovo maiden territory, perhaps slightly darker? But you get the point!)

And then there’s this old Inuit story that always reminds me of König, it has many variations but it’s basically about this lonely hunter who gets a little too resentful for not having a wife yet. Goes to paddle his boat in these moonlit waters and sees a bunch of maidens dancing in the moonlight on a small little island, notices their seal skins on the ground, and because he’s lonely and in despair, he steals one of them.

One by one, the maidens put their seal skins on and rush back into the water, but one woman can’t find her seal skin no matter how hard she looks for it. The hunter emerges, holding her beautiful skin, saying he’ll give it back to her if she comes to live as his wife for 7 years. She has no other choice but to say yes, and for a while they live happily, they even have a son, but then the seal woman starts to miss her seal skin and the sea...

It’s a tragic tale and the hunter won’t let her leave even if she cries so this would make a wonderful yandere scenario, you could always make a twist and write the woman as some other animal, a deer perhaps, and König as this lonely brooding hunter of the Austrian mountains :)

#wip ideas #gosh take these away from me #someone write these fics!#answered

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standfucker · 1 year

Text

The Break

Characters: Kid, Killer

Reader: GN, they/them

Word Count: 7.5k

CW: Gore, graphic description of injury+pain+first aid, hurt/comfort, confessions, highly oblivious reader

Summary: You knew you were bad with feelings, but the fact that it took a severe injury for this to come to light was maybe a little concerning.

Ao3 Link

There had only been two moments in your entire career as a pirate where you didn’t live up to your “Slippery” epithet. The first time was when Eustass Kid had bested you in combat. Rather than killing you, he offered you a place on his crew, which you had accepted–partially in the hopes of becoming stronger, and maybe also because you kind of found him incredibly attractive. That was three years ago.

The second time was right now. The enemy’s weapons consist of giant, metal crab claws, one of which snaps shut around your forearm with the force of an industrial machine before you can shave away. You’re pretty sure the whole battlefield heard the snap. A few things run through your brain in quick succession:

One–that’s going to hurt really, really badly in a second. You only have a short amount of time to counterattack.

Two–this was karma for that conversation in the mess room a few weeks ago, where you taunted the others over your having never broken a bone.

“I grew up on a dairy farm. My bones are like iron. Don’t compare it to the shortbread you all have for a skeleton.”

“You just haven’t battled enough, Slip.”

“Wrong! It’s because no one can catch me. They call me ‘Slippery Y/n’ because I’m too fast.”

“Yeah, yeah. But not fast enough, since you’re with us now!”

“Fuck off!”

Not fast enough indeed. But at least, now, you’re within striking range of the enemy. He doesn’t block in time; your scimitar opens his throat like a cut purse and sends him to his knees, gurgling. Your arm is released and you collapse on the ground, but before you can get back up, the pain hits with an intensity that immediately rips an agonized scream from deep in your lungs.

It’s like your arm’s been doused in gasoline and set on fire. Burning and sharp, sharp, sharp, so overwhelming you’re nauseous. You make the mistake of looking at your arm, and the flash of white sticking through the skin nearly makes you vomit on the spot. Seeing it for what it is somehow makes the pain worse, leaving you breathlessly curling over yourself on instinct, unable to move. Somewhere next to you the body of your enemy thuds onto the ground, dead.

The battle against the opposing crew is almost over. Though it’s not much longer before the last enemy is slain and someone rushes to your side, it feels like an eternity.

“Slip, are you okay?” You hear Hip’s voice before you, high-pitched with concern. It drops once she notices your injury. “Are you–oh. Oh, fuck. Um, guys! Hey, you guys! Slip is really hurt!”

Footsteps, more voices. One by one, crewmates converge around you.

“Oh, ew.”

“Oh, shit, Slip!”

“Slip!”

“Get out of the way!”

That last one would be Kid. You look up in time to see him push past a crewmate, face taught in what seems like anger but you’ve since learned to recognize is worry. Most of his deeper emotions are like that, sitting in the shadow of enmity but easily discernible if you knew him well enough.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks, unable to assess your full state with you hunched over. The gruesomeness of your injury doesn’t seem to bother him. You shake your head, and relief softens his expression. “Okay. I know it hurts, but you’re gonna live.”

“I can’t get up,” you gasp, breath coming out short.

“Then I’ll carry you to the ship. Doctor’s on standby.” Kid crouches down next to you, flesh hand resting on your good shoulder. “It’s gonna hurt. Sorry in advance, Y/n.”

He’s the only one who doesn’t call you by your nickname. It makes sense, as he’s the one who caught you in the first place–it doesn’t really apply to him.

“It already hurts,” you reply, stupidly inviting more karma. Kid must think the same thing, because he frowns at you.

“Oh, just wait,” he mutters, and scoops you up as carefully as he can. The movement tears fresh hell through your arm, and you shout before you can even think to hold it in.

At least he doesn’t say ‘I told you so.’ It would only be salt in the wound, and you’re already in so much pain you can barely think. The walk back to the ship is its own trial, every step jolting your arm again, even with Kid’s best efforts to move smoothly. You tell yourself to be tough for about three seconds before it goes out the window. Frankly, you don’t deal with it well at all–you’ve never had a strong pain tolerance, it’s partly why you learned to be quick–but you manage not to scream with every step, so that’s something.

It’s a terrible shame that you’ll only remember this as excruciating–under any other circumstance, you would have cherished being held by Kid like this.

You glimpse your injury again, a wave of queasiness rising in your stomach, and press your face into Kid’s shoulder so as not to look. “I’m gonna throw up,” you say weakly.

“Since when does gore bother you?” Kid says under his breath, but you hear it.

“Since it is coming from MY BODY!!” you snarl. For once, Kid pities you enough not to scold you for talking back.

You’re shaking by the time you get to the infirmary. Most of the crew has come out of the battle unscathed, or with only minor injuries. The ship’s doctor is only concerned with you, and getting your bleeding to stop. But to close the rip…

“I have to reset the bones, first,” he says.

That was obvious to anyone with eyes, but you didn’t really think about it until just then. Your guts turn to stone at the thought, heavy and sinking as your heart starts to race. The lightest movement to your body is already enough to make you want to quit life on the spot; you are not prepared, capable, nor willing to see what it would feel like when the bone itself is directly touched.

“You can leave it as-is,” you say, not joking in the slightest, not caring if it sounds cowardly, not even caring that half the crew is surrounding the exam table to hear it.

Kid takes one look at the fear in your eyes and turns to the rest of the crew. “Get out,” he commands. Everyone complies without question, only Killer staying behind, the unspoken exception.

Once the last person closes the door behind them, Kid focuses on you. “Y/n–”

“I can’t do it,” you cut him off, eyes welling up with tears. “I–I don’t want to.”

“Tough,” Kid snaps. “This is what you get for getting caught.”

“Kid,” Killer says, a warning to go easy on you.

It’s not necessary. You can see right through Kid’s harsh exterior. He always gets upset when a crewmate is hurt badly. What he’s really saying is ‘this is what you get for making me worry.’

“No time for discussion,” says the doctor. “I’d like to get this done before any more blood is lost. Hold them down, would you?”

Before you can protest, Kid and Killer secure you in place: Kid’s metal hand presses down on your legs while his flesh one wraps tightly around your good arm, and Killer pins your torso to his from behind.

“Wait, wait, wait!” you cry out quickly, but you can’t budge against them both.

Kid nods at the doctor. “Do it.”

The disinfectant comes first, stealing the breath from your lungs, like acid on your exposed flesh. The doctor gives you no time to process the first action before he moves onto the second–rationally, you know it’s to minimize the amount of time you’ll be in pain, but you are incapable of viewing his actions kindly at the moment. He immediately forces the bones back to where they should be in one firm, expert motion.

The world goes white. Nothing exists anymore except for the pain in your arm, unimaginable and all-consuming. You don’t perceive anything else, blind and deaf to any stimuli that isn’t sheer agony. Later on, you’ll realize that you must have screamed, if the soreness when you speak is any indication, but you don’t remember it.

The intensity eventually wanes enough to restore your senses, though your head is still swimming from the assault. Your sight returns first. Instead of the cold infirmary, your vision is entirely filled by Kid, his face so close you’d be staring into his eyes if they were open. His forehead is pressed to yours, and he’s saying something, but you don’t process it until your hearing comes back a moment later.

“...did good, Y/n, you did good. You’re okay. Easy, you’re okay.”

Kid… you think dimly, followed by, huh. Have I seen him do this with anyone but Killer?

You don’t question it beyond that thought, hanging onto his every word. The closeness abates the hurt, even if just slightly, and you bask in it, taking any mercy you can get. Kid and ‘comfort’ aren’t things that generally go together, but to you–scared, in pain, and maybe just a little bit hopelessly in love with him–it’s everything.

Killer smooths your hair back. His solid chest against your back is grounding, helping you stay present through the haze of misery. You’re suddenly grateful he’s there, too, his presence equally as soothing as Kid’s, the degree to which triggering a new realization: It’s obvious in hindsight, but you’ve never been great at analyzing your own feelings, and as such, it only just dawns on you that you’re down just as bad for the first mate. The revelation would have been panic-inducing if it wasn’t for the pain currently demanding all of your attention.

“They still with us?” Killer asks behind you.

Kid’s eyes open, meeting yours. You’ve never seen them this close before. The irises are an orange-gold, reminding you of smoldering embers. Your breath leaves you once more, but you’re not sure pain is the cause this time. Though it must have left you delirious, because your mouth moves before your brain can catch up.

“You have pretty eyes,” you mumble.

Said pretty eyes widen, Kid pulling back in surprise. He glances at Killer. “...That answer your question?”

Killer hums, gently rubbing your good arm. You go limp, leaning your full weight back against him without shame, hurting too much to care right then. He doesn’t seem to mind, anyway.

There’s a faint tinge of pink on Kid’s face, and he smirks down at you. “Better be careful there, Y/n. You can’t blame what you say on a head injury.”

“Whatever,” you huff, knowing you can get away with being rude without repercussions for now. “I don’t–” your words break into a gasp as the pain in your arm spikes so intensely that spots dot your vision.

Kid’s smirk instantly falls. You try to look at your burning arm, but he turns your head back so you’re watching him instead.

“Don’t look. He’s stitching it now. Keep your eyes on me, okay?”

Another wave of pain has you fighting back a sob, barely able to keep it down. You instinctively go to look again, but Kid keeps your head from turning with a steady hand cupping the side of your face.

“Look at me, Y/n. There you go. Just hold on a bit longer.”

You try to do as he says, focusing on his eyes rather than the current torture, but it’s impossible. “Hurts so bad,” you whimper.

“I know,” Kid says softly. “We’re right here.”

The curved needle hooking through your skin isn’t the problem, nor is the nauseating sensation of the sutures sliding through the layers of flesh. Both, while admittedly sucking hard, are tolerable. The problem is that even as careful as he is, the doctor is still moving your arm with every stitch.

“Almost done,” Killer says, “almost done. You’re doing great.”

Am I really? you want to ask, but you’re currently unable to form anything more coherent than groans and curses.

The final trial is the splint, more unbearable movement to your arm that has you gripping the edge of the exam table so hard your knuckles turn white. Killer takes notice, peeling your hand from the table to hold in his, instead. Despite his hand being twice the size of yours, you’re pretty sure you crush it with the strength of your grip, but he doesn’t complain.

“I’ll apply a proper cast once the swelling goes down,” the doctor says once he’s finally, finally fucking done. “Rest in one of the patient beds and keep your arm above your heart as much as possible. You’re to sleep here until further notice.”

You’re helped into one of the beds, and once the doctor’s applied ice packs to your injury, Kid dismisses him. The three of you are left alone, Kid and Killer pulling up chairs next to the bed. Lying back, you stare blankly at the ceiling, catching your breath, humbled and terrified at the human body’s ability to feel such all-consuming anguish. Adrenaline still courses through your veins, making you jittery and hyper-aware, and you’re sweating, but at least the pain in your arm has simmered down to a dull, throbbing ache. While it still feels like the bones are screaming at you, you can endure it quietly, though it does make your eyes water.

With the diminishing of the pain comes just enough clarity for you to feel utterly and totally disgraceful. You don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone on the crew scream like you had, and plenty of them had endured their fair share of awful injuries. So why couldn’t you handle it better? How could you call yourself a pirate after such a display? All of that, and still visibly on the verge of tears now that it was over? You’d be more embarrassed about crying in front of them if you hadn’t just spent the enitre past fifteen minutes acting like a complete bitch.

Kid may have said you couldn’t blame your words on a head injury, but you think the pain alone is enough to make you loopy, because you find yourself laughing shortly at the thought. It’s more of a huff and a grin, really–anything more would jostle your arm.

“Y/n?” Kid asks, concerned.

“It’s just,” you glance at him, then back at the ceiling, smiling ruefully. “I wanted to be tough, if you can believe that. But I couldn’t manage it… Pitiful, right?”

“What are you talking about?” Kid scowls. “That pirate broke your arm and you still killed him.”

“Only because I didn’t feel it right away. It doesn’t count. When push came to shove, I couldn’t handle it at all. I’m a Kid Pirate–I should be tougher. And yet, I…” You blink, and the tears gathered at the corners of your eyes break free, running down your temples. “I didn’t have it in me.”

“Y/n…?”

You look between Kid and Killer. Kid’s worry is evident behind the tension in his face, and while Killer’s expression is hidden, there’s nothing in his body language to suggest he’s upset with you. Your smile wavers, chest getting tight. The next wave of tears has nothing to do with pain.

“Aren’t you ashamed of me?” Your voice cracks, as if you couldn’t be any more pathetic.

“Don’t,” Kid says stiffly. “Don’t do the self-pity thing now. It doesn’t suit you.”

“But I–”

“Look,” Killer says, “everyone’s different, with different tolerances for pain. You don’t need to be unfeeling to be a capable fighter.”

Easy for him to say–Killer had the highest pain tolerance in the crew. Still, you don’t miss the compliment, mentally clinging to it like it could redeem you.

“You think I’m a capable fighter?” you ask, voice small.

“I invited you onto my crew for a reason, okay?” Kid says. “I saw potential. I still see it. You’ve gotten stronger since we first met.” Kid looks away. “...I haven’t once regretted my decision.”

“Oh…” Self-doubt tells you that Kid’s just saying those things to make you feel better, but experience has you discarding the thought. You know him better than that. Kid has always meant what he said, he wouldn’t make such claims lightly. The words are real and sincere, threatening to make you cry harder, but you force it down. He’s never liked dealing with tears.

Kid won’t meet your eye. From your angle on the bed, you can see a blush spread across his cheeks, darker than before. Maybe that’s why he makes to leave, pushing his chair back and getting up, Killer following suit. Or maybe he just means to check on the crew. Regardless, a surge of objection rises in your chest, every bit as selfish and puerile as a child protesting their parents leaving them in daycare.

“You’re going?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

They pause, Kid turning back to you. “Do you want us to stay?”

You don’t look at him when you nod shallowly, ashamed. But you don’t want to hurt alone. Rationally, you know you’re going to be in pain for a long while, and they can’t be at your side the whole time. Still, if they’ll let you, then you’ll be self-centered for just a bit longer.

Kid and Killer sit back down.

“Thanks,” you say quietly. Then, even quieter, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking apologize,” Kid grumbles. “I told you to knock that shit off.”

You swallow a lump in your throat. He could be so rough about it, but there was genuine care behind his refusing to let you wallow in self-pity.

Killer takes your hand. “Is this the first time you’ve been injured like this?” he asks.

You nod.

“Listen... Sometimes, when you’re hurt bad enough physically, it messes with your head, too,” Killer says. “You feel vulnerable and insecure. Helpless, even. So,” he squeezes your hand lightly, “it’s okay if you’re more sensitive than you normally would be. No one's going to hold it against you. You came out of the battle alive. That’s what matters.”

Damn him and his tenderness, you’re trying not to cry. You pull your hand away, lower lip wobbling, and take a shaky breath, holding it down. You glance at Kid. He’s staring hard at your broken arm. Suddenly his ire stops being transparent–just like when you first joined the crew, you’re completely unable to discern what he’s really thinking. All you see is the discontent, so close to disapproval that it makes you uncertain.

“Are you, um,” you say nervously, “are you mad at me?”

“No,” Kid says, but it comes out a bit stiff. “At least, not for the reason you think. I’m proud of you for taking out that pirate. He was twice your size and faster, but you still won.” He taps his nails against his metal hand. “Y/n… When Hip said you were really hurt, I feared the worst. I thought you’d been fatally injured.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” you joke.

“Shut the fuck up!” Kid snaps, glaring. He’s gritting his teeth, eyes hard and angry, but then there’s a break, a crack in his expression. It’s just a glimpse, but for the first time, you see fear behind the fury. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again. Got it? Or I’ll break your other arm.”

Despite the harsh words, emotion swells in your chest, fuzzy and light. You feel yourself tearing up again. “Yes, captain.”

“You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

You smile slightly. “Yes, captain.”

Kid leans back in his chair, arms crossed, scowl etched deep. You watch as Killer touches Kid’s arm briefly, reassuring. With the worst of the pain behind you comes the presence of mind to start overthinking, and you dive right in: They have each other. It’s clear that they care about you, but it will never be in the way you want.

The ache in your arm seems fitting, a backdrop of physical pain behind the emotional. Liking Kid is stressful enough, but now that you were aware of your feelings for Killer, it was compounded, growing like a chemical reaction into something huge and overwhelming. As a trusted crewmate, you pretty much have front row seats to the small intimacies those two exchange. How are you supposed to go on watching and not be eaten alive by jealousy?

Maybe you should leave. Maybe this was your sign that the good times had run out, and it was time to strike it out solo again. You don’t want to go–crushes aside, you were fond of the crew, having come to see them as family–but could you handle living with Kid and Killer now? The unrequited desire was already burrowing under your skin like a grass seed, threatening to travel and lodge deep into your heart. Cutting ties now would spare you more hurt in the long run.

But first you had to heal from this injury, something better done with the security of a crew protecting you.

Then, unprompted, Killer reaches over to wipe the sweat from your forehead, and you start reconsidering even that notion. If they were going to be gentle the entire recovery period, you were really gonna lose it. The compassion was too close to intimacy, a taste of what you couldn’t have.

"The next few months are gonna blow," you say, the true meaning of the statement masked.

"Just wait until it starts itching under the cast," Killer says lightly.

"Ugh. And I'll hardly be able to move." You grimace. "I'll need help even with basic tasks… You're right, Killer, it does feel helpless."

"It'll be fine," Kid says. "You have us and the crew."

He's still frowning, but you can read him again. Not that you need to with the frankness of his words.

"At least there's a bright side," you smile impishly, "if you're gonna be soft this whole time."

"Watch it," Kid warns, but his lip curls up just a bit. "Don't get used to it."

Too bad for him, you fully intend to abuse your power. It’ll be interesting to see how much you can get away with, and you might as well have some kind of outlet for these awful feelings in the meantime.

“Nah, I’m gonna enjoy it while I can,” you say, “because it’s not gonna happen another time. I’m gonna get even stronger, so I’ll never go through that again.” You wipe away the gathered tears with the back of your hand. “I’m gonna surpass even the shave technique. I’ll be uncatchable.”

Kid and Killer exchange glances–an impressive feat considering Killer’s mask, but that’s just the kind of wavelength they’re on–and then they look at you, Kid wearing one of his rare serious expressions. “I know the last half hour was rough, Y/n. But you won’t get any better as a fighter if fear is your motivator.”

That makes you pout, mostly because you know he’s right. Arguing that it had worked out for this long was pointless, because it really hadn’t. You only survived the fight with Kid years ago because of his whims, and today’s battle had ended in agony. You wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon, but maybe that was better. Maybe a reminder that you weren’t invulnerable was what you needed. So long as you didn’t succumb to fear, like Kid said.

“I guess it wasn’t entirely miserable,” you muse, thinking back to how Kid carried you to the ship. That was a lie–you were hurting far too badly to enjoy the contact–but the thought that it happened still made you kind of happy, in a messed up way. Maybe you were more touch-starved than you thought. “I got to be held. Can’t remember the last time I was that close to someone.”

Kid looks surprised, and then his expression slowly morphs into something smug, an arrogant smirk plastered on his face. “If you wanted to be close to me, Y/n, you could have just asked.”

Your cheeks instantly flare hot, caught so off-guard all you can do is stare in dumb shock before you turn your head away. What the hell was he doing? Why would he say that? Now there was an ache in your chest as well as your arm.

“Is that what this was all about?” Kid continues gleefully. “Did you let yourself get hurt so your captain would come take care of you?”

No, no, no. Don’t do this to me. Regardless of what he meant by the teasing, it felt like a weight was sitting over your sternum. And really, he was such a fucking jerk, taking obvious pleasure in your flustered response. Honestly, why did you even like him?

“We’re right here.”

Your brain plays the memory back like a traitor, impressing the reason. Why did he have to be so damned nice to you? Why couldn’t he have been cold or stern or even harsh, like usual? This would have been so much easier if he just told you off for screaming, or called you a pussy or something, but no. He had to hold you and reassure you and now you didn’t know what to do.

“Stop it,” you say, but it comes out small and feeble. This was all too much, especially now. Killer had a point–you were in a delicate way mentally. The walls weren’t up, you couldn’t buffer any of these feelings. “Talk to me like that and I’ll leave.”

Kid pauses. “What do you mean, you’ll leave?”

“I’ll leave the crew.”

“What?!” Kid grabs the arms of his chair, leaning forward like he didn’t hear you right the first time.

“Slip?” Killer questions.

You avoid their eyes. “I can’t–I can’t do this. I can’t be around you if you’re going to be like… like that.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Kid demands.

“Slip, what’s wrong?” Killer asks. “Was it something we said?”

“No! I mean, yes!” you say, tugging at your hair with your good hand. “I mean… I…”

“Where’s this coming from all of a sudden?” Kid says hotly. “What the hell is your problem?”

“I’m in love with you!” you shout. “That’s my fucking problem, Kid!”

Oops. Well. It was out now. Might as well go all-in. You cover your face as you add, “Killer, too. I love you both. I’m sorry.”

The shame settles like rot in your stomach, as nauseating as the physical pain was. There was no taking it back now. You expect shocked silence, or even Kid getting angry.

What you don’t expect is Kid, as casually as if discussing the weather, responding, “Oh. Yeah, I know.”

It takes a minute to process what he said, mentally flipping the words over in an attempt to parse them. Your hand slowly drops from your face, and you fix him with a look that manages to be both pointed and baffled. “...What?”

“I already knew that,” Kid clarifies.

You stare a hole through him. “...What?”

“What exactly are you not getting? I’m telling you I already knew.”

“Fucking excuse me?!” It finally processes, crashing over you like a boiling wave, drenching and searing all at once. “Since when?!”

“Since we met, you idiot.”

Your jaw drops. He had known all this time? For three fucking years? He knew?

“You’re not a subtle person, Y/n,” Kid says, then grins. “You got really, really worked up when I caught you that one time. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“You knew?” You look between him and Killer, at a loss. “The entire time?”

“Y/n, the whole crew knows.”

“What?!” You sit up so quickly it jostles your injury, sending a hellish jolt of pain through your arm that makes you hiss.

“Easy,” Killer says, gently pushing your good shoulder to prompt you to lay back.

“Don’t tell me to take it easy!” you snap, but acquiesce, letting him push you back. “What the hell do you mean, you knew… The crew knows… Oh my god…”

“There, there,” Killer says, but you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Anyway,” Kid says nonchalantly, “you don’t have permission to leave.”

Ordinarily, you would say 'I wasn't aware I needed it,' but you're currently too stunned to reply. All this time. And the crew knows.

What are you to make of that? Kid doesn’t look upset. Killer doesn’t sound upset. They’re fine with your crush? Did such things really not bother them, or did they… No. There was no way. You can't wrap your head around the implications. There was no way. Right? Because if they liked you back, wouldn’t they have said something by now?

You have to find out. Living on this ship with that hanging over you is beyond what you can handle. And with months of recovery ahead of you, now would be as good a time as any to shoot your shot.

But you only get out "Do you–" before your voice catches, the query dying in your throat. You can't say it, can't bring yourself to ask. Something in your head is as broken as your arm, refusing to form the words.

Kid and Killer are listening, waiting for you to continue, but you shake your head. “Never mind.”

The answer to that question would hurt, and you’ve had enough of that for a good, long while. But without it comes the uncertainty, which almost feels worse. Unable to reconcile how you feel and exhausted from the aftermath of the adrenaline, you find you just want to be close to them again. Maybe you’re too much of a coward to ask the crucial question. But you aren’t above taking advantage of your current state to seek out a bit of comfort.

"Back when I was a kid," you say, "and I had to go to the doctor, my guardian would take me to get a treat afterwards. Like ice cream or something."

"Yeah?" Kid says, grinning wide. "Is there something you want from me? What could it possibly be, I wonder?"

Suddenly you're tongue-tied. You didn’t expect him to cotton on so fast, but underestimating Kid was why you had lost to him in the first place three years ago.

When you don't respond, Kid rests his chin on his metal hand, having the gall to look even more smug. "You need to say it out loud, Y/n."

Fucking jerk. Fine. "Um…" you start, fresh heat warming your face, "well, uh… Can I have, uh… A hug…?"

Kid looks surprised at that for some reason, raising a brow. What was he expecting? Still, he rises from his seat, and you sit up in anticipation. This was enough for now. Just to be held, one more time. You could figure out the rest later.

“That’s really all you want?” Kid says, looking at you like he can’t figure you out. He leans over you, towering, your height difference exacerbated with you being seated. “A hug?”

“...Yeah?” you respond hesitantly, unsure of what he means by the question.

Kid regards you for a moment, searching your eyes. Then he smirks. “I’ll do you one better.”

Before you can register the meaning of his words, Kid tilts your chin up, leans in, and presses his lips to yours in a firm and intent kiss.

Suffice to say, your brain promptly short-circuits. For a moment, not a single neuron fires. Then there’s a storm of activity, a thousand different thoughts and feelings screaming all at once. At the same time, a soft sort of tingling spreads throughout your whole body, fluttering and warm, so pleasant that you could cry. And, for just a second, like something out of a fairy tale, you don’t feel any of the pain in your arm. (You can never, ever tell this to Kid–he will hold it over your head for the rest of your life.)

While you’re too shocked to reciprocate, once Kid pulls away, you find yourself leaning forward, chasing the contact. He notices, if his widening smirk is any indication.

“Better than a hug, right?” he says, self-satisfied.

“Um,” you respond cleverly, still bewildered by the action. “Uh… Kid? Do you… Do you like me?”

Kid pinches the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I literally just kissed you. What the fuck do you think?”

“Wait, shut up. Hold on. Wait.” The fact that Kid doesn’t react to your telling him to shut up is a testament to his going easy on you, and you make a mental note of it for later. “If you liked me back, why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been flirting with you for years!”

Your eyes bug out at him. “You have?”

“For someone who thinks so quickly in battle, it’s amazing how slow you are on the uptake,” Kid says, exasperated. You frown, because rude, but he keeps going. “At first, when you didn’t respond, I thought you weren’t interested. But the way you acted around me and Killer proved otherwise. It was confusing as hell! Then, a few weeks ago, the crew was at a tavern, and you were approached by that bounty hunter–you remember?”

“Yeah… What about him?”

“He started flirting real heavy, and it all went right over your head. It was incredible to watch. I realized then that you weren’t sending me mixed signals on purpose, but that you were really just that fucking oblivious.”

You blink. “He was flirting with me?”

“He bought you a drink!” Kid shouts, throwing his arms out in frustration and nearly knocking over another bed with his metal one. Killer covers his mask over where his mouth would be, as if that would help him suppress a laugh.

“I thought he was trying to sucker me out of information.”

“He was trying to sucker you out of your clothes.”

“Oh… So that’s why you nearly killed him.”

You stare down at your lap as you try to process all the new information. Kid liked you back. Not only that, but he had been attempting to show it pretty much since the beginning. You knew you were bad with feelings, but the fact that it took a severe injury for this to come to light was maybe a little concerning. And what about Killer? He wasn’t nearly as open as Kid, so even if he had been showing similar signs, you would have never picked up on it.

“Does, uh,” you say, looking up at them, “does Killer also…?”

“Yeah,” Kid says, “Killer too, though he never flirted with you over it.”

“I kind of did,” Killer speaks up, “here and there, but I stopped when it seemed like you weren’t into it.”

You think back, trying to recall any times where that might have happened. While Killer seemed outwardly stoic, he was surprisingly affable toward crewmates, so you never thought twice about any lingering touches or supportive words coming from him.

“Um… Wow. I’m sorry,” you say, “I didn’t mean to be confusing. I guess I just never thought it was possible that anyone would like me that way.”

“Why would you think that?” Killer sounds genuinely confused, and you tense, the question dredging up a host of bad memories. That was one traumatic can of worms you didn’t need to open, so you just shrug it off.

“Uh, no reason…”

“You’ve never been in a relationship?” Kid asks.

“Not really,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. All of this was new territory, the revelation that they were both interested leaving you stumped. “...What do I even do now?”

“Whatever you want.”

You stare at Kid, then glance away, cheeks growing warm in embarrassment before you even say it. “...I want you to kiss me again.”

“You really think you deserve it after all that you’ve put us through?” Kid grins, but despite what he says, he leans right back in to grant your wish.

The second kiss is softer, even tender. Your eyes close as you cup his cheek, and his hand covers yours. That fluttering sensation returns, prickling across your skin like you’ve sunk into a warm bath, enveloping and soothing.

When Kid breaks free this time, you can’t help but look at Killer afterwards, the longing in your expression making your thoughts evident.

“What, I’m not good enough for you?” Kid accuses, but you can tell he’s teasing.

“No,” you say brightly, safe in the knowledge that he won’t retaliate while you’re injured. Or so you thought–Kid pinches your cheek (with his flesh hand, at least,) harder and harder until you apologize. You rub your sore cheek, pouting. “I swear I’m not complaining or anything, but, uh… You don’t want to, Killer?”

Killer turns his head away, quiet for a moment. “...I will… Once you’ve recovered, and the cast comes off.” He looks your way again. “So you have the motivation to heal quickly.”

Later on, when you’ve gotten to know him more intimately, you’ll look back and realize that the ‘motivation’ line was complete bullshit, and that he was just covering up his shyness. But right then, you accept him at his word, though you’re a bit disappointed.

“Sure. Okay.” You lay back in the bed, a smile slowly stretching your lips. “I can live with that.”

Today was a one-two punch in staggering experiences. First you went through the worst physical pain you’d felt yet, then Kid revealed that he and Killer both liked you back. You were ecstatic, of course–but the fact that you never had to go through breaking your arm to learn of it made you more than a little mad at yourself.

“We can talk about all this later,” Kid says. “You need to rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kid looks at you sharply, and you get a funny feeling in your gut. Did… Did he like that? What a stuck-up asshole. God, you love him. Which is why you’re going to use that against him later.

“Try and get some sleep, if you can. The next island we’re stopping at has a pharmacy. Once we raid it and restock our medical supplies, you won’t be hurting so much, so just hang on until then. Okay?” Kid touches your cheek.

“Okay,” you reply, trying not to show how giddy the simple action makes you.

But given that he knew of your attraction all this time, he can probably tell anyway.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything!” You glare at the crewmates sitting around your bed. The doctor will only let a few people in to see you at a time, so right now, it’s just Heat, Wire, and Quincy, the latter currently signing your cast. “Some nakama you are! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It would have interfered with the betting pool,” Wire says.

“Betting pool?!”

“After a while,” Heat adds, “it just became kind of a social experiment.”

“Betting pool?!” you reiterate.

“Relax,” Quincy says, capping the marker. “If you get worked up, the doc will kick us out.”

“Fine.” You scowl, but relent, shoulders drooping.

“So how’d it go down?” Heat asks. “Did you tell Kid first, or did he tell you?”

“I said it first.”

“Damn,” Wire mutters, fishing a thick wad of cash out of his pocket and passing it to Heat.

Your eyes widen at the blatant exchange. “I will fucking strangle you both!”

“With one hand?” Wire asks, and the three of them burst into laughter.

You throw your medicine bottle at his head.

After months of waiting, you’re eager to finally have the cast off, but a part of you will miss looking at everyone’s signatures. Heat even drew the crew’s jolly roger on it.

“Some pain and stiffness afterwards is normal. Your range of motion will be limited. After months of being immobile, the muscles are weakened,” the doctor explains. “You are to wait one week before any exercise or heavy physical activity with that arm. Understand?”

The moment the cast is removed and the doctor releases you, you go find Killer on the ship.

“Hey, Killer!” You wave at him with your newly-healed arm, though you find the action is more difficult than you expected, just like the doctor said. “Cast is off, big guy. Time to pay up.”

When Killer doesn’t respond right away, you think maybe he’s forgotten what he said months ago. He looks around at the other crewmates on deck, then takes your hand and wordlessly leads you elsewhere.

“Killer?” you ask as you follow, but he remains silent.

Killer takes you all the way to the captain’s cabin, closing the door behind the both of you. Kid is currently there, sitting at his desk and looking over a map, head turning to you as soon as you enter.

“Everything okay?” Kid asks, then, noticing your cast is off, he smirks. “Oh, I see. Went for it first thing, huh, Y/n? You must have really been looking forward to it.”

“Shut up, Kid!” you say, face growing hot.

Kid rises from his seat, coming to stand behind you, and rests his flesh hand on your shoulder, squeezing in threat. “Careful, Y/n. You don’t have that injury to protect you anymore.”

Despite the warning, something about the way he says it, voice low and smooth, makes your stomach knot.

“Alright, alright, fine. Yes, I’ve been looking forward to it, okay? I’ve been thinking about it every day since,” you admit, swallowing. “But, Killer, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Killer is silent once more. You scan him anxiously, trying to get a read on his body language. He seems tense, so it takes you by surprise when he quietly says, “I want to.”

“Oh.”

Killer steps closer, right in front of you, so you’re sandwiched between the captain and first mate. Belatedly, you realize he’ll have to take off his mask, which you didn’t think about before. You’re not sure that even Heat or Wire have seen him without it, and you’re suddenly nervous that you’re violating some boundary by asking him to kiss you.

Then, Kid moves his hand from your shoulder to your face, covering your eyes from behind. You hear a faint noise like rustling hair that must be Killer removing his mask. Unable to see, you can only wait, heart pounding. It feels like forever before you feel his breath on your face, not making contact yet–he’s hesitating. And then, finally, after months of patience, he closes the gap, soft lips capturing your own.

Just like that, all your nerves melt away, fading behind the static that seems to spark through your body. You reach out for Killer blindly, hands landing in his hair before they slide down to hold his face, pulling as if you could draw him even closer. He sighs into your mouth in response, making your knees grow weak.

After far too short a time, Killer pulls away, and your grip on his face tightens in reluctance.

“Wait, wait,” you mumble, “again. Please, I–”

Your protest is muffled by Killer’s mouth closing over yours again, swallowing your words and your sanity all at once. He’s firmer this time, indelicate and needy, large hands grabbing hold of your waist. The little whine that slips out of you is involuntary, and you hear Kid chuckle behind you.

Eventually, Killer breaks away, leaving the both of you stunned and flushed with endorphins.

“You have no idea, Y/n,” Kid whispers into your ear, raising goosebumps on the back of your neck. “How much he’s talked about this.”

“Like you haven’t been talking about them?” Killer says defensively. “The sheer amount of grievances I’ve had to listen to the last few years… Where do I even begin? First, there was–”

“Okay!” Kid cuts him off, uncharacteristically flustered. “I get it.”

You snicker, and Kid immediately wraps his metal hand around your hip, gripping just tightly enough so as not to be painful, but still securely enough so that you’re trapped in place. It’s huge in comparison to you, the pinky sinking into your thigh while the index presses into your stomach. You gasp, going rigid, the position intimately familiar–this was the exact way that Kid had caught you three years ago.

“You know, Y/n,” Kid says, his tone soft with warning, “you’ve been a real piece of work these last few months. Smart-mouthed. Insolent. Talking back to me. Thinking you were so safe because of your injury.” He’s speaking into your ear again, breath hot on your skin, and your heart starts to race. “I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted, Y/n, because I’ve been keeping track. Every comment, every cheeky little quip, I committed to memory, waiting for this moment. I think it’s time I paid it back. Wouldn’t you agree, Killer?”

“Definitely,” Killer responds without hesitation.

Heat courses through your body, collecting at the apex of your thighs. Still blinded by Kid, you can’t see Killer move, but you feel his rough fingers tracing your throat a moment later.

The third time around, you are perfectly okay with not having lived up to your epithet.

#one piece imagines #one piece x reader #eustass kid x reader #killer x reader #reader insert #zen writes

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mizutenshii · 7 months

Text

I'M IN LOVE WITH A KILLER.

— pairing ; kaneki ken x human!gn!reader

— summary ; you knew he had to kill and eat humans in order to survive, but seeing the actual traces of the act hits different.

— cw ; mentions of blood and human consumption, pinch of angst, fluff and some comfort if you squint, est. relationship

the dark stains on his white t-shirt provided you with enough information to figure out what kaneki had been up to before you found him in a dark alley. the knowledge was such a stark contrast with how he was currently looking up at you with innocent eyes, but you knew better; he just got back from a food hunt.

your stomach churned with nausea as you looked at the boy in front of you, and your thoughts were a battlefield currently. you knew he ate humans regularly, but this was the first time you actually saw traces from the act, making you realize how real it was. kaneki had just killed and eaten a human that was likely to be innocent, and the thought was absolutely sickening to you. someone's life just ended in one of the most horrid ways possible, and the cause of it was right in front of you. it made you want to run away and throw up.

but then there was your rational side, knowing that the boy had no other choice if he wanted to stay alive. you also knew like no other how much kaneki hated eating humans, and how much he despised himself for having to do it time after time again. you were there when he forced himself to eat human food over and over again, shoving it in until he passed out because his body got too weak. you were there when he almost literally starved himself because the guilt of eating humans became too much for him to live with. you were there every time kaneki broke down because he hated being a ghoul.

it was all so double, the mixed feelings that fought for dominance almost dizzying you. but there was one thing you knew for sure; you didn't want to lose kaneki, and in order to do so, you had to live with the fact that he ate humans.

kaneki's expression had grown anxious while the long silence dragged on, and you quickly set all your worries aside. you slowly sank to the ground and took a seat next to him, leaning against him more than you leaned against the wall.

"does the blood scare you?" the boy asked, his tone cautious and laced with the same fear that was present on his features.

you entertained the thought for a moment; did it scare you? quickly after, you resolutely shook your head. you weren't scared, it was better to be described as shocked. knowing and seeing were two different things, and while you were used to bearing knowledge of his diet, seeing him covered in blood made you awfully aware of his dinner.

"you seem disgusted," kaneki pointed out as you remained silent, to which you nodded.

"i am," you confessed. "i've always thought i was okay with it, but finding you like this is a hard pill to swallow. it goes against everything i'm supposed to stand for."

"i'm so–" the ghoul began, but you cut him off.

"don't apologize," you hushed. "you just want to live, like everyone else on this planet. you're only doing what you have to do in order to survive. you would die if you didn't hunt, and i don't want to lose you."

you snuggled a little closer to him, getting as comfortable as possible on the pavement in the forsaken alley. in response, he wrapped an arm around you. you were torn between two sides, like you always were ever since you met kaneki.

you were raised to hate ghouls, just like every human being on this planet. kaneki was the enemy of mankind, you were supposed to despise him, report him to the CCG as soon as you got the chance. yet, here you were, allowing the line between hunter and prey to blur, getting close and falling in love with a killer.

finding your lover covered in blood left you in shock. your thoughts were a whirlwind and you were still trying not to throw up right there in that bystreet. but you promised him that you accepted him, completely abandoning your healthy human morals. you were a traitor, you realized once more.

"i love you," you muttered, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath to calm yourself. you buried your face in the crook of his neck, deftly ignoring the stains that were so painfully visible even in the dark.

it wasn't a lie, and you weren't trying to convince yourself. you really did love him, and you just wanted to let him know that finding him covered in blood didn't change anything.

"i love you, too," kaneki replied, relief dripping from his tone. he held you a little closer, as if he was afraid that you'd change your mind and run away from him.

mizutenshii — 3O.O9.2O23 — masterlist

frankly, maybe there was a part of you that wished to do so – the final strands of human sanity that lingered. but you didn't listen, abandoning your rationality and staying by his side.

#nana writes #kaneki #kaneki ken #ken kaneki #tokyo ghoul #anime #tokyo ghoul x reader #kaneki x reader #ken kaneki x reader #kaneki ken x reader #tg kaneki

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hyperfixiation-station · 3 months

Note

I really like digging into details, and I was thinking that maybe you can make a list of hcs of Simon in a fight? Don’t spare your words I really think it’s interest your view of him 🥰

CW: Mentions of abuse, sa, addiction, canon typical violence So I wasn’t 100% what you were looking for so I decided to go for both him fighting in a professional setting (ie. training/sparring), and also in public(ie. bar fights). Also, this got way longer than I intended so sorry about that. I hope you like it :)) Also sorry for how aggressive this starts out lol And, as always, this is not edited so please let me know if there are any mistakes :3

First off, I do not agree with the whole oH he’S iN tHe miLiTarY, he HaS tO kEeP hIs CoOl sentiment. This is not a true statement, for anyone in the military.(I am willing to explain this if anyone has questions) Ghost isn’t going to get kicked out because he has anger issues. Not to mention that he is a part of a highly specialized group, the rules are much more lax. However he doesn’t really need to worry about it, because he doesn't go around picking fights.

Like I said in my previous post, he spent his childhood being abused, he does not take pleasure in physically hurting those weaker than him. He would not hurt new recruits, civilians, or his squadmates. In fact, the only times he will physically fight people outside of work is if they start it. (ie. people threatening him and his, men who won’t leave women alone at bars, and one time a guy he saw kicking a dog)

Now don’t get me wrong, he has major anger issues, but he has a handle on them, for the most part. He is not going to fight a recruit because they are mouthing off. He might pit them against Gaz to humble them a bit, but again, he does not take pleasure in hurting those weaker than him.

In a fight, he is ruthless and efficient. It's rare for him to draw out a fight, and only when he is trying to make the target suffer.

He uses his height and muscle mass against his opponents, 9/10 being able to overpower them with sheer force.

He loves knives, collects them actually. The action of slamming a blade up to the hilt in someone's neck is muscle memory for him.

He taunts his opponents, throwing them off their game by lashing out at their insecurities. (Or telling really bad jokes if he's sparring with Soap)

He doesn't like fighting, but he knows he can never stop. Since the moment he was born he's been fighting. It's in his blood and he knows it. The euphoria he feels when he leaves the battlefield or the ring scares him. He's worried that one day he is going to take his bloodlust home.

Okay now onto professional/work-endorsed fight hc’s

This man is not afraid to throw hands. He is 6’2 and 220 pounds of pure muscle. In hand-to-hand combat, he could take pretty much anyone on and win, and everybody knows it.(Think Prison Break. Ghost went out with a knife and a pistol and took out a buttload of Shadows with just Soap guiding him from the cameras.) Any mission that is Close Quarters Combat, Ghost is sent in.

He has fought a recruit once. It took him about 10 seconds to pin the kid, and another 10 seconds for him to tell Price he was never training a recruit like that again. (tbh I don’t think that the 141 trains new recruits, but for the sake of getting my point across I am going to hc it.)

Soap and Price are the only ones he is willing to spar with. While Soap is much shorter, he has muscle that rivals Ghost’s and can hold his own pretty well. Gaz asked to spar once but Ghost refused. Although Gaz is close to him in height, he is far too skinny for Ghost to feel okay with fighting.

Soap is agile and intelligent, landing heavy and precise blows before darting out of reach, but is too hot-headed and doesn’t think through his movements half-the time. Ghost is good at reading people, and he knows when to bait Soap and tire him out, and when he needs to take control of the situation.

Ghost studies Soap’s (or any of his opponents really) body with a warrior's mind. In training, when they are clad in gym shorts and a T-shirt, he can tell which way the Scotsman is going to lunge just based on the way his muscles tense. In the field it is a bit harder, his targets usually clad from head to toe, hiding and protecting their bodies, but there are still signs. Just a twitch of the eye or a shift in weight are enough to give him the upper hand. As any child that is a product of a dysfunctional home can attest, he grew up watching these signs in his father, it wasn't too hard to translate those survival skills from childhood to military life.

If they end up training recruits, Price will have them line up and watch as Soap and Ghost go at it. Ghost enjoys that fear in their eyes when he grabs Johnny's wrist and yanks down, uses his free hand to push the opposite shoulder back, and sweeps his legs out from under him all in one swift move. The collective oooooh from the greenies, and the sight of Soap gasping for breath makes him almost smile. He actually does smile when he watches Soap pull it on Gaz a week later. (It takes Soap exactly 3 tries to figure out how to avoid Ghost when he tries to pull it, and another 3 for him to try it on Gaz and get it right).

Price, and eventually Soap, can always tell when Ghost needs an outlet for his pent-up anger. When he gets mouthy one of them will take him to the mats and spar until they’re both exhausted and soaked in sweat.

In the field it is a lot less fun and games. There is no subduing or tap outs, it is kill or be killed. Gaz understands why Ghost refuses to spar with him after he’s sent on a mission with him and watches in almost awe as the man lives up to his legend and comes out victorious in a 4v1. Banged up and in need of medical care, but victorious.

Now onto the public

Honestly I don’t think adult Ghost gets into too many fights outside of work. Teen Ghost got into fights all the time, but adult Ghost has a better handle. However when he does get into a fight, it’s usually his fault, because he provoked the person into swinging. He has a way with words, a terrifying ability to pick out a person's insecurities and use them against them. He rips into people's emotions, and when most of the public places he frequents are bars, his targets are easily riled up. He doesn’t necessarily go looking for fights, he just enjoys pissing people off.

Like I’ve said before, Ghost is not a heavy drinker. He was surrounded by addicts his whole life, he knows what alcohol and drugs can do to a person. He would never drink himself to the point of oblivion. He may have a drink or two when he and Johnny go out to the bar, might even let himself get a little tipsy if the squad is celebrating something huge, but he never gets drunk to the point where he can’t function. Because of this, any fight he gets into in a bar is resolved within seconds. One solid punch to the jaw, and the drunken asshole pawing at some young girl drops to the floor. A person who can’t even stand up straight has no chance against a member of Special Forces.

He doesn’t take cheap shots. He’s not gonna kick a guy when they’re down. Once his opponent hits the ground, he stops. He very rarely loses control and just keeps going.

He has been in a couple of bar fights, one time he took a bottle of alcohol to the head and had a hard time trying to explain to Price why he was given 15 stitches and a week's medical leave.(Not that he took it)

Sorry there's not a lot for this one. I just don’t see adult Simon getting into that many unwarranted fights. He will fuck a guy up if he’s harassing you, or any woman for that matter, he’ll step in if someone gets too rowdy at the bar, if they swing he’ll swing back, and he does not respond to threats against him and his very well, but things like that really don’t happen to often in his way of life.

Fight club(sorry I just keep going 😅😭)

This is a bit ooc, but I thought it was fun nonetheless

Soap takes him to a fight club once, just to watch, but Ghost is enthralled. Soap comes back from getting pretzels to an empty bench. He panics for a second before his gaze moves to the ring, where Ghost stands in a t-shirt and shorts, a plain balaclava hiding his face. Soap makes a lot of money that night.

Ghost finds a new pass-time in this ‘fight-club’ that Soap showed him. It’s a great way to release pent-up energy when he is on leave, and he always leaves feeling relaxed and less volatile.

When the memories and nightmares get too much for him, he goes and pounds it out in the ring. He finds a man of his size and skill, and they become sparring partners almost every time.. Despite the broken ribs, he leaves feelings much happier. Price, however, is not when he hears that Ghost will be out of commission for at least a month.

He goes by the nickname Reaper. (He let Soap pick it out, and regrets that decision deeply)

He enjoys the fight club almost more than he enjoys sparring with Soap. He enjoys being able to fight for fun rather than survival. The anonymity he’s allowed and the money that comes from winning is a nice bonus.

He still keeps to himself, declining his opponents/partners attempts to get a phone number or offers to grab a drink.

If he’s married, you notice that he’s not quite as harsh when he gets back from deployments as he used to be. Though you don’t like his bruised knuckles and bloody noses, if this is what helps him process his trauma then so be it.

He takes you sometimes, to watch. You like watching him win, like the way the clothes cling to his muscled frame, but the sight of his face getting punched in is one you'd rather never see again.

They offer self-defense classes, and he signs you up. He had already taught you some self-defense tips, where to aim and how to hit in the even of an emergency, but he'd rather you have someone to practice with so you know what to do.

Extra(aka sad stuff)

I know that Ghost is not superhuman or immortal, but this man is a beast. He survived an abusive childhood, being kidnapped, tortured, assaulted, and the massacre of his whole family. He can fight through incredible amounts of pain, and is ruthless and blood thirsty. In a life or death situation, all morals go out the window, and he will do what it takes to survive. He’s not proud of it.

When he holds his newborn son for the first time he almost panics. The fragile baby body feels wrong in his scarred, war-torn hands. He sits on the bed for a long time after you take the baby to put him down, just staring at his hands. His fingers curl and uncurl in his palm as he tries to get the image of crushing his baby's fragile skull like he's crushed the throats of his enemies out of his head. It takes hours for the feeling of blood to fade from his skin.

Anywayyys, I hope this is what you were looking for, and again, sorry for the length 😅 Let me know what you think and/or if you want more headcannons in the future :))

#sorry this is just me rambling #simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #ghost x reader #no beta we die like men #ghost fanfiction #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #cod #cod x reader #ghost headcanons #cod headcanons #I don't even know if there is a point to half of these lol #angst

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mumms-the-word · 25 days

Text

Shadow Curse Events Pt. 3

The first 40 days

Hello, friends, and welcome to the third and final installment of this little series about the Shadow Curse in BG3. Part 1 talked about Ketheric's descent into Sharran worship and how he built his Dark Justiciar army. Part 2 detailed the events of the war between the Harpers/druids and Ketheric's army, a bloodbath that culminated in Ketheric's supposed death and a high-cost victory for the Harpers and druids.

With Ketheric's dying breath, he utters a curse and the shadow curse takes full effect within hours. That's what this post is about. There are two journals that give us a day-by-day breakdown of the shadows as they roll outward from town, Olam's Journal and Oliver's Diary. Using these (plus other materials, naturally), I wanted to construct a kind of timeline for the first 40 days of the shadow curse as it slowly took over the landscape.

Quick cw: some descriptions of madness and implied sexual trauma from one note left behind by a Reithwin citizen

As always, long post ahead, under the cut!

———

Dear Diary, Day 1: Nothing ever happens in this town. I'm ready to go to the Gate. If Mother won't let me, I'll run away myself. She says my lungs are too weak for the smoke. But how am I living at all, when all I do is milk the rothe? [mumms' note: I imagine this diary entry by Oliver was written before the battle, but during the siege. I can't imagine him writing "nothing ever happens" when a battle is actively taking place.]

Let me set the stage. It is the third day of the battle between the Harper-druid army and Ketheric Thorm. The Harpers have already tried to surrender, only to be denied by Ketheric, who joins the battle himself. The death tolls are astronomical and the citizens of Reithwin are either cowering and trying to survive the battle that rages outside their doors or fighting as part of a volunteer force. The tides have turned in the Harpers' and druids' favor as reinforcements for Dark Justiciars inexplicably stop coming (thanks to the mason's infernal deal). At last, some lucky Harper or druid strikes the blow that finally fells Ketheric Thorm. Ketheric uses his last breath to utter a curse on the land, the actual words lost to time, and dies. Together with other Harpers and druids, Jaheira assists in dragging Ketheric's body from the battlefield and sealing it inside the Grand Mausoleum. But the damage has already been done.

It's day one of the shadow curse.

Day 2 of Darkness I stood calm as Ketheric uttered his final curse and then withered. As my fellow Harpers dragged his putrid corpse from the battlefield, I allowed myself to feel relief, even solace. A wrong had been righted, an evil thwarted. Victory had come - but I had yet to know its true cost. The darkness shrouded the land like a vast cloak. It began as a chill, as if the Claw of Winter had gripped us. Within hours, every breath was a dagger piercing my throat. I hungered for air like a wolf hungers for meat - yet I could still get my fill, thanks to my armour. Would that the men and women of Reithwin had been so well-equipped. One by one they fell, only to rise as shadows of themselves, intent on extinguishing all light, and all life. The shadows hang less heavy in this place. It still takes some effort to fill my lungs, but better to expend effort than to unite with darkness. My traps should keep me safe - or at least, safe enough.

Olam, an aasimar Harper who eventually fell victim to the shadow curse as he was trying to find ways to reverse it, is our best record for the first day. According to him, the first sign of the curse was a chill, as cold as the Claw of Winter, a reference to the winter month of Alturiak.

Months in Faerûn have two names, a sort of "official" name and a common name. The second month of the year, Alturiak, is commonly known as the Claw of Winter, a month of deep cold that sets in after Midwinter (the day right before Alturiak 1). Given that Ketheric's speech to his troops suggests they're preparing to face winter, and the fact that Thisobald's notes tell us that Ketheric was poisoned by the Harpers in Elient, the month that contains the Autumn Equinox, it's safe to suggest that the battle happened in late autumn. A sudden chill as cold as deep winter would be very alarming, especially accompanied by an unnatural darkness.

So, first comes the cold, so piercing and uncomfortable it makes it hard to breathe. Then comes the shadows, a darkness that settles over the town and begins to spread. If you're in armor, if you've trained your body to withstand magical and physical attacks, if you're resistant to any kind of damage, if you're one of the miraculous soldiers who hasn't been horribly wounded and weakened, you have half a chance to survive the initial shadows.

The untrained citizens of Reithwin don't have even that half-chance.

One by one they fall to the shadows. One by one they rise again as twisted, changed, ravenous undead, "intent to extinguish all light, all life." We've seen what the curse does ourselves to Harpers like Yonas, or to other living creatures like the hyena or the goblin near the mountain pass entrance. The Harpers and druids who believe that they can put battle behind them at last are now faced with a new enemy—the undead, shadow-cursed husks of innocent (and perhaps not so innocent) citizens.

Image: An armored arm covered by black and green shadow magic reaching out.

Not just citizens, either. The shadows soon claim Harpers and druids too. The shadows do not discriminate.

Halsin: Even in defeat, though, Ketheric turned to Shar. Not long after we sealed him away in his tomb, the shadow curse took hold. No one had seen the likes of it before. No one knew how to react…Then it started to claim all those within its reach. Those who had survived the battles now fell to the shadows - became part of the shadows. And worst of all…I lost contact with Thaniel. I wanted to try and find him, but we couldn’t stay. We would have all succumbed. When the Archdruid of the Grove - my predecessor - was seized by the curse, I had to lead the survivors to safety. That was my first day as Archdruid. An inauspicious beginning.

The Harpers and druids no doubt scatter, scrambling for light, caught flat-footed in a fight against the undead they must now kill, some of whom might even be their own allies, their own friends, and a darkness they can scarcely understand. As more and more people fall, more and more corpses reanimate. There's no use fighting. Their only real choice is to run.

Halsin, among the survivors, desperately tries to gather together druid survivors and rescue the wounded from the curse, going so far as to carry some on his back, according to unique dialogue with Jaheira. As they attempt to flee, the former Archdruid falls, seized by the shadows. Halsin is forced to leave him behind to ensure the survival of the other druids.

Halsin: It is an honour to see you again, High Harper. Jaheira: No need for titles. You may call me Jaheira, so long as you are content to be known as Halsin. And the honour is mine. Your stewardship of the Emerald Grove has made for something of a story among the circles. The apprentice who survived the shadow curse, and carried his masters home on his back. Who was raised their master in turn, and searches still for a way to save what was lost. [mumm's note: Halsin says he never met Jaheira, but this could be him being polite, or him referencing that he has seen Jaheira before, they've just never spoken or officially met.]

At the same time, he's lost contact with Thaniel. The spirit of the land has been pulled into the Shadowfell somehow by the onset of the curse as it spreads outward and begins to take over the landscape. Perhaps the Shadowfell claims others, as well, the moment the darkness falls over them, rather than transforming them into undead shadow corpses. We know this happens to Art, after all.

But Halsin doesn't have time to think about Thaniel, unfortunately. With the Archdruid dead, it is now his responsibility to look after the wounded and surviving druids and lead them to safety.

[This is an ancient notebook, whose ink is faded and pages are starting to crumble. It's not easy, but some words can still be made out.] Ketheric is finished, but it cost us the land. Darkness has fallen, corruption is everywhere. [...] ...chased by shadows, picking us off, druids and Harpers alike. [...] ...our wounded were safe, I returned, searching for survivors... [...] ...lost, but I found his shade. I put it to rest and took his glaive... [...] ...blade infused with shadow. I have locked it away, to serve as a reminder that even victory can taste bitter.

In the launch version of the game, the glaive Sorrow belonged to the old Archdruid. (In early access, it belonged to Halsin, but that is an entirely separate post.) Halsin's old notebook reveals the lengths he went to save the wounded, becoming the Grove's leader the very hour, the very minute that the old Archdruid succumbs to the curse. He doesn't stop to fight the Archdruid's shade. He must save whoever he can.

In town, others are trying to flee the curse as well. The first couple of days, it's all the citizens can do to stay ahead of the darkness and escape the shadows before they're taken. One person attempts to send word via a raven seeking help. The raven, too, succumbs to the curse.

[This letter is written on a scrap of paper. Blood and age have made it near illegible in parts.] HELP! A darkness has rolled into Reithwin, cutting us off on all sides. We’ve sent people through, but no one can make it more than a few steps before [the words are obscured by drops of blood.] This letter is our last hope. Send help - anyone, from anywhere, I beg of you. I will renounce our Lady Loss and kiss the Moonmaiden’s feet if that’s what it takes. Just don’t let the darkness take us.

It's nearing the end of the first day. Halsin has at last seen the wounded to some kind of safety and turns back, braving the shadows again to try and find the old Archdruid. He finds his shade and kills it, taking his glaive as a reminder, since the shadow-corrupted body must be left behind. With his duty at last done, Halsin departs the shadow-cursed lands to return to the Emerald Grove with the survivors. He does not return again until a century later.

———

Day 2 of the shadow curse.

Olam the Harper manages to secure something of a safe refuge in a hidden room of the House of Healing's morgue where the shadows hang less heavily. He sets up traps to deter shades and shadow-cursed zombies.

Citizens of Reithwin who haven't fled the curse on day one and are resilient enough to survive the first day are slowly succumbing, too. Some citizens seem to willingly give themselves to the shadow curse, or are taken entirely by surprise.

A couple on the roof of the House of Healing lay together, whispering poetry to one another as the darkness falls. Another couple lays curled up in their home, perhaps trying to hide from the shadows as the darkness presses against the doors and windows. Other citizens drag their feet, trying to pack up their lives and follow after more slowly. The result is the same for all of them. Death to the shadow curse, or the shades it creates from the dead. Their skeletal remains lay untouched for decades afterward.

———

Day 5 of the shadow curse.

Olam, sequestered inside the morgue, is simply trying to survive. The curse begins spreading outward, its borders expanding toward the outer reaches of the landscape.

Day 5 of Darkness The shadows ebb and wane. A torch flame is sometimes enough to burn them away, but no light can dispel the deepest of them. I called my familiar Corvin to my side, but he could scarcely take wing. Tomorrow I search, and not just for food and drink. I might find a scroll, or an artefact, or an arcane focus that can ward off this curse. Perhaps I might even find another survivor.

Olam is hopeful, but he is very likely the sole survivor of the shadow curse within the town itself. There are, however, survivors outside the town, some of whom are still trying to flee. Others, like Oliver and his mother, are forced to stay in their home as the shadows creep closer and closer.

———

Day 7 of the shadow curse.

Before Oliver held half of Thaniel's essence, he was a young boy (possibly a tiefling) on a rothé farm on the outskirts of Reithwin. He seems to have been born with or developed a chronic illness of some kind, as his mother worries about his lungs not being able to handle the smoke of Baldur's Gate (I assume this is a passing reference to some early industrialization of the city). But by day seven of his journal, the shadows have already started to spread outward toward his home.

Day 7: Ha, a strange fog is descending over our own town. Hasn't left in days. Getting hard to breathe. Mother is eating her words, saying we should head out to the city to stay for a while until it lifts. We go at dawn.

(I personally don't think the numbered days in Olam and Oliver's journals align, where Olam's Day 5 of darkness is also Oliver's Day 5 in his diary. I think it's more likely that they're offset by 2 or 3 days, with Oliver beginning his journal 2-3 days before Olam did, so Olam's Day 4/5 would be Oliver's Day 7, and so on. But for simplicity's sake, I'm just going to use both of their dates as if they were perfectly aligned.)

———

Day 8 of the shadow curse.

Oliver and his mother try to brave the shadows to head west to Baldur's Gate, but the shadow-cursed creatures are too dangerous. They turn around and take shelter in their home once more. They spend another several days protected from the curse, somehow.

I suspect it's Thaniel's lingering presence near the house that is saving them. But they couldn't possibly know that.

———

Day 14 of the shadow curse.

Oliver and his mother have given up hope for any kind of escape. The shadows are too dangerous. It's too late to leave.

Day 14: We tried to leave, but there are creatures from beyond the grave, skulking around the outskirts of our land. It's too late.

———

Day 18 of the shadow curse.

Everything is dead or undead. Everything except Olam, Oliver, Oliver's mother, and the animals they care for...for now. The town is still, as if suspended in time, but not quiet. Things stir in the darkness.

Day 18 of Darkness It's a particular loneliness, in these shadows. Corvin shows great affection when I call him, even as he suffers. Those few minutes are at least some comfort, for us both. It is remarkably still in here, and even stiller out there. I have found a few scrolls and books near the House of Healing, as well as some scattered artefacts, but they hold nothing for me. The only answers call out from within the House itself, where I dare not enter. I hear the moans of the anguished, the shouts of the cruel. There are those who make their home in the shadows, but I am no less alone for them.

Olam's hopes are dwindling. The shadows had taken the life of everything they've touched. Many shadow-cursed undead lie dormant, waiting for something to stir them back into action. Others have been reduced to shades and towering living shadows. Still others, like those inside the House of Healing, have been transformed. In particular, it seems as though the nurses, if not Malus himself, have become twisted undead versions of their living selves, something different than the average shadow-cursed corpse.

Because, you see, being transformed into a shadow-cursed being doesn't simply mean death and undeath. Not always. It also means a descent into pure madness as you lose your entire sense of self. Some victims choose to venture more into the darkness rather than fight it.

Shadow creature transformation is like this: I am standing in a tunnel with one way leading into light and the other leading into darkness. The tunnel glistens and stinks like a tube of rancid sausage. Everything slick with slime. I've got to get out of here. I know I do. But which way? Light or dark? Not day and night. The light is coming from the face of my grandfather, who used to squeeze my knee under the dining table with his bony fingers. His wizened, grinning face is the face life wears. It has flayed off his face and is wearing it now, lantern bright, in the light at that end of the tunnel. The dark though. The dark is absolute. No faces there. No old family trouble there. No bad dreams or memories there, well, well that's decided then isn't it! Sauntering now, striding now, running into the velvety black, embraced, bones snapping, body softening, silking, feeling the change, old life left behind, new life new me let's go yippee!

(There's also weird poetry about the shadows, if you're interested.)

The shadow curse is still Shar's darkness, and the allure of the dark's embrace is still there. Victims who lose their minds to the shadow curse as they turn into shadow creatures are drawn to this twisted idea of a new life (an un-life, really). As we see with Yonas, they're eager to bring others down with them.

Harper Yonas: There you are...come...join me...

Reithwin may be dead, and it may be still, but it isn't quiet.

———

Day 21 of the shadow curse.

In the outskirts, the shadows have possessed Oliver's rothé. They too grow mad, attacking one another and dying, only for the shadows to resurrect them again.

Day 21: The rothe are all possessed, knocking down their fence, battling and bashing one another to death... Dying then fighting again. The shadows are everyone... right outside our window. I can't see more than a few strides out. [mumm's note: I think "everyone" is supposed to be "everywhere" here.]

The darkness is only getting worse.

———

Day 26 of the shadow curse.

Nearly one full month since Ketheric's death. The shadows have grown darker and darker. In Oliver's cabin, he and his mother can only see a few strides beyond their windows. In town, where Olam continues to try and search for ways to end the shadow curse, the air has darkened from grey to black and grown so thick that breathing it in is like swallowing molasses or tar.

Day 26 of Darkness I called on Corvin yet again, but I cannot bear his torment. Nor can I bear my own. Grey has turned almost to black, and the air might as well be molasses or tar, so hard as it is to choke down. 'All beings should walk free of fear', I was taught. Oh, if only were I granted such a fine fate.

This is the last entry in Olam's journal. After days of trying to break the shadow curse, experimenting with various spells to push back the darkness or dispel the magic, after days of him and his bird familiar, Corvin, being the only living things he has encountered since the onset of the curse, Olam finally succumbs to the shadows. Perhaps he chooses to end his own life, or perhaps the shadows have crept into the morgue and at last killed him. Either way, his body, tainted and ruined by necrotic magic, remains sealed in his morgue hideaway for another century.

———

Day 28 of the shadow curse.

There are only two people still living in the midst of the shadows. Oliver and his mother remain unaffected by the curse, so long as they stay within their home. Oliver has no idea why the curse does not push into their house—it certainly has no issue creeping into every other home in and around town.

But I suspect Thaniel is at work. Given that Thaniel's spirit was torn in half by the shadow curse, perhaps the part that lay behind took refuge in Oliver's home. Perhaps that half is already in Oliver himself.

But Oliver grows restless. Though the curse has yet to take them, living with it is not easy. His weak lungs can't handle the shadow-thick air, even if it does not corrupt him immediately. He begins to contemplate death.

Day 28: I'm not dead yet. But I'm going to die here, aren't I? I can hardly breathe. Why does it not get into our house? Why doesn't the curse take us already. Day 35: I can't stand this. I've been trying to write a memoir of myself but it's still no good. I'm too weak to pen fine words. I am going to die unremembered, be what may. It's getting pointless to cower in here. There is nothing we can do about this all-encroaching dark. Tomorrow, I will walk out into the fog, and I will laugh. With love, a farmhand, forever to be unknown.

———

Day 35 of the shadow curse.

Olam is dead. Everyone in town is dead. Most people in the outskirts are dead. Except for Oliver, and perhaps his mother, and even Oliver can no longer handle the loneliness and despair of the shadow curse. Oliver plans to leave the safety of his home and give in to the shadows, rather than die a much slower death as the shadows continue to creep in.

———

Day 36 of the shadow curse.

Oliver opens his door and walks out into the dark fog of the curse. Some flowers still bloom, untouched by the curse or the shadows, just outside his doorstep. The corpses of the rothé lie inert in the darkness, having died twice over days before. Oliver likely doesn't linger on either detail. It only takes a few strides for the darkness to envelop him.

It only takes moments for it to change him.

Oliver as he was in life is gone, taken by the shadow curse. But some vestige of Thaniel keeps him alive, keeps them both alive. But the shadows have already done their damage.

Oliver remains near his home as the years pass, his laughter and his games turning ever deadlier as the curse strengthens and grows.

———

Day 39 of the shadow curse.

Halsin and the other druids have long since returned to the Emerald Grove. The mantel of leadership weighs heavy on his shoulders. He has sealed away the old Archdruid's glaive, tainted as it is with shadow magic, and begins to turn his attention to leading the Grove. A task he never asked for, and doesn't feel he deserves.

Jaheira has moved on to other adventures, working independently or with other Harpers. It will be another several decades before duty calls her back into the shadow-cursed lands, back to the site where she fought to maintain balance and put an end to a corrupted Sharran general.

The town of Reithwin and the surrounding landscape is dead. Dead, but not quiet. The shadows sink into the land itself, twisting the trees, slowly cracking the very earth apart. Shadows continue to stir, corrupting everything they touch. The unlucky undead that are not granted blissful oblivion shamble among the ruins of the town, between the remains of the battle. Their actions are twisted recreations of their living days, as nurses or as patrons of the Waning Moon. Their minds are all but obliterated.

The town settles into a pattern of hungry shadows on the hunt and undead corpses shuffling mindlessly through the motions. This pattern will remain undisturbed for a century or more.

———

Day 40 of the shadow curse.

Inside the Grand Mausoleum, behind the sigil-sealed doors, the crypts of the dead are not as still and silent as they should be. Something, someone moves in the darkness.

Ketheric Thorm, pulled back into the land of the living, stands at the foot of his daughter's sarcophagus. He wants to forget. He wants the darkness to swallow him whole. But it does not.

A bloated, fleshy hand reaches out in the darkness, and Ketheric hears an all too familiar voice, deep and resonant with dark magic.

"Let us refocus our efforts, General. In here, we have everything we need to bring her back. It will only take time."

Ketheric, having lost everything, agrees.

———

Okay, so maybe Day 40 was just me guessing/wanting to get creative. I believe Ketheric probably woke up, since he's still functionally immortal thanks to Aylin, relatively soon after the shadow curse was unleashed. But because he was sealed in the mausoleum by the Harpers and druids, he must have spent the better part of a few years, maybe even a few decades, trying to gather the strength to blow open the doors and leave.

He's been defeated, and Shar has likely withdrawn her blessings on him. His only power now is his immortality (probably). We know he doesn't build an army again until a century later, when he does so under Myrkul's command. So I imagine he probably spends many decades in the mausoleum, trying to forget, or (failing that) trying to resurrect his daughter.

Forgetting evades me in this infinite darkness. Balthazar is my own source of the barest comfort - the thought that, perhaps, she might be brought back to me. If oblivion can fail, what defence have we against death? None except its mastery. Balthazar's words have never felt more promising.

Somehow Balthazar finds him. Perhaps Balthazar was sealed inside the mausoleum too. But Balthazar promises to find a way to restore the one thing Ketheric wants. Ketheric doesn't desire vengeance. Ketheric doesn't want another army. Ketheric wants Isobel. And Balthazar, a powerful necromancer, believes he can deliver.

So the experiments begin. And fail. And fail. Thisobald, Gerringothe, Malus. The Thorm family members rise again, except they're twisted, grotesque, a little mad. Not how Ketheric wants Isobel to be. But they keep trying. Until at last, nearly a century after his defeat, after a century of struggling to forget and fall into oblivion, ignored by Shar, Ketheric turns to Myrkul. He agrees to become Myrkul's Chosen and do his bidding, in exchange for the one thing he wants most.

Isobel.

Melodia would understand, if she knew my aim. She too, I believe, would have turned to Myrkul under such conditions as these. Our darling will live again. What kind of man would I be if I didn't raze the world entire for her sake?

Ketheric at last renounces Shar to pledge himself to Myrkul. And Myrkul, unlike Shar, keeps his promise. The death that began the spiral into Sharran zealotry, that led to the shadow curse itself, is finally reversed.

After more than a century of death, Isobel wakes up.

———

So ends the three-part series about the shadow curse. What a ride. I'm so fascinated by this entire act/history because it feels like diving into war history or something. So thanks for following, if you followed all three parts!! Let me know what other deep dives you want me to do!

Tags for those who wanted an update! @fingons-rad-harp @stuffforthestash @cakenpiewhyohmy

#bg3 #bg3 discourse #bg3 meta #bg3 critical #halsin #halsin silverbough #jaheira #ketheric thorm #deep dive #long post #super long post #someone tell me why this was the easiest one to write

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adrift-in-thyme · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Day 1: “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Read it on Ao3

- Wild & Four

- Summary: On the battlefield, Wild suffers a concussion and Four has to split to keep him safe

CW for head injury/concussion and brief mention of vomit

—————————

“Champion! Behind you! Look out!”

Four knows it’s too late even as he shouts. In the time it has taken him to turn around, catch sight of the armed moblin, and open his mouth, the monster has already raised its weapon. And at the distance he is from Wild, there is no possible way he can make it to him in time, even at a sprint. But he tries anyway. Cutting down the nearest monster, he breaks into a run.

Wild whirls around as his warning registers, sword held ready. His eyes widen as he sees the moblin and for a split second Four dares hope that maybe, just maybe he will have a chance at defending himself or getting out of the way. Sure enough, Wild throws himself into a sideways leap. But even as he does, the moblin swings its weapon in a wide, horizontal arc.

The sword catches up with the champion at the tail end of its journey. It collides with his side with such force Four is certain he can hear the bones in his arm breaking from here. Wild goes flying head over heels, then lands a few feet away in a heap of bloodied tunic and spread-eagled limbs.

“Wild!”

Four looks between the champion and the monster that has now turned its eyes on him. If the others were here perhaps he could afford to rush to his friend’s side immediately. But they are back at the camp, awaiting the results of their patrol.

A patrol that was never supposed to lead to a camp full of black-blooded monsters.

Gritting his teeth, Four makes his decision. Holding the sword high, he closes his eyes and lets the familiar sensation wash over him. Magic flows through him and out, his emotions splitting and solidifying.

“Oh no! Wild!”

No sooner has he opened his eyes again, Red catches sight of their fallen friend. His face spasms as he takes a step forward.

“We’ve gotta help him!”

“You go to him, Red—” Vio says.

“And hurry it up,�� Blue interrupts, gesturing toward the monsters that are now closing in on Wild’s prone body. “He hasn’t got much time.”

Vio nods. “I’ll come with you.”

“We’ll handle the monsters over here,” Green says, already turning on his heel. Blue lunges after him without hesitation.

Red doesn’t have to be told twice. He rushes over to Wild as fast as his legs can take him, cutting through any monsters within reach. Once he reaches the fallen champion, he skids to a halt. Sheathing his sword, he hits the ground on his knees beside him.

“Wild?”

Wild looks far worse from this proximity than he did from far away. His arm is indeed broken and lying at an unnatural angle. Blood darkens his tunic on his right side where the weapon hit him the hardest. The crimson liquid trickles down his forehead too and an angry bruise is already forming beneath it. Its purples and blues and golds stand starkly against the pallor of his skin.

Bright blue eyes blink open, then promptly shut. Wild groans.

“Is he awake?”

Vio comes to kneel beside Red, brows pinched in a frown. Red wipes at his eyes, swiping away the beginnings of tears.

“I-I think he’s waking up.” He leans forward. “Wild, can you hear me?”

“Mhm.” The champion groans again, shifting a bit. “Hurts.”

Red puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re here now. We’ll make it stop hurting.”

Vio turns away and starts rifling in his pouch. “Prop his head up, Red.”

With gentle hands, Red complies, guiding the champion’s head into his lap. Wild pries his eyes open and squints up at him.

“Wha…happened?”

“You were wounded in battle,” Vio says. He is in the process of setting out supplies now. A bottle of potion stands amongst the blades of grass, its crimson contents glittering in the midday sun. A bundle of bandages joins it. “Though we’ve yet to ascertain the severity.”

Red thinks for a moment, then holds two fingers in front of Wild’s face. Try as he might, he can’t quite still their trembling. But it doesn’t matter if anyone sees. Not now, with his friend so severely injured. And besides, he wants to help in any way that he can.

“How many fingers am I holding up, champion?”

Wild blinks mismatched pupils, trying and failing to focus on the appendages. After a moment, he snickers.

“Four.” He starts to giggle. “Like–like you. Four Fours.”

Red looks over at Vio. The violet-clad hero pauses in the middle of unscrewing the potion, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Seeing double, acting loopy, pupils in two different sizes – the symptoms all point to the thing he had suspected since seeing Wild’s head injury. A concussion.

“Hey!” Blue calls from a short distance away. The screams of monsters drift over from where he and Green are still battling fiercely. “You guys gonna keep us updated or what? Is he okay?”

At that moment, Wild’s laughter turns into a wet, hacking cough that shakes his injured body and brings tears to his eyes. Cringing, Red strokes his hair in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

This situation is getting worse by the moment, he is sure of it.

“He has a concussion,” Vio calls back. “And some bad bruising, broken bones. I can’t be certain of the internal damage.”

“But the potion will take care of that, right?” Red asks, desperately.

Vio shrugs. “For now. But we need to get him back to camp as soon as possible. He’ll need rest and a fairy. Here, he can’t get either.”

Wild’s coughs subside, though he shivers with the aftershocks of them. He slumps back against Red, breathless. Sniffling, the hero reaches down and slips his hand into Wild’s.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

He squeezes and the champion squeezes back, albeit lightly.

“Don worry bout me,” he slurs, gazing dazedly at nothing. “Be fine.”

The very fact that he isn’t even attempting to get up, tells of the lie in his words. But neither Red nor Vio sees fit to point it out. Merely sharing another glance with Red, Vio sets aside the cap of the bottle. He watches Wild for a moment to ensure he won’t begin coughing again, or worse, vomit. Then, when he is relatively certain he won’t do either, he touches the bottle to his lips.

“Here, drink.”

He tips it back just enough that the liquid slides sluggishly into Wild’s mouth and the champion swallows obediently. Once he has drained it all, Vio places the bottle back in his pouch and turns his attention to the bandages. Green and Blue jog up to the little group as he unravels them, sheathing their swords. Wild looks up at them, a slight grin tugging at his lips.

“Four Fours,” he chuckles, and Blue’s face instantly folds into a death glare.

“What on earth is he rambling on about?”

“He’s out of it,” Green says, taking note of the bleariness in Wild’s unfocused eyes and the blood still drenching his tunic. “You said he had a concussion, Vio?”

Vio nods. “The potion should take effect soon, but he’ll still need to rest up.”

“We need to get back to camp as soon as possible.”

“Yes. Here, help me move his tunic out of the way.”

Green bends and lifts the fabric up and away, revealing a sizable gash marring the champion’s left side. He lets out hiss as the air touches it, hold on Red’s hand tightening.

“It’s okay,” Red murmurs.

Vio immediately gets to work, cleaning the wound as best he can and then wrapping it in the gauze. The other three help in any way they can and between them all, they manage to make quick work of it.

“That’ll have to do for now,” Vio says, standing up and brushing off his tunic.

Blue blows out a sigh. “Great. Now we’ve gotta get him back.”

“I can walk,” Wild croaks. He is a bit more alert now that the potion has had some time to work. But still in no state to go skipping back to camp.

He looks up at them, familiar determination coloring his eyes. “Sorry, but you guys definitely can’t carry me.”

“No, we can’t,” Vio agrees, calmly. “Not unless we absolutely have to, at least.”

“But we’ll support you every step of the way!” Red promises.

Green nods. “Of course we will. Every step of the way.” He unsheathes his sword and holds it high, already beginning to shimmer in colors of four. “Though we’ll do it as one.”

Between one blink and the next, one small hero is standing before Wild. He offers the champion a small smile.

“But don’t worry. No matter what you won’t be alone.”

He bends and hooks his arm under Wild’s shoulders. The height difference makes maneuvering him upright difficult, and when Wild stumbles, both of them nearly topple. But Four manages. And soon they are limping down the hill, back towards camp.

Back towards safety.

Four breathes a sigh of relief. His body is vaguely sore from the battle and splitting, his mind worn from worry and strategy. The sooner they can return for both of their sakes, the better.

“Hey Four,” Wild mumbles, beside him.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Four smiles. “Anytime, Wild.”

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up?#linkeduniverse #fic #concussion tw #blood tw #injury tw #mention of vomit #lu wild #lu four #lu colors #whump #trin writes #hurt/comfort #angst #HERE WE GOOOO #I’m so excited for this month

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juvenillia · 6 months

Text

~ Death of Peace of Mind ~ 10: time

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader

photo credits go to very talented @ave661

a/n: hey there and welcome back, this is more of a cute filler chapter, just prepare yourself for the next one.. this is going to hit different

CW/TW: mentions of guilt, trauma, nightmares, suggestive content, but only the slightest in this one

wordcount: 2.3k

prev | masterlist | next

Time is a funny construction. Thirty minutes for example. Being on the battlefields and waiting for the signal to strike can feel like seconds. Not even knowing if you're ready, but you have to be. Standing in the infirmary waiting for the nurse to explain the injuries your teammate has suffered feel like hours. Hours that ate you up. Your usual nights would contain about seven hours of sleep. Your routine dragging you to sleep at the same time and at the same time out of bed.

Seven hours awake, too afraid to give in to your dreams can feel like eternity. But seven hours of restful sleep without any disturbing incidents that could feel like heaven. The best time of the past year. You didn't remember when the last time was you slept without your mind playing some awful jokes on you. You just remembered that you woke up and finding yourself tugged neatly under the covers of your own bed. Your memory was literally wiped, but you didn't care. For once you felt rested and relaxed while heading for your morning rounds. Nothing on your mind till Beth run up to you. "Something you wanna tell me, Seargent?", she was a teasing little piece of shit. Still a good soul. You just looked confused at her. "About your visitors last night?", she wore a mischievous smile. "Dunno what ya mean.", you kept your pace steady. "Sergeant MacTavish and Lieutenant Riley.", you immediately stopped in your tracks and suddenly you remembered.

You fell asleep in the common room; they must have brought you back to your own room. How deep asleep were you not realizing that one of them carried you all the way back? This will spread like a bushfire. "Well, it's nothing like it looks like.", you started to explain but she cut you short. "Oh, c'mon Sergeant. Everyone sees how they look at you. It's so obvious.", she cooed while patting your shoulder. You couldn't help but shift away from her. This left you even more confused. How would they look at you? Her words didn't make any sense. "Don't look at me so shocked. It's rare that the men of the 141 show even an interest in the opposite gender. Especially the Lieutenant, and now you enter the team, and they cling to you. Don't tell me you don't see that?! You enter the room, and it is like a spotlight sits on you. Their eyes are always on you. Some rookies even heard them talk about you.", her words nearly outstripped themselves. "Do me a favor Private, mind your own business. These thoughts are more than inappropriate.", you stated calm while picking up your pace and leaving her behind. You mentally scolded her for her assumptions. Still, you were the one with utterly red cheeks heading to the gym to meet with Kyle. The idea of Ghost observing you gave you a tingling in your stomach, but what made your stomach spin was that Ghost was surely the person that carried you bridal style back to your room last night. You sighed at the realization. Cheeks burning hot as you even ran quicker than before.

The next days were rather calm. You often went to the gym with Kyle. Had some sparring with Johnny and met with Ghost at the shooting range. You talked a lot about everything under the sun. Price and Laswell were up to an emergency plan how to turn the situation in the Camilo case. The base you frisked was indeed now heavy guarded, so it was a no go. But according to Price you would soon head out. So, every one of you stayed alerted.

The time flew by and soon you found yourself comfortable around the base, around the 141 and you knew that you never needed to set a foot back to Birmingham. The 141 became your new place to endure, survive and most importantly to live. Also, your period was over, but what wasn't over were the dreams that left you lonelier than before. To your surprise the scenario was nearly always the same and always the same smirk that left you longing for more. But to your fortune you were able to draw a line between the person you saw in your dreams and the Lieutenant that traded some good advice in handling different kind of weapons for the knowledge of your sparring skills. This dream Ghost and the still stoic Lieutenant were just so different, that it became easier to draw them apart. The more time you spend with each other the more you could see a difference between your fantasy and the man that became a friend to you. You didn't know if he felt the same, but you almost spend as much time together as you did with Johnny. Maybe even more than with the Scot.

He randomly found you at your morning runs adjusting his pace so you could keep up with him, he accidentally found himself in the kitchenette for an afternoon tea when you were already making yourself one and immediately pulling out another mug, and he like always showed up when you had your evening smoke. He was just there and of course everything was just random coincidences. What you didn't know was, that Simon did nothing of that accidentally. He knew your routine like he knew everything that happened at this base. He knew your time schedule and he couldn't bring himself to not showing up in the calm moments you could share. You always talked with him; he would gladly listen. You told him about Birmingham, the place you moved to as soon as you were legally allowed to move out. Not why though. He told you that he was from Manchester, and you shared some memories from that town. Memories that led you to a topic you never wanted to approach, and you didn't.

You told him more about Randy. You never wanted to talk about him, it felt like betrayal, but here in the late hours, clear night sky above you, a calming fag between your fingers and Ghost - no, Simon - seated by your side, you felt save. So, you told him about and God did it felt good. You told how the two of you met in a hospital, after one of the darkest days of your life. You didn't tell him what brought you there, but he had his assumption. Something that he wanted to never have to imaging. You even dared to mention your former team to him. Just the slightest anecdotes from operations. Their callsigns and that little box that was a gift of one of them, same as the lighter. You literally talked hours and Simon would sit there and listen. Listen carefully, that he never missed a thing you said, and he made sure he would forget nothing you told him. He appreciated the way you trusted him, and he loved the sound of your calm voice. Maybe one day he would be able to open to you as well, passing more share information of his story, of his past. He wanted to share with you, but there wasn't the right moment. He needed more time. For now, he just wanted to enjoy the peace he felt around you. You also never caught a glimpse of his face anymore. But you didn't push it. If he wanted to show himself, he would do it, sooner or later. In those moments everything felt at peace for both of you. And the talking helped to ease the pain in your chest. He was better than every therapist. You still had nightmares, but more rarely. You still found yourself clinging on the dog tag late at night and you still couldn't open your contacts and write that damn message. But it got better. You were glad that Simon was there with you, you were happy to have him by your side. Still giving you those God damn shivers, but you tried to ignore them. It felt too comforting around him. You didn't want to lose what you had just found.

Still, he was the one who wanted a bit more. He longed to make you smile, and even laugh like the others could. Especially Johnny. Anytime he stole a glimpse of both of you during dinner and sparring he always found you laughing. It seems like you had a way better bond with him than with Ghost, but who could blame you? Johnny was easy to get along, he was the person that slowly made Ghost warm up, so it was no wonder that he also was that person to you. Still, he had the desire to hear that melody from you because of him. He was eager to find out what could make you laugh.

It was now three weeks without an operation, three weeks just going after some chores around the base. Three weeks you found yourself enjoying the time with the boys more and more. The only thing that annoyed you were the words from Beth still echoing in your mind. Why did you always had to over think everything? She was a needy person that literally let anyone in her bed, like a barracks bunny gladly accepting every offer. Of course, she would see only those things, but it still bugged you. No one of them were flirting or obvious hinting something. You knew how people were around you when they had different intentions. You knew how men would treat you. You had seen the most different ways of it. But you saw nothing of it in Johnny and especially not in Simon. What did Beth think she saw? Nothing more than a fantasy she had...

It was late in the evening when you found yourself sitting on the patio together with Johnny. He told you a story from a festive in his hometown he went to when he was younger. Telling you all the pranks he pulled, and you listened and laughed with him. Fag in between your fingers, while enjoying the company. Moments like these told you, that the world wasn't such a bad place. Even if it were only a fracture of time before you got back to fight the worst things out there. That's when Ghost approached you and he didn't look so pleased. His tense body walking over where you were already seated. Johnny was sitting in Simon's usual spot next to you, during your evening smoke. He loved routines, and the spot on your right side became his. Johnny shouldn't be here at all; he should sit inside with Kyle before heading to bed. "Good evenin' Lt.", he exclaimed softly and you smiled at the tall figure that took a seat across from you instead. Instinctively pulling out your box with cigarettes and handed him the wooden box, he only shook his head. Usually, he would sit next to you, pulling his masked up, just enough to let the fag brush over his lips. You wouldn’t dare to look in his direction and would just keep talking. But he couldn't do it with you right in front of him. He wouldn't tell you that, and you wouldn't push his boundaries. You shrugged and put the box back next to you. "What were ya up to?", he asked shoving his hands in the pockets of his grey hoodie. Folding them into each other inside of the pocket. "Just talked about some childhood memories and that our Johnny was quite a troublemaker.", you laughed before bringing the cigarette back to your lips. Ghost nodded, his eyes following your hand to your lips and lingering there. Johnny noticed; he had taken notes quite some time ago. He bumped his shoulder playfully into yours, "See. When talking about stories from back home, there was something I wanted to ask yer." You only nodded as his permission to go on.

"Yer havin’ someone back home, bonnie?", but this sudden question made you choke on the smoke in your lungs. Simon didn't know why but his hands gripped each other tighter than before. His eyes narrowed and now stared at Soap before they found your figure again. "What ye told me yer from Birmingham but ye dinnea told me about the lads there.", he smiled while his eyes darted to Simon, who answered with a glare Johnny knew too well. You needed a moment to process the situation. Johnny never asked something so straightforward, especially not into this direction of topic. You took another long drag from the fag. It's not like the question was hard to answer, "Negative.", you simply stated. "But we already talked about that.", you glanced at him reminding him of the chat back in the safe house.

Johnny's eyes weren't on you, they were on Simon whose tension seemed to falter a bit. A grin on the Scots faces only grew, "Just wanted to make sure." - "Sure of what?", you leaned a bit further into the chair. "Och, ya know.", he stated teasingly while pushing himself up. "Gonna head to bed. G'night bonnie, g'night Lt.", he said while leaving both of your figures behind. Your eyes trailing after him, filled with confusion. Simon wasn't confused at all; he had an idea what Soap tried and he already hated him for that. You shrugged it off and closed your eyes, to just enjoy the comforting silence you now found yourself in. Simon wanted to break it, even if he hated Johnny for it, he was curious. He wanted to dig into your private life just once more. The life outside of the scent of smoke, dust, and gunpowder. His eyes trailed over your relaxed figure. An inaudible sigh. It wasn't the right time. There would be plenty of time for such things, but not now. Little did he know...

taglist: open just lmk

@yyiikes @saffronimagines @originaldeerhottub @illuminwtesz @killergoddess97 @kaelaiscool

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miscellaneoussmp · 7 months

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Did Bad and Bagi interactions inspire this? Yes. Do I expect this to be anywhere close to Canon? Nope. Anyway, here's the story of The Grim Reaper meeting a set of twins (cw/tw: blood/violence/death mentions, general Cellbit fuckery):

In war, a lot of horrible things happen. That's just how it is. People die, and it's a tragedy, as it always is. Bad always finds himself on the battlefields. His duty to the world beyond demands it of him. Reaping the souls of those who have unfortunately passed on during battle is as simple as it's always been. It's just more time-consuming than usual. Bad can't find the energy to mourn every single soul he takes. He mourns for souls he's yet to take, instead.

Bad likes to believe he's seen everything in this world. He's just as old as it, if not even older. This world shouldn't hold many surprises. As always, he's proven wrong. In the woods not incredibly far from a main battlefield, Bad finds two people. They look young, really young. One sits next a body that is ripped to shreds, and the other sits further from the body. The one closer to the body wipes blood from his mouth as he looks up at Bad. His brown hair was held out of his face with a set of goggles. The one farther is chewing on what looks to be stale bread. She looks between the other and Bad, through her ash blonde hair. They look like siblings, twins maybe. These two are the types of souls that Bad mourns. He can feel they're destined for greatness, yet they're stuck here.

The young duo looks absolutely terrified as Bad approaches them, two sets of wide bright blue eyes stare at him. The one next to the body stands, holding his knife in a shakey white knuckle grip. The one farther grabs a sword in an equally shakey grip. Bad points to the body, and he tries his best to explain that he's just here for the soul. The young brunette nods before turning to his companion, his sister Bad assumes, and translates. Bad recognizes the language as Portuguese, but he doesn't have any hope in understanding what was actually said. Both lower their weapons, the closer sits back down, and both look in amazement as Bad tears the soul from the body. Simple as that. He jokes about soul, luckily, being left in tact. Neither one of the younger two laugh.

Bad stays after his job is complete. He's curious about siblings. He's still guessing at that fact. He wants to know more about the young soldiers. He wants to know more about the young souls he's mourning for. Bad asks about their names. The demon wants to know what names he needs to plead cases for in front of Death, herself. The brunette looks to his sister, a guess still, before turning back to Bad shaking his head. Neither has a name. Bad didn't have one for a while either, so he doesn't push. Next, he asks about their ages. How young are they truly? They can't be much older than eighteen. Bad hates the answer he receives. Quinze, the blonde, speaks finally, her voice shakes. Fifteen, the brunette translates in unsure tone. Was Bad ever that young? He can't remember. Finally, he asks if they're actually siblings. There wasn't any hesitation, both nod.

Bad is taken a back when they question him in return. He really shouldn't have been. They ask–the brother mostly asks, but the sister speaks, as well, in their native tongue–about his name. He shares with them his name and a few nicknames he's gotten over the years. There's a hint of recognition in their expressions with a few of his names. After a few more questions, some of which Bad doesn't answer, he offers the siblings non-stale bread. The brunette doesn't take it, instead licking his lips that are still covered in blood. Bad gets it. He really does. The blonde cautiously takes it with her hands still shaking as she does so. She examines the bread for any tampering. Bad gets that, too. He really does.

The Grim Reaper takes his leave after the siblings fall asleep, it was hours of a futile struggle to stay awake. He knows they sleep light and fearful. Bad mourns for their souls before he ever needs to reap them. The demon curses whoever or whatever has forced these nameless teens to fight. He mourns for the day he'll take their souls. At least they'll know peace then.

After nearly eleven years, Bad meets one of the young souls he mourned for, once again. He took the name Cellbit, and Bad thinks it's a fitting one. Cellbit is a investigator now, and his face holds a relaxed smile. He thanks Bad for being kind to him all those years ago. He doesn't mention his sister.

After nearly eleven years, Bad meets the other young soul he mourned for, once again. She took the name Bagi, and Bad thinks it's a fitting one. Bagi is a pacifist now, and her bright eyes are full of curiosity and determination. She thanks him for being kind to her now. She doesn't mention her brother.

#qsmp #qsmp lore #qsmp fanfiction (sorta)#qsmp drabble #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp cellbit #qsmp bagi #theyre siblings your honor #no theme this time around just hit shuffle on one of my playlist #this is a bit longer than a drabble huh?#i hope yall like i had a lot of fun with it

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oh-koenig-my-koenig · 6 months

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'Fit for a King' - WIP - 'Oh, what I wanna do to you'

Fit for a King - Masterlist

a/n: help, I should get some rest instead I'm writing more könig smut

CW: talk about very explicit sexy stuff, little stalker fantasy, little degradation and primal stuff

König and Müller are on a short mission to get a target out of a prison, the team is working on some last-minute intel for the best way to get in. Müller just comes back from training as…

“Oh, what I wanna do to you”

(pure smut, NSFW)

I make my way back to my tent when all of a sudden, a hand grips my wrist and pulls me into a dark corner. My fight response is triggered and I almost scream but the hand clamps over my mouth as I’m pushed against a big manly frame. “Don’t.”, the voice says. Relief sets in as I recognize König’s accent. The hand slides down to wrap around my throat. “My god, you scared me.” The giggle behind me is mocking me. “Oh, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I roll my eyes. “Oh, you did, Colonel.” The sound coming from his throat is almost a low growl that sends a wave of need between my legs.

“I’ve been watching you closely the last few days.”, he says, non-chalantly. “And what did you observe?”, I want to know as the hairs in the back of my neck stand up straight. Knowing that he’s been keeping an eye on me, sometimes maybe when I didn’t realise it… did stuff to me. “The way your brows pull together before you take a shot, how you eat your dessert snack before the meal, that even all that tactical gear can’t hide your figure, at what time you go to work out, when you return to your tent, all alone …”, he trails off. “And that body of yours is making me think about stuff that I shouldn’t think about.” The thinly veiled lust in his voice gives a hint to what kind of thoughts he’s referring to. The whole situation is way too close, way too much, way too hot. But I don’t want him to stop. I want him to scoop me up, bring me to his tent and devour me whole.

“Oh, what I wanna do to you.”, he whispers. “You wanna do what?”, I sigh, acutely aware of every inch of him pressed into me. And I mean… every inch. The whole hard length against my lower back, as he rolls his hips. “I need to-“ The rest of his words turn into unintelligible murmurs as he nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck. “Come on, big boy, use your words.”, I taunt him and his grip around my throat gets firmer.

“You really want to know what I wanna do to you, Liebes1?” The gremlin voice comes out, his inflection in his voice turning crazy… and a little bit depraved. A mood I normally witness when he’s on the battlefield ripping through enemies. “I want to fuck you, drive my dick into you, see your tiny body swallowing it up, rein, raus, rein, raus2. Until you come around me.” His blunt descriptions send shivers of arousal down my spine, his hand still firm on my neck, his face – the mask pressed up against my temple. So close to my ear. “Then I wanna taste you, lick you, feel your wet dripping pussy on my face, because not knowing what you taste like is driving me crazy.” His fingers wander up until his hand is spanning from my chin around to the back of my neck. I can’t move my head an inch, wholly restrained by his arms around me.

“And then I’ll make you kneel for me, Prinzessin3, and fuck your pretty face, until I come down your throat. And you’re gonna be a good girl and say bitte und danke4 and swallow every last drop. And then I wanna do it all again.” His breath is heavy and erratic as it suddenly hits the side of my neck. The sensation sends shivers down my body and I squirm in his hold, rubbing my thighs together as the need between them gets stronger. “I wouldn’t let you leave my room for days, make you take me as often as I please, like a little slut, and pump you full of my cum. Oh, you would look so pretty with my marks all over your body. Everybody would know that you’re mine.” The last word is an almost unintelligible growl as he bites down on the soft spot between my neck and my shoulder. A small scream escapes my lips, turning into a muffled moan as his hand moves over my mouth. “Ssssh, Liebes1, or the others will hear.”, he whispers. My god, I’m so turned on right now, the restriction on my breathing only making it worse.

All of a sudden, he lets go of me and I almost fall down to the floor. My chest is heaving as I suck in air. I don’t dare to look back at him, I just straighten up. “König…”, is all I manage to say. A satisfied hum escapes his lips as I say his name. “If you say my name like that… I want nothing more than to hear you scream it while you’re coming on my tongue.” His right hand trails down my side as it comes to lay on my waist. “Then why don’t you take yourself what you want?”, I ask him, not daring to look at him. I feel heat creeping up my face and setting in at my cheeks in a heavy blush as I realise that I just proposed my superior officer to give me cunnilingus. And from the way his breath quickened under the hood and his fingers dig into my waist, he’s thinking about taking me up on my offer… I mean, I think we’re already past a certain point because he just confessed to wanting to pump me full of his cum.

"No, we can't do that.", he finally says. Still breathing heavily. His hand drops down leaving my waist. "Why not?", I ask, almost soundlessly. He chuckles, but it's not a happy sound. "If you have to ask this, Müller, then we really can't do this." With that he leaves, and I'm left here, alone, wet and needy.

Liebes: 'my love', 'lovely'

rein, raus: in, out (you catch the drift)

Prinzessin: princess

bitte und danke: literally 'please and thanks', more in the meaning of 'pretty please'

#könig #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig mw2 #könig x fmc #könig fanfiction #cod mw2 smut #könig smut #konig smut #cod smut

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ikemenomegas · 1 month

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Our faults lie flattered

title drawn from the bard's Sonnet 138 summary: You ruminate on your relationship with Gojo Satoru, to whom you no longer owe anything, and wake up beside Shoko, to whom you owe much more than you've given cw: omegaverse setting, unhealthy (very) consumption of alcohol, brief emetophobia, passive thoughts about partners/mates following one another into death, canonical character's (probably permanent) death, implications of an afterlife, explorations of grief and abandonment

Do you dream about him still?

Shoko's voice traces smoky through the vaultless sky, an equal echo to how she'd looked at you - with pity and a physician's distant, seeking stare - a short glass in her hand, ball of ice melting into the whiskey inside. She'd asked the question as a mouthful of whatever cocktail you had filled your mouth with enough sweetness to forget how much alcohol was in it but for the way it burned its way down. Even that was more easily blamed on the kick of sriracha behind the aperol.

It gave her time to watch for the uptick in your pulse, or the way your chest tightened and made it hard to swallow.

No, you had said once it was down, the words thick in your throat. Really, I hardly think of him at all these days.

She'd frowned, which she really should have probably done more of considering you were again drinking to forget, for the soft, fluttering hints of better days before memory was shunted away into a dizzy haze.

It was true, but it was also intentional. Every ache in your chest was pushed aside, ever overwhelming tide was overstepped. After he'd returned from the box, you had already indulged in over a month of speculations regarding your intentions and his, even before he'd... gone, and how he had set you free.

You sucked on the herbed sugar rimming your glass. Free, all free, of obligation, of oath, of aching for something-- you slammed down the wide base of the stemmed glass, eyes shadowed.

It was true. If you didn't think on him, you would not remember him. You couldn't remember all the things left undone, unsaid, all the questions left unanswered...

He hadn't left you with even a scar to remember him by.

Your head was heavy when you lifted it and smiled, as much for Shoko's benefit as for the bartender warily eying you, fiddling with the towel swung over his shoulder as if unsure what to do with his hands. I'll get over it. I will. It's taking time, but I don't... I try not to dwell on it, Shoko, you know that, your tongue was clumsy, slow as you enunciated.

She knew, you knew she did, but it seemed suddenly very important to remind her. How you didn't think how in his last moments, the man you'd sworn your life to hadn't wanted you, how he'd said goodbye without looking back, how he hadn't known you weren't watching.

You were getting over your partner dying, it was not uncommon. One would always outlive the other. As much as it was not common to be cut in half...

You stomach had turned like you'd been upended, the room nearly spinning like you'd suddenly decided to stand on the ceiling.

A party trick, Satoru had called it when you'd done it before. You'd been full of paltry games and parlour tricks, magic disguised as slight of hand, light at your fingertips, fire on your tongue, hovering in the air like a hummingbird.

Couldn't one be forgiven, when they never knew they'd grow up with it, for enjoying that it was real, for finding magic a little beautiful for all that it was terrible?

Your hand went to your mouth and you could have laughed, loud and raucous and taunting, at the way the bartender grabbed for his towel. Shoko hadn't done more than press a hand to your shoulder to keep you from falling to the floor as you wobbled on the stool. You'd never thrown up on the battlefield, nor from old soup, not even from being nailed in the stomach by curses or fellow sorcerers or Yaga's awful little cursed corpses.

Being sick had been his thing. He'd get horrible nausea before his cycles sometimes and his breathe would smell constantly of the ginger candies you'd found for him to take off the edge.

Your smile threatened to falter and even behind your hand, you forced it wider to belie the soft, pained sound which left your lips.

You hadn't cried either, since he died. It hurt too much for that, a pain beyond reckoning, which you had no right to anymore. It wouldn't kill you, his death, no matter how much you almost wanted it to.

Shoko's glass was over half full and fully inviting, but it wouldn't knock you out fast enough for this to all go away, to lock itself back behind the wall your mind seemed to have built to save you from daze that lurked beyond, tapping at the barrier in unwanted moments.

He hadn't wanted this to hurt you. That is what you hoped, but even though you'd made the choice to follow his plan, to remove your mark, it wasn't what you had wanted.

Drinking had hereto seemed to keep dreams, good and bad, from intruding upon the kind of sleep which never left you feeling rested.

This, blue above and blue ahead, was much nicer than what you remembered of the bar - although it too had been fairly nice. A peaceful expanse of sand, water shushing on your right, a breeze whispering in your ear, gardens with wooden walkways tempting you inland on the left.

A frisson ran through the air, there was an unnatural slash through the trees, but you shook it away and it was nothing, gone, grown over.

Here, you relaxed, you were intent upon it. Although surrounded by water on all sides, seldom had coming to the ocean been a relaxing experience, not when you were constantly called to the scenes of natural disasters or into the orbit of fates far greater than your own.

The water was oddly calm.

You went closer, feeling sand slide soft between your toes. It looked like the tide was going out, the flat expense of saturated sand washed wet with each grasp of the waves. It smoothed things like glass, washing away marks and footprints.

Your reflection matched you step for step when you veered towards that boundary.

Watching that hypnotizing barrier was probably why you didn't notice the figure occupying this in-between until their reflection bloomed by yours.

Your head jerked up, lips parted in silent surprise.

He was facing towards the horizon, his back turned towards you although you should have been able to see his profile with the way you were walking... best to leave it alone.

The wind kicked up, ruffling the soft fall of white hair about his temples. It blew harder and harder, ruffling the sea into little white capped waves, and then it passed.

Things settled back down around the little bubble of disbelief that had halted your steps without a single any movement from...

His name still tasted like poison on your lips, your throat closed around it, keeping it from choking free.

At the funeral, they would have given him some long, solemn, symbolic precept name, making it safe for him to be called, but somehow you couldn't bring yourself to invoke him. Maybe it was out of fear, and certainty that there was no way for him to answer.

Instead, you shuffled forward, heels drawing dashed tracks in the sand as you dragged your feet.

His bulk was familiar as your pressed first your fingers - to check that he would not collapse into mist at a touch - and then your palms like the start of wings on his back.

Was it only imagination that said he leaned into it? Shifting his perfectly balanced weight a little bit further back as you leaned your cheek flat between your palms, your ear turned far enough to catch the imagined sound of his lungs as his ribs shifted minutely against your touch.

How long had you wanted this? How long did you have it? You'd given it up, from fear, from a petty envy that you'd thought yourself above. His grasp on your had been tenuous at best, tied as you were by choice rather than fate-

Isn't it fate to share the world at the same moment-

-and you had held on just as lightly, like letting light lay over your palms rather than trying to grip it tight where it would just slip away.

You had thought him made of distance. Was he incapable of connecting with others, or simply unwilling? It had always seemed to be part of both.

He is not warm beneath your hands, in the same way the light in this place must be sun yet is not warmth and the water that much be sea is not cool. But he is there. Whether in a memory or as a visitor, drawn here by lowered inhibitions, who knew.

You had spent years forgetting that for all the distance between all people, all things, they found ways to come together again, to intertwine, in resonance or coalition.

You breathed, once, twice. Now he shifted, unmistakable.

You took half a step back. Your hands slipped down the powder-soft material of his shirt, from his shoulder-blades, and down his ribs.

Once, many years ago, you had been warned that one could grow tired of his beauty. And that was true. Like a cut stone, as a whole, one could grow used to him, the eye drawn instead to new flickers and bends in the depths, glimmers from within rather than the form as a whole.

It was those glimmers of light which winked back at you, emotion condensed into memory: times he made the ache in your chest almost feel like two sides of a wound touching, moments in which you believed wholeheartedly and without force in the presence of his humanity. Remembering those first odd days of your courtship when you couldn't fathom why he would come to you for anything tilted things sideways before you righted yourself.

In the end, none of these hopes had been yours. Maybe they could have been. Had you forgotten that you indeed could catch sunlight, that you did it every day of every summer unless the sky was filled with thunder? In which case, the drum of that could be yours too.

Still, that would have made him part of you, and Satoru had always been resistant to being subsumed.

Regardless, you would never know now. He would always and forever have been only almost yours.

What are you doing here... I've missed you

You kept your hands pressed to his back even as you thought Of course someone would miss a near constant, we'd known each other for almost thirteen years.

This seemed to be the way it always was. When you missed him too much, thought about him too much, you ended up dreaming about him. Even before you had married him, after he'd stuck himself into your life like a thorn, there had been times it had eased the ever present loneliness.

And there had been just as many times that you woke feeling more alone than ever, knowing you would never get the version of Satoru that visited in your dreams, belonging only to you.

This Satoru, scarless and uncovered and determinedly not ash, spoke in echos. "I've missed you," he said.

It makes you grit your teeth against whatever is behind that wall, threatening to wash away everything you've tried to hold onto.

"If you say so." It leaves your lips careless, all your bitter feelings held back by habit, all the cruel accusations you never wanted to level at him.

But this time, there's nothing to salvage by it, so after a few moments, you let go of him, let that distance that never seemed to fade fall back between the two of you, and started walking.

He followed, tethered by consciousness or whatever stuff had summoned the object of both your longing and your ire.

In the back of your mind, you knew the scenery was changing, even though it didn't feel like it. It meant you didn't know how long you walked, the white shoulder of his shirt bobbing in and out of your peripheral vision. You let yourself feel the comfort of knowing he was there, of knowing that you belonged at his side for one more brief moment.

He sometimes talked like an imitation of a human. Greetings he didn't mean, inquiries to which he had no interest in the answer - or maybe he did. He liked people, heavens knew why, even if his attention seemed to move on as quickly as it was piqued.

He followed, seeming content enough, your momentary Eurydice. For some reason, the thought of turning around to face him was unbearable. You were afraid you wouldn't remember his face, or that you would remember it wrong, and wake up knowing that a little more of him had abandoned you.

Oh well, maybe it didn't matter, anymore.

You reached, briefly, behind you, like you'd sometimes used to do on the rare occasions Satoru walked home with you. Just like then, a shimmering dread filled your chest - only then it had been that he'd leave you grasping, fingers wiggling stupidly for him so everyone who walked by you knew beyond a doubt that your own mate didn't even want to hold your hand. There was no one here, although the beach had the warm, surrounding feeling of summer.

Anticipatory tears still began to prick your eyes, humiliation, disappointment brought on by a terrible confirmation of your worst expectations, dejection, it all rippled over you, just quick enough to take off the edge. It could only be your imagination that something soft as a breeze seemed to brush your fingertips before you pulled your hands back and fisted them in the long, light coat trailing from your shoulders.

One could neither see nor touch the dead after all.

This may be the last time you got to make your confessions. He'd returned to you in neither dream nor vision before this.

Why would he when what he wanted was where he had gone?

You took a deep breathe and blew it out. You were far and away old enough now to know acknowledging ill feelings dispelled them faster than trying to pretend you didn't have them. Mastering this was your power, take the blow, let it linger, and in this way it wouldn't hurt you. But he had always hit harder and faster than anyone else you ever knew, always able to overwhelm your ability to endure if you were in contact with him long enough.

Recalling the clean snap of both bones in your right forearm breaking is just as easy as remembering the look of surprise, of denial, of arrogance and somehow, of remorse, that had crossed Satoru's face the first time you'd let him hurt you.

What would it have taken to at least make sure that appearance of contrition remained, or at least perplexity in realizing it was his hand causing a pain that fit no specific purpose?

The inland treeline broke around a cluster of coconut trees, green fruits clustered beneath the leaves.

You looked up between the wide fronds.

"I wanted you to love me." I tried so hard not to have anything in me that needed saving. Somehow, it feels like you've been talking for hours, like you're answering a question he never asked. Sometimes you could walk hand in hand like that, like this, for what felt like hours, saying nothing, saying everything. The pressure would ease between you, leaving things feeling renewed, like after a gentle rain.

What kind of life was it where you crushed yourself down smaller and smaller, trying to make yourself unobtrusive among the noisy clutter that surrounded him? It hadn't been like that every day, but there had been days where you'd felt that you needed to be so small in order to earn the larger fraction marriage said you were supposed to be able to claim.

"I did."

A wet roll of your eyes, teeth in your lip. How ridiculous, how stupid, to coddle yourself at this stage of things.

"Liar." The dull accusation trips from your mind to your mouth even when it really is your fault. You should not have shrunk small even if it was your way (his knuckles had been warm right before they snapped your radius). You should have opened a way for him to let the soft animal of his body nestle against yours, build a den for him, let his infinity fill your well to bursting if need be. But I wasn't the one with a black hole where my heart should be. I should have loved you better.

I should have burdened you with being human instead of me. Was I not selfish enough?

"Not a lie," he said, voice low, musical and light at your back. And not there.

"A lie," you insisted in a half-whispered, miserable and lonely and alone. You'd been lonely for a long time. I should have loved you better, even though it wasn't me you loved.

He'd never held you, not like normal people were supposed to hold the ones they loved - like they needed them, like they needed the weight to hold them down, like they needed another body to fill the space between their arms.

In the way of dreams you were at his back again without every having turned to look at his face. You pressed your cheek against his spine.

"Lie to me." Your voice cracked in a pleading command, thick in your throat.

A heavy fine-fingered hand petted your head. In the way of dreams, he held you now against his chest without having moved. Had you walked down the beach at all or were you still trapped on that same stretch of shore?

"I do love you," he whispered after a pause, "I did. Best I could." So earnest, all that pointed, crystalline emptiness open to accept you.

Was it emptiness, or simply vastness? I had to believe I belonged in this world to survive it. Why couldn't I believe I was part of yours?

"I am never going to see you again," you whispered.

There was a smile in Satoru's voice. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. You miss me."

In the way of dreams, that last word was both binary and indistinct, me becoming something like 'us'.

Reflexive, bitter denial rose up in you. Refusing the embrace of longing so long had made it second nature. After many years and many lessons, the gaps in your defenses had been shored up well against loss. Perhaps too well. You wanted to hold tight the figure against you as much as you wanted to push him away.

In the salt-scented wind that picked up, you instinctually closed your eyes. When you opened them, he was gone and you were alone again.

You looked around for a short time before concluding in the strange taffy-stretched time of dreams that you really were alone. In that moment, a whisper carried on the breeze, unmistakable.

"We miss you."

You'd told him, your subconscious, to lie to you. The dream was thinning now, but there was just enough realism left for you to wrinkle your nose in the way Shoko was starting to tell you would stick on your face, and mutter "asshole."

Shoko hummed lightly, sighing and rolling over in bed. She'd never been a very sound sleeper, something that had once been reassuring as you always knew immediately if she was beside you. "Me?" She murmured, both offended and amused.

You made a brief, thin groan in the negative. Ah, your eyes hurt almost like you'd never closed them and your skin was ice cold even beneath a light cover. Summer wasn't all done, yet it felt so cold, all your warmth turned inward.

Moonlight shone so bright upon Shoko through the window, making her almost a toneless painting, both stark and somewhat impressionistic with lithe limbs peaking from sleeves and legs of a short pajama set.

You feel more tired having obviously slept, and dreamt, than you felt was comfortable upon waking. Blinking slowly caused the world to sort of shimmer at the edges, and the blocks of silver and black that shaped Shoko among the hotel linens were incredibly fascinating. You were still drunk then, although without the sour dizziness of hangover, so she must have gotten some water into you before you stopped remembering the evening.

Your closed your eyes shut tight.

You'd started to worry you'd forget it, but if only. His voice lingered like the taste of sugar syrup in your mouth, as good as if his lips had been on yours instead of his memory hijacked by your own faithless wishes, whispering in your ear.

It was easier to allow your guilt and your anger their few moments of devotion. They were your most constant companions now, you had known them even before you had known about others like you.

Moonlight comes in after, like a silver balm. If you'd had your choice, you would have been fully a night creature. Starlight and moonlight did not burn or press against you like the light of day did, ever seeking an outlet once you let its boundless, burning brightness in.

Once your power had grown enough to affirm itself, sunlight had been the easiest of energies to convert, almost instinctual. It pressed right against the skin and sunk in without needing to know where the edges of it were, it gave itself to you.

Suguru had loved to talk about sorcery, about magic, child hthat he'd been, with normal parents and from a country town like you. He had liked to talk about it with you. He had once guessed that the way you had been forced to learn so quickly to cycle power, to change it, had tried pushing a separation between it and you so it wouldn't burn you from the inside you, is part of what slowed your progress, your exploration as a sorcerer.

Surely he would be gratified now, to see the way you inhabited your body. Yet you did not feel one with your power (not like him). You inhabited it to, as it filled and moved from and through you, but you were never it and it was never you.

Nevertheless, moonlight washed over you like warm bathwater, and starlight like the touch of a faint summer breeze. You wished it were as cool as it looked with your eyes open.

Suddenly, you were very tired. You recognized it by now as the tug of sleep that sometimes came after drinking enough to loosen the perpetual balled tightness of your body.

Enough to admit you missed him and the quiet that surrounded him, the true cool of the waiting void between all things. He was so good at making one feel lonely, so familiar a loneliness it was almost easy to fall into it by memory alone... but no. There was someone in this room with you, in the bed. Her skin was warm. Her scent was cool.

You remembered meeting them, truly meeting them, not that first day in Tokyo when you'd barely cared what happened or where you were, who you met, what voices overlapped in the halls.

It had been like standing in the shade after spending years baking in a field in July. Only one of your tall trees was left.

"I am not sure," you mumbled sleep threatening to drag you back down, "I would have been good to you if I'd picked you from the start." It would be easier to stay silent, to let things remain as they were, not to risk her pulling away from you, but you'd done that once already, and look where it had ended. This acknowledgement brings you back to shallow waking, a fish hooked through the mouth.

Shoko's beautiful brown eyes are a little hazy but the shadows beneath haven't been as deep, not since they two of you have been away and Shoko has been able to sleep.

She blinks once, slowly. How did she see you? You had been altered, colored, by his presence in your life, strange and momentary as it had been.

"I think I was a special kind of awful, with you. What kind of person keeps giving someone hope again and again, when so much else points to never being able to offer more?"

It's all too easy to see how she tries to smile and doesn't manage it. It's not okay, so she doesn't say it is, but it happened and you're here anyway so she doesn't say it's not. You think that maybe she doesn't fault you for being selfish, but she also might have once wanted for more from you, more you couldn't give, more you gave to someone else.

The yawning empty you tried day after day to avoid ached in your chest as your own words from the dream came back to you. Some part of you both hoped and grieved that you would never see him again. Why should you? You might have stepped into your power, but there were plenty of times that, trapped between geniuses and impossible power-houses, you felt... incidental. You certainly shared no thread of fate with him.

The bitter old thought sent another pang through your chest, but you let it pass over and then through you.

There would be other lives, but none, you hoped and grieved, like this one.

For a very long time you had resisted the opaqueness of Shoko's eyes, acknowledging that she pressed her own wants even further down than you. She was stronger than you for not resenting you getting something that eventually you had begun to want.

She did not look at you with longing or expectation, or the apprehension you might expect. Someone had told you before that marriage made people into poor friends. You had told yourself it would not be so for you, yet you'd gotten swept up in your own private troubles just the same.

You wondered, if she wanted it, whether you now could offer her what could not be offered to you.

You didn't need another life, another chance. There was not much to be gained from starting anew with all these old pains washed away.

Your pinky twitched. Shoko smiled when she saw it but did not reach for you and you did not fight the heaviness in your limbs to try to move further.

She'd be there in the morning, you were sure of it, as sure as you were there would be more of these confounding nights where such thoughts swam about your head like fishes. There was time, now.

#jjk #gojo satoru x reader #ieri shoko x reader #jjk x reader #omegaverse #myy oc #io.myy

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