#far cry 6 au

[jacobmybeloved]

Ch. 135 of [[UWBL]] is up on Ao3/Wattpad!

[Ao3] // [Wattpad]

#far cry 6 #far cry 6 fan fic #far cry 6 au #fc6 #fc6 au #diego castillo #dani rojas #danijela rojas #juan cortez #evee ruiz #clara garcia #anton castillo

[softtidesworld]

Tattoo Tag & Musical Tag

I was tagged by @simplegenius042 for this one! I’m just gonna do Selená since I don’t show her enough love, even though I should since she’s my OC kid lol.

Tagging (and sorry if you were already tagged); @deputyash @strafethesesinners @ladyoriza @rotspeaker @alwayssunnyinedensgate and anyone else who wants to do this! Don’t be shy y’all <3.

Does your OC have any tattoos? If not, do they want any?

Selená has one tattoo!

How does your OC act while they’re getting a tattoo? Do they grit their teeth and deal with the pain, do they need to hold onto something while getting inked, etc.?

Her first tattoo wasn’t horrible, but she did have to hold onto Jacob as she got it done, and she did shed a tear. Her pain tolerance is pretty weak in comparison to his. In the end it was totally worth it.

Would your OC ever get a face or hand tattoo?

A face tattoo is a definite no from her, but a hand tattoo wouldn’t be so bad. Thing is, she works as a politician in her Far Cry 6 era, so it would look bad on her part have visible tattoos, such as on her hand(s). Especially on the face.

List any of their tattoos/prospective tattoos below. Feel free to add any meaning they may have.

She has a portrait of (a way younger) Jacob on her left arm, like Joseph’s one of his wife Faith. Unlike his though, it’s in full color. Selená wanted something to remember Jacob by, should they ever split or he die at war, not just in pictures and memories. Also to show off her love to him.

She would like to get a Taino tribal tattoo (she has Taino/Arawak ancestry!) along her entire lower right arm as a nod to her heritage, and perhaps something related to Oluwa on her thigh. If she didn’t work in politics, she’d definitely get the flag of Yara done on the side of her neck. She loves her country but it is a huge hot mess lol.

—

A - After The Storm / Tyler The Creator, Kali Uchis

R - Redbone / Childish Gambino

O - OKAGA, CA / Tyler The Creator, Alice Smith, Leon Ware, Clem Creevy

S - Superman / Eminem, Dina Rae

E - Entropy / Daniel Caesar

I - Ivy / Frank Ocean

N - Neighbors / J. Cole

A - Attention / Doja Cat

G - Get Involved / Raphael Saadiq, Q-Tip

A - A Sunday Kind Of Love / Etta James

R - Ready or Not / Fugees, Ms. Lauryn Hill, Wyclef Jean, Pras

D - DEAD MAN WALKING / Brent Faiyaz

E - East 1999 / Bone Thugs-N-Harmony

N - No Scrubs / TLC

O - Orange Colored Sky / Nat King Cole

F - FEEL. / Kendrick Lamar

W - Will I See You Again? / Thee Sacred Angels

E - EARFQUAKE / Tyler The Creator

E - Exchange / Bryson Tiller

D - Didn’t Cha Know / Erykah Badu

S - Self Care / Mac Miller

#c: selená rojas #far cry 5 oc #far cry 6 oc #far cry 5 #far cry 6 #far cry fandom #jacob seed #far cry 5 au #far cry 6 au #also just gonna include their ship tag #ship: jacob & selená

[blind-band-geek]

This au plauges my mind so your gonna hear about it again. Also cute hero mode icons for MM. because their cute and I love then

They would have their undercover ‘agent’ names in a traditional sense. Talía is Agent 2, Paolo, agent 3, Paz agent 4, and Dani agent 6 (like her shirt). And they skip 1 because agent 1 is Clara :>. They don’t REALLY need agent names because they don’t use code names for the war but Paz probably gave them all agent names because he’s adorable.

They function a lot like deep cut. Idols by day, Rebels and mercenaries by night (more like mid after noon). Also Paolo and Talía cuddle in bed in squid form because it’s cute. And sometimes Paz joins from a squid/octo cuddle pile. Their ink color is all blue because they gotta keep it consistent for the war. But when they get a chance to relax I’d like to think Paolo is green, Talía is purple and Paz is probably still blue.

Like most idols their clothing changes with their ink (I might actually draw it one day) Paolos headphones (the red) change with his ink. Talías pants (the blue) and every blue part of Paz’s jacket changes. And of corse their tentacles.

Paolos ink color when he met Talía was red (and his uniform) and with him being a squid she fumbled real hard and tried to find her nearest gun (squids are often true yarans/ soldiers/ with antón) but he was super sweet and didn’t freak about her being an octarian. And together they started a band.

#far cry 6 #fc #fc6 #far cry #far cry au #far cry 6 au #splatoon au #Bicho #Paz Duerte #talia benavidez #paolo de la vega

[broken-balance-baby]

far cry fantasy au sketches (aka i need to start coloring my concept art 💔)

#my art #far cry 3 #far cry 4 #far cry 6 #s/o to lili for also letting me put in carlos LOL #lunaria custos au #vaas montenegro #jason brody #ajay ghale #dani rojas #dante lai #carlos #bhadra #noore najjar #citra and ajay as bhadra's parents im going to blow something up

[howlingday]

Ask

Jaune Not from Remnant He's from louisiana usa and somehow wound up there. He now has to pretend he's always been there while being forced to become a huntsman Do not give up his secret. How does he solve the Is the grimm problem Easy redneck Engineering he makes a fucking tank.

I don't think tanks exist in Remnant Which is really weird cause you don't need Huntsman to operate them. And i'm pretty sure they could fuck up any grimm just about Like the main Canon could take out heavily armored opponents. The .50 bmg Takes out smaller ones.

I'm... not sure how to approach this one. Like, the premise is neat, but Jaune being from Louisiana is already a wild concept. By this logic, not only does Jaune not have aura, but likely never will, nor will he have a semblance. Not to mention that Jaune doesn't really strike me as the mechanical engineer type, granted his growing up in LA could change his personality just a tinge. Personally, if I was going to make Jaune from down that way, I'd make him a chef, whipping up some delicious rice and shrimp into a gumbo, though I'm not really an expert on what does on in the southeastern US.

As for the presence of tanks, I will agree that it is odd, but one thing to consider is that RWBY has kind of evolved past tanks. Maybe in the Great War there were tanks, but in the current era with hard-light shields, automaton soldiers, and walking mechs, RWBY has probably gone Metal Gear and evolved their weaponry to an era beyond fuel and low-impact bullets. It kinda makes sense since you've got huge, armored Grimm running around, like Ursa, Beowolves, and Beringels. Heck, the armor might even be too thick for mortar fire.

But yeah, this is a neat AU, though it might need a little tweaking. Jaune being a redneck engineer from Louisiana and building tanks seems just a WEE BIT out of character for him. Now, if it was Ruby, that'd be different, since she's already a gun nut.

Though, I remember a couple stories from this ask. The first one that comes to mind is an OLD RWBY AU idea I had about Jaune being an investigative journalist lost in the bayou with Ruby (Bayou AU). Another was an incorrect quote from Far Cry 6, which led a little bit into Jaune and Ruby making plans for a tank he made a long time ago. I dunno, those are just some ideas I had.

#rwby #rwby au #my thoughts #my answer #my answers #bayou au #far cry #far cry 6 #jaune arc #ruby rose

[mrsdanirojas]

Lately I’ve been positively h a u n t e d by the idea of bassist Eivor in some form of local up-and-coming rock band, standing impossibly tall amidst the surrounding chaos onstage. Dark runes on sure fingers dancing along the length of the wooden fretboard, thumbing gleaming taut responsive strings, curling around the neck of her beer bottle in between numbers. She likes the bass because it suits her energy, deep and consistent and powerful and measured, with more than enough room for riffing when it feels right. Mesmerized as you are by the hypnotizing rhythmic prowess of her hands, you try as often as you can to steal a glance at her nodding along to the beat she’s driving in tandem with her drummer, only to find the small swoop of her upturned mouth smirking at you each time, inciting a parallel swoop in the pit of your stomach.

Meanwhile, Kassandra would absolutely shine as frontwoman. While her soaring notes and rapid verse make you dizzy daydreaming about her lung capacity, what leaves you spellbound is her tendency to sing in a lower register, strong hands wrapped tightly around the body of the microphone. Now bursting with the frenetic energy required to unfold the opening verse, now lulling the crowd into rapt enchantment going into the bridge, Kassandra has you – all of you – wrapped around her little finger. She makes no effort to hide her onstage flirting with you, dragging her amber eyes over your spot at the front with pronounced and arresting intention, dragging down time and space itself with the gravity of her gaze. It’s not the spotlight she craves, but the electric connection forged with each and every soul in the swaying crowded venue – especially yours.

I mentioned the drummer, so I’d be remiss not to swivel the spotlight over to Dani Rojas, whose charming easygoing smile as she settles behind her kit belies her imminent vicious opening salvo. Putting to work her deadly precision and healthy appreciation for making an absolute fucking racket when the occasion calls for it, Dani is at home keeping her team in time, unbounded joy only just noticeable under the low lighting and rising wisps of hazy fog. When you’re not entranced watching her short hair thrash around her head as she loses herself in the chorus, you’re holding your breath realizing she can be just as loud with her silence, right before she drops back in after a solo. At the end of the show, Dani winks at you just before tossing her drumsticks into the swelling crowd, leaving you too stunned to join the collective scramble for a coveted piece of this unforgettable night.

#eivor #eivor varinsdóttir #kassandra #dani rojas fc6 #kassandra of sparta #dani rojas #assassin’s creed valhalla #assassin's creed odyssey #far cry 6 #headcanon #modern #au #the power of bassist Eivor drew this out of me #it's a little shit but I'm tired #also i'm hyperfixating on dreamy band Lush so now it's all our problem I guess 😭 #writings #sick riffs bro…*kisses u on the mouth* #head canons from hell

[lulu2992]

I have the complete opposite opinion of The Voice's malevolence in Collapse. It's probably my own biases, beliefs, interests, etc. but I think it would have been vastly more interesting if they went completely into the idea that The Voice is God Himself. It would have raised a lot of interesting questions that could have been the focus of Collapse like what the theological implications of Joseph being a modern prophet are, should Joseph be punished for the Reaping and how Jerome would have had to deal with that truth (as well as everyone else in Hope County) thag Joseph was a prophet. It could have also made Collapse a proper tale of atonement and forgiveness by having The Voice make several tests for Joseph to pass in order to atone.

I also feel that The Voice being made malevolent in Collapse is just simplistic writing. It feels like it lowers the story of Joseph Seed to yet another story of "evil deity screws with humanity/ this guy in particular for no reason other than hes bored I guess" which im tired of at this point. Maybe its the optimist in me but I would have preferred it if all of Joseph's struggles and hardship (including the death of his siblings) truly lead to the Garden of Eden that he was promised (and maybe the resistance could have joined too).

At the end of the day I have to keep reminding myself that Collapse was made to connect to New Dawn which I think was a complete disappointment of a finale. But hey, at least they made The Voice a deity/God instead of it being schizophrenia like so many people believe it is.

I agree with you too! As I said in my previous post, I’ve always believed the Voice was real in Far Cry 5, so I was glad they didn’t make Joseph delusional in Collapse (it would have been incredibly disappointing). Even though I’m still not convinced it was originally supposed to be an entirely evil and deceptive entity, either, I think it wasn’t a bad idea the DLC’s writers had considering what New Dawn’s story is.

I’ve always thought the true ending of Far Cry 5, the “resist ending”, meant that Joseph was a prophet, that the Voice belonged to “God” (whoever/whatever “God” is in that fictional universe), and that the story was a divine prophecy. That said, I still consider the Voice to be the “main villain” in the sense that it asked Joseph to do terrible things, made him (and many others) suffer, and is the one truly responsible for most things people accuse him of. But in the end, despite the death of his family, the Collapse was still Joseph’s long-overdue victory and everything seemed worth it; the Voice had told him the truth. I loved that the ending of Far Cry 5 was bold and unconventional, but also logical and predictable if you paid attention to the story. As awful as the idea of an apocalypse is and as “shocked” as I was, I expected Joseph to be right all along and, in that respect, was absolutely not disappointed.

Making the Voice clearly malevolent in Collapse at least has the advantage of “explaining” why Joseph, after being right all along, suddenly says he was wrong in New Dawn, and why there were so many contradictions and retcons in that sequel. If the Voice never cared and always lied, everything becomes meaningless and nothing has to be consistent anymore. Because New Dawn exists and Collapse is a prequel to it, the Voice being evil in the DLC was an effective solution to connect Far Cry 5 and New Dawn better, in my opinion. Like many things in Collapse, that choice might seem a bit simplistic and underwhelming but, at least, I think this one works.

I would also have loved to see Joseph, after spending so many years obeying the Voice, have his happy ending and find the Garden, but I think Collapse sadly couldn’t give us that because of New Dawn… That said, neither the sequel nor the DLC is canon to me so, as bittersweet as the ending of Far Cry 5 was (since the Heralds are dead), I still believe it meant Joseph had won and that, after everything he had been put through, he had been rewarded. At last.

#and to make an even happier ending I have my own AU #in which joseph AND his family make it to the garden #try and stop me ubi #far cry 5 #joseph seed #and you’re right about what fcnd (and by extension collapse) should have been about #far cry 5 spoilers #far cry new dawn spoilers #far cry 6 collapse spoilers #joseph collapse spoilers

[its-deputy-caleb]

Hello!! i saw that requests were open!! i was wondering if you could do a modern au (or yara without anton) where everyone gets to live peacefully! i hope its not too much to ask for clara, juan, yelena and camila (or any characters of your choice)

i love youre writing so much! thank you for writing this in advance <3

FC6 — Modern AU!

okayy so i had major writers block, then i read this sad ass poem and got inspired as hell. these are a lot longer than expected but i hope you like them!! they feel more like a short fic than HC's but im hoping that's okay and that it still feels in character cause idk and with a new addition of zenia i don't feel confident in these at all lmao pls enjoy !!

Clara García

Clara lives along the affluent east side of Barrial in Valle de Oro. Her home isn’t over the top, in fact she downsized after she refused to conform to the snobbery of her parents but it still held a beautiful ocean view and a large living space.

There was lots of spots to enjoy the view (in fact almost every room in the two story Villa had access to it) but nothing beat the top floor balcony which never failed to make her feel at ease. It was like the sea breeze could just lift her up and carry her away from all the burden of family and responsibility.

Her library is the favourite part of her house. It’s small compared to what she’s known in her childhood home but it holds all the tales, poems and histories which she fell in love with. Clara will spend hours resting on an armchair or couch, reading idly before she eventually falls asleep.

Fresh from university, Clara intends to use her education and her power to enter politics. Whilst this peaceful Yara is free and happy, it’s far from perfect and so she dedicates her life to demanding better for Yara’s poor and disadvantaged.

Clara, with your help of course owns a charity for Orphans of Yara (something her family weren’t too happy about). Despite her not having the same experience, the people she considers family— Dani, Juan, Lita, Julio and yourself have all struggled and so the two of you regularly go to visit the children with gifts and homemade foods.

Sometimes, Clara does need a break from time to time and you’ll gently sit her on the couch with her back to your chest. The two of you will just soak up each others warmth as you read her favourite poems to her, leaning down for kisses during the verses.

Juan Cortez

Juan may live in a peaceful Yara, but that’s not gonna change his lifestyle much. His workshop and home is the abandoned San Telmo Lighthouse in El Este where it is very much still a mess.

The hazardous weapons, technology, chemicals and god knows what else are mostly contained to the workshop section of his home (but let’s be clear he practically lives there) whilst the old lighthouse has been restored to a level that’s liveable.

Surprisingly, the kitchen has a rather flashy edge to it. Not in the sense anything is new but his own upgrades and trinkets means the appliances have a fancy grade quality to them. Juan will never admit it but you’ve seen him countless of times dancing around the kitchen with music whilst he either makes dinner or dishes for Guapo.

His job is somewhat ambiguous… on paper he’s a ‘weapons expert’ but for who— well that depends on how much. But those bigger higher paid jobs from governments don’t come often so he’ll take smaller jobs like repairing hunting rifles from the neighbouring farms and tinkering with the odd car that needs repairs.

His favourite thing to do is spend quality time with the two people he loves most, that being you and Guapo. Sometimes you’ll go for walks along the beach, or even fishing out on a boat (even though he’s too impatient to catch anything and Guapo eats the bait before it hits the water). But as long as he’s with you, he’s the happiest man alive.

Juan has a tendency to get lost in his work, unintentionally losing track of time whilst he drills, welds and tinkers with scraps of metal and industrial composites. That just means you have to drag him off to bed so the two of you can spoon up and he can snore in your ear like the loveable old man he is.

Camila ‘Espada’ Montero

Camila’s home is a version of what her father envisioned only much smaller. Her snug farm tucked away in the mountains of Madrugada has the best sunsets and fields for the few horses she owns.

The house itself is quite small, giving room to the grazing paddocks she has strewn around the property but it doesn’t feel small inside. The open living room is perfect for snuggling in front of the fire on a cold night, where you can just enjoy the peacefulness of nature.

Her favourite part of the house has to be the backyard and porch area. Camila can either sit there with her morning coffee alone or she can set up fairy lights and a table to invite her large family over for dinner.

Espada has a whole rang of community based jobs which she manages all at once. On weekends she’s down at the farmers market selling her own collection fruits and vegetables whilst buying some for herself. Other times she’s training, helping people both with horse riding and her skills with her sword.

Of course, you’re with her every step of the way. Some of your mundane domestic activities together end up being your favourites. Both of you have to check the fences each morning whilst walking the dogs— with your hand in hers and the crisp frost blowing from your mouth, it feels like a real life dream.

You love the life you’ve built together on her farm and even though you enjoy the hard work of farm way of life (you had to in order for Carlos’ blessing) but sometimes you just love collapsing into a hot bath together. Your limbs are tangled and steam floats off you but its so different to the sweaty labor of working with horses.

Bembé Alvarez

Bembé lives in a surprisingly cozy apartment above his local business in Segunda. It’s mostly unliveable space but with a little bit of hard work (and money) he transforms it into a pretty welcoming home.

His shop is on the flashier end, turning Yara’s old furniture, ornaments and antiques into newly restored luxury items which fetch a high price. He loves arranging his store, finding spots for new art works and sculptures amongst the array of coffee tables and armchairs.

It’s a stark contrast to the warm bedroom and living space he calls home. Bembé’s bed catches the light in the morning and it softens some of the exposed concrete walls which he’s decorated with house plants and some artwork he kept for himself instead of selling.

Obviously his job as a small business owner is pretty similar to the Black Market King only he’s not smuggling anything and instead buying, restoring and selling his goods. He still deals with all the worldwide customers as well as a few locals which always keeps him busy.

When he does take time away from work, he loves spending it with you. Bembé often takes you out to drinks or a nice dinner if the evening calls. Sometimes its eating delicious street food from local restaurants and others its a fancy night out in Esperanza.

Of course, you can’t always find the time between work schedules but your favourite time together is curled up in his bed late at night. Both of you snuggling as you watch the town’s skyline out the large wall length window.

Yelena Morales

Yelena lives in a cramped, highly overpriced apartment in Esperanza but she totally justifies it to you and everyone else that it’s convenient to get to university by walking.

Her home is definitely in need of some TLC as most apartments are but she’s covered all the chipping paint and rotten panelling with house plants, artworks and her favourite pieces of clutter which make it feel like home.

It’s a tight squeeze with a barely passable kitchen and even smaller bedroom but her pops of colour make the rooms feel much larger than it is, and it’s perfect for curling up on her bed to watch movies or study.

As a student of Espinoza University she’s pretty much living the university life of cheap foods and stacks of textbooks but she’s incredibly smart. Yelena is heavily involved with all the University unions, clubs, protests and activism groups— not to mention she writes for the campus paper about issues she’s passionate about.

Young, and in desperate need of some fun the two of you try to get out as much as possible whether that’s lunch with friends or partying with Yara’s nightlife. But whatever you do, it’s always done together, with your arms linked and fingers intertwined.

Sometimes when you’re both feeling adventurous you sneak out onto the rooftops of the university. Resting against the ventilation system, the two of you watch the city skyline as Yelena tucks her head into your neck and the two of you just cuddle for hours into the night.

Zenia Zayas

Zenia absolutely adores her hometown of Esperanza, and after moving out of her father’s home she bought herself a large and modern industrial, studio apartment.

There’s almost a full one-eighty degree view of Esperanza and the water, along with multiple large windows which are perfect for natural light and inspiration (although not great for sleeping in when the sun comes blaring through the bedroom).

Her favourite room has to be the corner designated to her work as an artist. It’s littered with canvases against the windows and paint of the walls from broken spray paint canisters. She can be in her element for hours in her space and it never ceases to make her feel inspired and at home.

Obviously, Zenia’s occupation is an artist but it ranges from form to form. She loves her signature spray paint and street style, using her platform to promote freedom of expression to Yara but she also loves to sculpt just like her father had. 

It’s not often but the two of you will get dressed up in fancy attire to premier her artwork at the galleries across Yara. It’s always those moments when you’re most proud of her, and you make sure she knows it with a string of kisses and hugs whilst journalists take her photo and critics applaud her work.

But your favourite moments (and Zenia’s as well after she confessed you’re her biggest source of inspiration) are when the two of you are wrapped up in bed together. Her large mattress is encased in the yellow glow of the sunset, leaving you beaming as you kiss and just hold each other in an embrace.

#fc6 #far cry 6 #fc6 headcannons #fc6 writing #modern au #far cry #clara garcia #clara garcia x reader #juan cortez #juan cortez x reader #camila montero #camila montero x reader #bembe alvarez #bembe alvarez x reader #yelena morales #yelena morales x reader #zenia zayas #zenia zayas x reader #gn!reader

[splashysketchdump]

Diego Castillo (FC6) x Rion (NieR: Reincarnation)

I just thought it would be good. I hope someone out there enjoys it! ^w^

#far cry 6 diego fanart #far cry 6 #diego castillo #far cry 6 diego castillo #au #alternate universe #krita #digital sketch #sketch dump #sketches #ubisoft

[artificialcaretaker]

“I’ll show you around.”

[Two lil lads who deserved so much better. I mean, now they can hang for eternity!! Considering that neither of them seem to have peers that they’re friends with I think that would be greatly appreciated on both sides.

#far cry #far cry 6 #far cry 4 #dream bubble extended universe #dream bubble au #dream bubbles #far cry fanart #far cry 6 fanart #far cry 4 fanart #diego castillo #bhadra #bhadiego #cw flashing #tw flashing #ACs art tag #currently listening to Glass Animals daycore #it’s goin pretty hard tbh #imagining animatics to it

[misfit-lunitic]

Archive of Our Own Links:

-The Price of Freedom-(Far Cry 6)

One doesn't walk away from almost being executed unscathed. It leaves its mark, and it is times like these when you find that maybe you are not as alone as you thought you were. (Status: Completed)

-Lines Drawn in the Sand-(Far Cry 6)

Sometimes, the right thing and the wrong thing are not so clear cut. Especially when you have spent years being groomed and told the right thing is wrong. Sometimes you don't even realize the right thing until you have lost everything. (Status: In Progress)

#because why not #my writing #fanfiction #far cry 6 #dani rojas #clara garcia #AU #alt universe #writing #farcry 6 fanfiction

[jacobmybeloved]

Ch. 125 of [[UWBL]] is up on Ao3/Wattpad!

[Ao3] // [Wattpad]

#far cry 6 #far cry 6 fan fic #far cry 6 au #fc6 #fc6 fan fic #fc6 au #danijela rojas #maria marquessa #diego castillo #anton castillo

[1queasycrow]

In no other descriptors than TheBad AU where Clara goes evil after surviving the Isla del Leon (where Dani kills Anton after Juan kills Diego) and taking Espinosa from the remaining dregs of the FND

I have the poetic assholery to have Clara say “‘To do something right it must be done twice’, That one was bolivar” and then die in Dani’s arms. Unfortunately Dani doesn’t go on a rampage here because she’s the one who killed Clara this time round stabbed through the heart with her own knife. (There’s also vaguely homoerotic sword fight prior)

Evil, I say evil, the line between evil and good is not fine so much as wide enough to touch nearly both of ends of the scale.

What is order without chaos, light without dark is meaningless the grey of shadow tells the truest tales

#far cry 6 spoilers #far cry 6 #dani rojas #clara garcia #Dani fc6 #Clara fc6 #they’re in love your honour #or at least something like it #apologies for the emotional trauma #but it’s too good #that quote #and this AU #I’ll get off my soapbox now #Clara Garcia FC6 #Dani Rojas FC6

[blind-band-geek]

Maximas Matanzas could be a splatoon idol group,,,,,,,, is anyone else here terribly addicted to the funny squid game :,))

#far cry 6 #far cry #fc6 #fc #Talia Benavidez #paolo de la vega #Bicho #bicho duerte #paz duerte #splatoon #splatoon au #far cry au

[broken-balance-baby]

this site is so fun

#far cry 3 #far cry 4 #far cry 6 #orayani ragadio #dante lai #bhadra #diego castillo #crazy old tyrant au

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 8)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

-

Now a nocturnal animal emerges into the daylight hours.

A week becomes two and your shoulders untense. It’s not something you notice at first because you’re used to an ever present strain between your shoulder blades and an ache in your jaw from grinding your teeth at night. Then a fortnight goes by without so much as a missive with your name on it floating across John’s desk or a stranger appearing in town after tracking you down, and you wonder if maybe the world really is big enough to hide in. 

It sure feels that way at times. The woods beyond the bounds of John’s property stretch out farther than the eye can see and even walking it feels like you could disappear into another realm. Old spruces shoot up high into the clouds, and deeper into the woods, huge rock formations grow more and more prominent as you near the mountains. John takes you through the woods on horseback, following the rough trails carved into the dirt by a century of wagons and carts using the same path. The footprints of a different time. 

Up in the trees, birds warble and chirp, talking to one another in songs that you’ve never heard before. A woodpecker drills into the side of a tree. Pinecones snap out of the upper branches and drop to the forest floor. 

There is only a single trail and it’s easy to lose. You grow a bit nervous when John takes you off the trail and deeper into the woods, but he does so with the confidence of a man that knows these woods like the back of his hand. You go quiet when he stops Buttercup to let a herd of deer wander by, the stragglers hurrying to catch up with the group, throwing the two of you nervous glances before they disappear into the thicket. 

“Should we be out this far?” you ask in a whisper, reluctant to disturb the silence. Though the woods are full of animals that bleat, chirp, chatter, and hoot, the sound of your own voice feels preternaturally loud and shrill. 

“We won’t get lost, darlin’. I know my way around,” John reassures you, curling an arm around your waist to hold you to him. These days, you hardly worry about tumbling off the horse. Not with him at your back anyway. 

“That wasn’t really my worry,” you mumble, trailing off.

“Then what’re you getting all worked up about?”

“Aren’t there wolves out here? Or bears?”

He snorts, the sound making you jolt. You don’t topple over because he has such a firm hold around your waist. “They don’t usually come this close to town. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That sounds like something mothers tell their children to stop them crying,” you say flatly. You draw your legs up automatically when John directs Buttercup through a shallow basin, a shortcut back home. It makes you anxious for a moment, but the water barely goes up to her ankles, so you relax when you realize that you’re in no danger of being swept away by the current.

“That doesn’t mean a bear or wolf can’t wander by, but it’s rare.”

“And there it is.”

You can feel the heat of his glower on the back of your head. “We could spend the night out here if you want to see for yourself.”

At that, you shut your mouth. Even if he were to prove his point, you have no interest in camping out in the woods now that you’ve become accustomed to the luxury of a soft bed. Granted that you’re forced to share that same bed, still you’ve never slept half as well as you do these days. You wake up rested after nine hours of blissful shut eye, a sleep so deep that your dreams only come in half-remembered flashes. Often they involve the man you wake up wrapped around, and for that you’re grateful that they remain submerged. 

A new desire has started to burrow its way into the back of your mind in recent days. It starts out as a thought so brief that you hardly notice it before it skitters away. 

And then it lingers. 

You wake up in the middle of the night hot, sweat dripping down the nape of your neck and a fire burning in your loins, a red-hot coil wound around itself, fit to burst. Pulsating. At some point throughout the night, you must have thrown a leg around John’s waist because it rests there now, your hand planted in the middle of his chest and your sex all but rubbing up against his thigh. Under your hand, you can feel his heart pump strong and steady.

You hold very, very still, waiting for him to wake. But John sleeps on, his palm loose where it rests along the curve of your hip, fingers curling into the flesh of your backside. 

You can hardly look at him these days without shaking. You’ve come to fixate on the sway of his hips when he walks and the flecks of silver in his beard. The grooves in his weathered hands. The way your head fits in the palm of his hand when he cradles it to his chest. The fond glimmer in his eyes that shines the brightest when he puts his hat on your head and it slips past your eyes, too big for your head. 

When you tip it up in order to see, the folds around his eyes become more pronounced with the force of his smile.

“There you are, bug,” he says, taking the hat off your head to set it back on his and reeling you in for a kiss. 

Bug, love, honey, darling. The constant flux of endearments makes your head spin. John never calls you by the name on your marriage license. It’s like that name means nothing to him, cast away at the first opportunity and replaced by an endless stream of pet names.  

He hasn’t touched your sex since making you come on the porch swing the week before. He pulls you into a chaste embrace at night, the only evidence of his own desire being the stiff shaft nestled against the small of your back in the early morning hours, which he takes care of on his own in the bathroom downstairs after pressing a kiss to your cheek. You feel robbed of something, though you don’t know quite what. 

You’re tempted to offer your help, but you don’t know exactly what that would entail. Inexperience and fear of rejection hold you back, stay your tongue. In the two weeks you’ve been married, he hasn’t once tried to pin you down and rut between your thighs like you expected and dreaded that very first night. 

Now that that time has passed, you don’t know how to initiate that moment again. 

John promises to teach you how to ride a horse. You can’t see a reason to protest, much to your chagrin. Despite your apprehensions, even you can’t deny that it would be a helpful skill. A train only goes one way after all, confined to a single track. A horse has no such laws to obey.

The thought stays nestled at the back of your mind as the days continue on.

You flounder around in the kitchen on the day that John invites his deputies over for supper. You’ve met the big one—Simon—now a small handful of times, each encounter marked by a silence that sucks the air out of the room when he turns his gaze on you and holds it. Perhaps you’ve simply ascribed too much importance to his person, given that every time you’ve seen him, your life has changed irrevocably. His presence is always followed by revelation it seems. The archangel of vicissitude. A harbinger of uncertain times.

The other two are new. John introduces you to them when you bring out the cutlery and crockery to set the table, and you nearly go cross-eyed when they reach across the table at the same time to offer their hands. You go to meet them halfway, but flinch when John brings his hand down on the table with enough force to make the silverware jump.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he apologizes to you first before turning his glare on the other two. “That ain’t proper, boys. You wait for the lady to offer her hand first—you don’t treat a woman like she’s a mutt you’re teaching to shake.”

“Ah, sorry, hen,” the one on the left says, his voice a thick Scottish brogue like a purr. He’s possibly the handsomest man you’ve ever met, but there’s something dangerous and wild in his eyes. When he smiles, it curls up in a roguish sort of way that makes you falter, like he’s in on a joke that you aren’t. “Dinnae mean to offend. No’ often we get ta meet such a pretty lady.” 

“Sorry—” the one on the right apologizes in a voice far more earnest than his counterpart’s. “And sorry for him. We think he was raised by wolves.”

“What’s yer excuse then?” the Scot sneers, knocking his knee into the other man’s under the table. “Dinnae see ye waitin’ for her fuckin’ hand like a gentleman—apologies, hen.”

“Christ,” John sighs, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. 

Simon stays silent at the other end of the table, but the whole table jumps when he aims a kick at the Scott’s leg. He hisses and blurts out a word in a language you’ve never heard before, the word unmistakably vitriolic. He clutches at his shin and shoots a nasty look at Simon, though he doesn’t make a move to retaliate. 

“Name’s Kyle. Kyle Garrick,” the other introduces himself, and you finally reach across the table to offer your hand. His hand is warm against yours when he takes it, dark skin burnished in the candlelight. There’s something inviting about him; something about his eyes, so dark that you almost fall into them. Thick lips curl up into a smile. “And this here is Soap.”

You frown. “Soap?”

The man in question runs a hand down his front, emphasizing the cut of his shirt and the way it clings to the muscle of his chest. “‘Cause of how well I clean up.”

Simon barks out a laugh at that. The sound comes so sudden and sharp that it startles you. “You got it ‘cause your mum had to wash out your mouth with soap.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him and you can only stare wide-eyed at the lot of them as they dissolve into bickering and squabbling after that. It’s almost a relief to head back into the kitchen to finish cooking. 

Dinner is a similar messy affair, punctuated by the sound of Soap practically gnawing the meat off the bone. He only apologizes when John barks at him for making a mess, more food on the floor around him than on his plate, but his table manners don’t last very long. John doesn’t seem so much embarrassed on their behalf as annoyed, but it’s an annoyance that comes with an aftertaste of warmth. You can tell without asking that they’ve known each other for years. 

There’s room enough in you for food and envy. Back home you had friends. Never close friends, but acquaintances at least. Maids you could recognize by face. Small talk while ascending single-file up the servants’ staircase. Perhaps little more than that. You’d never been particularly close to any of them, but how could you? You worked from morning ‘till night, up and down the stairs, moving in the shadows. Never making too much noise lest your employers take notice of you. 

Like he did.

You shake it off. That’s no matter now. You’re hundreds of miles away and living under a new name. A married woman, to the county sheriff no less. It only sometimes hurts your heart to think of how lonely you’d been. 

When they leave, you stand at the window and watch as they disappear into the black of the night, Simon at the front of the pack, his torchlight leading the way. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt recedes the farther they get. 

His hands warm your shoulders. You don’t know how long he’s been there, standing behind you while you stared out the window after the boys. All you know is that his hands are warm, and the kiss he presses to the back of your head makes you arch back into him, unconsciously gravitating closer to him. Needing to be near. 

In bed, you curl your fingers against his chest. On a rough exhale, you wake. You dream still of something terrible that happens somewhere else, in another city, in an old life. His heartbeat lulls you back to sleep.

John takes you to the local seamstress to have you fitted for a pair of pants and suddenly you’re out of excuses. They fit you comfortably, like a second skin, and you find yourself pulling at the legs at your final fitting as if to stretch out the material. The seamstress nearly jabs you with a pin and glares up at you until you stop fidgeting. 

You come to terms with it when he brings you into the stables and makes you fetch the saddle from where it rests on its stand. It’s heavier than you expected. You stumble back over to where John now has Buttercup standing in the middle of the stable, holding her by the lead fixed to her bridle. 

“I don’t know if—” you start, trepidation climbing up your chest until it grips you by the throat. For as many times as you’ve ridden her, you’ve never done it alone. 

John fixes her lead to a post and walks over to you, taking the saddle from your hands and letting it drop to the ground. He cups your face in both hands to tilt your head up. “Hey, honey. We’re not doing much of anything today, alright? Just a walk around the paddock so you get used to sitting on Buttercup on your own. I’m not gonna smack her ass and send you down the trail at full tilt..”

That gets a laugh out of you. “You promise?”

He smiles. “Promise, darlin’.”

And he keeps it. The only thing you do that day is learn how to tack a horse and how to properly mount and dismount her. The latter part of the lesson is devoted to you trying to find your balance while John leads the two of you around the pen at a leisurely pace. He calms you down when he sees you grow too stiff, stopping to coo and rub your thigh until you gradually relax. It’s heartwarming until Buttercup begins to tense up too for a reason unbeknownst to you and you watch in righteous fury as John calms her down the same way.

John gets you a hat to keep the sun from beating down on you, but there’s little he can do about the soreness between your thighs and the stiffness in your legs the next day. All you can do is hiss and moan in pain, hobbling around the house until he forces you down into a chair and hikes up your dress in order to apply an arnica salve to your inner thighs. 

It’s a relief and an affront at the same time. The duality of man. The salve soothes much of the ache, but you twitch nervously around John for the rest of the day, the memory of him pinning you to the chair and forcibly spreading your thighs haunting you. The lingering ache in your core is just the salt in the wound. 

It rains another day. A light drizzle while the sun is still out.

Every day you sit and you think, will it be today? And then the wash basins are emptied out in the field, the horses are taken out to the paddock, you pin the laundry up on the line to dry, and John presses a farewell kiss to your forehead when he leaves you with Kate and nothing happens. Every inch of you waits for more, anticipates more. Throbs when he leaves you wanting, only a chaste kiss and a squeeze around your waist before he’s off. 

You can feel it coming to a head. An itch you can’t shake. 

That day comes with another ache you can’t shake. 

“Please,” you beg, clasping your hands in front of you. “One day of rest. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t do this anymore, John.”

John snaps the lead in his hands. “Let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”

You hang your head low on the march over to the stables, John taking up the rear like he expects you to bolt. An executioner’s walk. The thought of escape has never seemed further away—not even because of its feasibility, but because all you want to do is lie down and rest.

“You can quit your moping,” he says as you tack up Buttercup, a pout on your lips. “Got something special for you today.”

That makes you perk up, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t specify what that is. Anticipation mounts in you when he helps you up onto Buttercup and then climbs up behind you himself. He steers her away from the paddock and towards the trail leading into the woods, the sun at its zenith now, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see.

You’ve ridden this trail before. A week ago, with John at your back as he is now. Through the fields and over the hills until the trees start to number in the tens and then the hundreds, no clear delineation between plain and forest. Simply there and then everywhere.

By now, after hours of sun beating down on the path, the trail is mostly dry, yesterday’s rain long since having sunk into the earth. You think it’d still be a tough hike on foot, but on horseback you cover acres of land at a brisk pace, Buttercup hardly breaking a sweat. You cross paths with a small group traveling by horse and wagon, but John breaks off from the path not too long after that, steering Buttercup deeper into the wilderness, where the only gullies are the ones carved out by years and years of rainfall. 

You only see it when the land begins to dip and you’re forced to hold onto the horn and tighten your thighs around the fenders to keep steady. At the bottom of a hill, a small stream opens up into a larger river, narrowing out at the other end where the land rises again and the water can only trickle over the pebbly riverbed. On the other side, a rocky outcropping cuts the stream off from view.

“Is this where you used to come to bathe?” you ask, recalling an earlier conversation.

John sighs. “Thought I’d take you for a swim as a treat, but if you’d rather just tease me—”

“Well now, let’s not be hasty,” you say, already trying to dismount on your own, eyes glued on the stream glimmering in the sunlight. John chuckles, keeping you pressed to him until he guides Buttercup under a tree for shade and dismounts first, helping you down after him. 

All you want to do is wade in the stream up to your ankles, so that’s what you do. Boots kicked off, Buttercup relaxing in the shade of a tree, John standing by the water’s edge with his hands on his hips and watching you tiptoe over the smooth rocks below. You roll up your pant legs, but eventually you feel the ends grow damp as you venture farther out. At its deepest, you would probably sink up to your waist.

“Don’t you want to swim?” John asks from somewhere behind you.

You splash around a bit, kicking your feet through the water. “Hard to do that with clothes—”

When you turn back around to face him, your eyes dart down momentarily at the sight of skin before you squeak and whirl back around, sending up an arc of water. Twice now you’ve seen him naked. 

“You’ve no clothes on,” you state, bluntly enough that it almost sounds stupid. 

You hear the water splash and ripple when he takes his first step in. “Right—you better think about doing the same if you don’t want to ride home soaking wet.”

“I was perfectly fine just getting my feet wet,” you say indignantly.  

“We came out here to swim, not get your feet wet,” John laughs. You stiffen when his hand comes down on your shoulder, conscious of the fact that your husband is standing right behind you, entirely divested of his clothes. “So best get to steppin’.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh, honey,” he says pityingly. “Yes, I can.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you make your way back to shore, careful not to allow yourself a glimpse of him. Your boots are stacked beneath the shade of another tree, John’s clothes folded neatly beside them. You strip slowly, attentive to the world around you; though unlikely, it’s not impossible that someone might wander by. Your only consolation is that John is still within sight, though you keep your back to him because in recent days, you’ve developed a hunger for him that even now makes your stomach hurt.  

Though the air is warm, you shiver. When you turn around with your arms crossed over your breasts to hide them from sight, you find John wading in the river up to his waist. You’ve seen him like this once before, the hearty body of a man in his prime. Sturdy and strong. The hair on his chest is darker than that on his head, wet too from the dip he must have taken when your back was turned. His hair is slicked back too, a wet hand combing it back. 

“Come on, darlin’,” he calls, beckoning you forward with his hand.

The water is a cold shock when you step in past your ankles. Ice cold tendrils wrap up your legs, sucking the warmth from you. 

You suck in a soft breath when he pulls you into his arms and heaves you up, big hands gripping under your thighs. Your breasts press against the wet skin of his chest, nipples already pebbled. The river is deeper than you assumed; John pulls you deeper in until it pools around your waist and then your chest. Cold enough that you shiver until John dips his head down and the kiss he presses to your lips melts you from the inside out. 

You can’t escape the intimacy of water-slick skin. When John drags you up his chest, your nipples brush over his and the shudder that passes through you is violent, toe-curling. You know that he can feel the heat of your core even underwater. With your legs wound around his waist, every inch of you is plastered to his front. Even your fingers play with the ends of his hair, arms draped over his shoulders. You can’t look away.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, breath hot on your face. “Eyes on me.”

As if you could look anywhere else. 

He reaches down under the water to readjust himself and you gasp when his shaft is suddenly right there, trapped between his belly and your heat. It’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to coitus, his glans nestled between your folds. You’d only have to shift slightly for him to slip right in. The thought makes your breath quicken. 

He doesn’t make a move to take you though, even knowing that he could. How easy it would be. How it’s due to him. Your husband that’s waited a fortnight to take you as his own. John kisses you until each slick pass of his lips grows sloppier, clumsier—his lips barely parting from yours before they’re on you again, rendering you a creature of base needs. 

But his hands don’t shift from your backside where he holds you in place. His fingers dig into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but they don’t move to part your folds to make room for his manhood. You expect him to—practically yearn for it and squeeze him around the neck all the harder when he subverts your expectations, doing no more than letting you grind your heat against the base of his shaft. 

“John—John, please,” you beg, mindless for what. You don’t know what you’re asking for. 

“What d’ya need, darlin’?” he asks into your mouth, stealing your answer with another kiss. 

You fall under the swell of another wave. When the root of his cock glides over your clit, your core clenches on nothing, a sob half-bitten off in your mouth, ripped from your chest. 

It doesn’t matter how close to him you get—he gives you nothing. The heat could very well burn you from the inside out. Cold water caresses your skin as it flows past, but the center of you runs so hot that you hardly notice it. 

When he hikes you higher up against his chest, you clench your fingers in his hair, whining when he takes your nipple into his mouth. Your gasp comes out sharp and hurt when the coarse bristles of his beard rub rough against your breast. He sucks at your breast tender at first, gentle, eyes half-lidded like his mind has gone somewhere else, but there’s a glint in his eye that grows wild and dark, that turns him rough. You don’t know what to do except shake and let him use you how he wants. 

Desperation nips at your heels, urging you up the length of him. If you had more nerve, you’d reach down and grasp him under the water, notch the head of his member against your sex and sink right down on him. You need him like you've never needed anything before. Every part of you aflame, searing hot under the sun at its highest point; right overhead, right on top of you. 

His teeth sink delicately into your areola, tongue lapping over your nipple to soothe the hurt, and suddenly, you break.

“Please—” you gasp, wrenching his mouth away from your breast and whimpering when he resists at first, glaring up at you like he might bite. “Please, John—I can’t take it. I need you.”

His eyes darken, the pupil swallowing everything up. “Need me where, wife? Here?”

A hand dips between your thighs, pointer finger gliding over your sex, plump with blood. So tender that your mouth hangs open on a whine when he touches you. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper, gaze swimming. 

John’s breath comes out in a harsh, ragged pant. Completely undone in a way you’ve never seen before. “Get out, darlin’. I’m taking you home. Gonna give you what you need.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #price/reader #john price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader #john price