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phoenixyfriend · 2 years

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The King, the Soldier, and the Spy: Chapter Two

Chapter 2: Out of the Blue

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Ahsoka sleeps in a tree.

This is—it’s not planned, is the thing. Nobody told her to sleep in a tree. But the Jedi assumed she would ask if she needed something, and the Mandalorians assumed she’d be taken care of by the Jedi, and she was avoiding everyone already anyway…

So she slips away, parks herself on a branch that lets her lean back against the join of the trunk and another bough, and settles in for a nap.

She is woken by a snowball to the face.

It’s not malicious, and so the Force doesn’t wake her up in time to stop it. It does wake her up in time to prevent an embarrassing fall from the tree. She leans over to glare down at the Mando that threw it.

“Were you up there all night?!” they shout up at her.

She kind of wants to shout back a good ol’ fuck you, if only because of the snowball, but she doesn’t want to jeopardize the working relationship she apparently needs to build here.

“Yeah!” she shouts back. “What’s it to you?”

“Why?” the Mando yells.

Habit? “Didn’t want to inconvenience anyone!” she says, and then decides discretion is the better part of valor, and leans over to drop twenty meters to the ground. She brushes off the snow while the Mando just stares at her. “Anyway, I’m used to it.”

“You don’t even have a jacket.”

She shrugs. “The Force provides.”

“You could have fallen out.”

“Doubtful.”

“We have spare tents.”

“That belong to people who only just died,” she says. “I’m not going to take a dead man’s things, that would be rude. Tactless, at best.”

“A sleeping bag,” the Mando tries. “You could have taken a sleeping bag, at least.”

Ahsoka shrugs again. “Didn’t need one.”

The Mandalorian moves to put a hand to their mouth. They are prevented from completing the movement by their helmet. She waits.

“Okay,” the Mandalorian says. “That’s… right. Whatever. At least come to breakfast?”

“Gladly,” she agrees. “You already know I’m Fulcrum. I don’t know your name?”

“Myles,” he says. “I’m Jango’s second.”

She grasps his forearm, and he shakes it. His helmet is durasteel, so she feels his bemusement through it.

“Surprised?” she asks.

“I shouldn’t be,” he admits freely. “You’re near-fluent in our language and wear armor that’s been forged in our style. I shouldn’t be this taken aback by you using Mandalorian greetings with me.”

“You wouldn’t be the first or the last,” she tells him. “I’m a bit of an odd duck, I’m told. I’m not Mandalorian, never will be, but… the culture has been kind to me.”

The clones. Satine. Bo. Korkie. The Skiratas, when Bo had sent her their way for a fortnight of hiding. Random strangers across the system, from traditionalists who bit out that even the Jedi were better than what the Empire had turned this commercialized, cheap version of their armor into, to New Mandalorians who played to the Empire’s party line in the public sphere, and hid her in their attics behind stormtrooper’s backs.

(Let no one say that the pacifists of Mandalore were cowards.)

(They may not have given her blasters or armor, but they had given her food and shelter, and that alone was a death sentence if the Empire ever found them out.)

(Korkie’s refugee network was a thing of beauty.)

Myles leads her to the collective breakfast pot that’s been set up. It’s porridge. She smiles tightly, and declines.

“You gotta eat,” one of the True Mandalorians says.

Ahsoka raises a brow. She points at the porridge. “I’m not eating that.”

Their face screws up in offense. “What, our food isn’t good enough for you?”

“I’m a carnivore,” she says, absolutely baffled. “Do you—I’m a Togruta, have you never met one before? I can stomach that without vomiting, sure, but it won’t actually do anything for me nutritionally.”

The Mando flushes.

Ahsoka looks around the clearing. It’s mostly Mandalorians, and a handful of Jedi. The Mandalorians are… all human. Maybe near human. They seem human, at least.

She’d thought, for some reason, that the True Mandalorians were more species-diverse than the New, or Death Watch. Bo-Katan had implied as much, once, but… the only non-humans here are herself and two of the Jedi.

“Are you all human?” Ahsoka asks carefully. “…all of you?” [1]

The Mandalorian looks away.

Myles coughs into a fist. “Most of us, yeah. Mandalorian space tends towards humans and part humans. I think about 80% human or mostly human, on average. Haat’ade, we have a few non-humans, but not as many as the Mand’alor would like. Bit of a self-propagating issue, kicked off back when we still had Mereel.”

Ahsoka makes an inquiring noise. She recognizes the name, again mostly due to Bo. “Mereel?”

Myles nods. “He started the faction with friends from his region of Mandalorian space, which was mostly human. When the faction grew, non-human potentials were often leery of joining because we didn’t have enough non-humans in our ranks. It’s a bit better than it used to be, but…”

He gestures across the clearing. “Not enough that a random selection ensures more than one non-human.”

She tries to search the implied one out. It must be obvious, because Myles laughs. He explains, “one of our snipers is Pantoran. She took grave shift watch, so she only just turned in.”

Ah, that would do it.

“Don’t suppose you have any carnivore rations?” Ahsoka asks. It’s not entirely hopeful.

“’Fraid we didn’t pack any,” Myles tells her. He does seem to be pretty sympathetic. “Jedi might have some?”

Yeah, but that would mean talking to them, and while the Mandalorians are perceptive, the Jedi are… more.

And in ways she doesn’t want them to be.

She does need to eat, though.

Ahsoka approaches the Nikto Jedi. He’s… probably a knight? She isn’t sure. She bows shallowly, unsure of how closely she should follow her own culture, here and now.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she murmurs, not wanting to address him as Master before she knows if it’s the proper address. He’s older than her, certainly, but…

She doesn’t technically hold a rank anymore. Not with the Jedi.

“Well met, Fulcrum,” the man intones. “You left before we could ask after your title, yesterday. Are you a knight?”

“I’m—no, it’s complicated,” she says. She’d planned out what to say, she had, but the words flee her head. “I was—I’m not—my master died. I couldn’t make it back to the Jedi for a while, and by the time I could…”

They were gone.

“I didn’t feel it was an option anymore,” she says instead.

The Nikto blinks at her, and then gestures for her to sit. “I am Jedi Knight San-Set Neff. Call me San.”

“You already know what I’m calling myself,” she says.

“I do,” he agrees, and does not comment on the clearly false nature of the name. “Why did you feel you could not return to the Jedi?”

Because they didn’t exist. “I was… in a bad place. Not spiritually, though that too, but rather… I never Fell, but I had to do a number of things to survive that I’m not entirely proud of. There are many dead by my hand, and I don’t…”

She was a war padawan. Her skills, her habits, her philosophy, all are colored by her time in battle and in what passed for black ops in the Rebel Alliance. She could be a Shadow, maybe, but she’s not…

“I’ve been alone for almost three years,” she finally says. “And the Temple wouldn’t know me, so…”

San tilts his head, and then shrugs. “I suppose we shall ask Master Dooku when he arrives.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Assuming you do not have an issue with his… rancid vibes, was it?”

She shouldn’t have said anything. “I’ll deal.”

He doesn’t quite smile, but there’s a shape of the Nikto equivalent to one in his face. “Just so. I’m assuming you came over here for a reason, though? You and the Mand’alor’s second were discussing something before he pointed you to me.”

“Was wondering if you have any rations fit for a tog,” she admits. “Else I’ll have to go hunting for something I can add to the porridge.”

“I believe we have something freeze-dried for myself and Tiaka,” San says. “Wait here a moment?”

“Happily.”

(Continue on AO3)

#Ahsoka Tano #Jango Fett #Count Dooku #star wars #Myles the Mandalorian #galidraan #phoenix files #the king the soldier and the spy #the clone wars #sw legends #Komari Vosa

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tapioca-pearl-harbor · 2 years

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A TF2 or TFC/Amphibia Crossover

ever since their post @remaking-machine , I've been thinking the same crossover as well except my idea is the opposite of theirs so instead of the current mercs, it is the classic/1930s mercs being transported to Amphibia so okay here's my idea and oh yeah the character from amphibia are still the same person:

During the battle, one of the members found the calamity box in the middle of the gravel ground and they pick it up in order to investigate it, so back it in their base, everyone kept talking about the unknown box and next they all decided to open think what's inside it but they were unexpectedly transported to the land of amphibia itself.

The support class (Spy/Sniper/Medic) are in Wartwood swamp, one of the towns in frog valley, the trio has the box with them thinks they're the only ones who got transported decides to hide out outside of the town and observe them to have information about the world they're if they are deemed dangerous or not. One day, a young boy -er frog finds out about their existence and decides to friendly meeting with the humans and tell them a beast is attacking the town (it is the same monster from episode one) the red mantis except they killed them easily (thanks to their weapons and a hint of the power), when it was over, the mercs tell the frogs they can defend their town in exchange of shelter the townspeople are starting to like them and they are now officially protectors of the town.

Meanwhile, the offensive class (Scout, Soldier, and Pyro) accidentally landed inside of the toad tower during the meeting of the toad council and attacked them, but after a long battle, both sides cannot attack each other anymore and the toads think they must useful and worthy enough for the army and maybe get the Warhammer. And so, the council allowed them in high positions in the army thanks to their useful abilities especially the pyro, due to knowing how to handle the flamethrower.

ANOTHER meanwhile, the defensive class (Demoman, Heavy, and Engineer) have landed inside the walls of Newtopia, a kingdom they walk into the streets, but they already caused havoc among the streets, especially heavy and demo, they punched someone in self-defense and caught attention by their guards and so they are inside the castle in front of king Andrias heard what strange form they are, the humans said they're not from around here needed to get back and the box when he heard they mentioned the box he told what they're really are through the book, and he offered them to take a position from being rangers of newtopians guard help them do tasks around the kingdom.

When the nine have finally met they're all delighted, excited, and surprised at the same time, the team members are surprised what dirty and ruined the clothes of the trio from wartwood Spy cannot handle the filth he traveled, Sniper tried to hold it in the horrible food even if they are better and Medic saw what their hygiene so much it couldn't be called a hygiene , and the three are also surprised at the others who gained new attire from their adventures as well, but they exchange their adventures conversation, and Demo, Engie and Heavy are weirded out of the king's attitude seems too nice to them but the three knew how to get back home the box need to charged up again to have the power to get home, during the nine's journey, mother olm seems to appear earlier shock that the saviors of amphibia are nine instead of three and tell them that the power of the gem is in them, and they're shocked but having common sense they decide to end they're right here put up a portal in front of them and left home quickly. The mercs cannot handle the food since they're made of bugs

I hope this may or may never get this idea to pick up for fanfictions for crack and comedy so bye.

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tadpolesonalgae · 30 days

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On The Wrong Side of History: The Queen of Hybern

Azriel x Hybernian!Reader

synopsis: Reader is one of Hybern’s generals, fighting for her freedom after Prythian turned her back. Born with no magic, she was forced to cultivate a different kind of power, one that could prove deadly to the inhabitants of magic-blooded fae of Prythian. But when she’s captured and thrown into the scarred hands of the Spy-master, which side of history will prevail? Will Hybern’s story be told, or will it be covered up and concealed before the suffering of her people ever makes it to the light.

warnings: miscarriage at the end, war, general suffering and grimness, slight torture(?)

a/n: I had this idea yesterday and wanted to write something so fair warning it’s a little rushed! It also lightly brushes over miscarriage which might be a delicate subject for some so please take care of yourselves 🧡💛

word count: 3,810

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The war is coming, and not a single inhabitant of Hybern will stand by and let the chance for freedom pass. It’s been five-hundred years since you were confined to that island, cut-off from the mainland and left to rot and starve. Now is the time to reclaim the ground you were deprived of. War is coming, and she is starving for revenge. Starving like your people have for centuries, and nothing will stand between you and fighting for your right to life. Not even the baby you know is growing inside of you.

The air is fresh and damp, and you take the time to inhale its freshness before hot blood is spilled, turning the ground to a mushy, fleshy soup. The day is overcast, heavy grey clouds that look like the mould on bread swelling in the sky, ready to start leaking, dripping down into the open fields. Grass stomped into a muddy mush as feet frantically fight for ground, desperate to keep steady before they’re trodden down into the dirt, trampled and crushed beneath the weight of an army.

If you fall, you cannot rise. Not with a writhing mass of violence crowding the land, oozing bloodlust so thick it won’t matter which army you fight for. A body shouldn’t rise from the mud, any attempts to would be met with steel slicing down in a frantic jolt.

You turn from the entrance of your tent, making for the bed, moving slowly, peacefully, to the protective coatings you’ll be wearing in a couple of hours. The leather that will stick and slide over your skin, wet with blood and sweat, hopefully some rain, too. Heat gathers quickly in the midst of battle, and between the stink of gore and the sweltering sweat that greases any soldier’s grip, rain and wind are much appreciated for their gentle touches.

Your nose twitches as a breeze passes through the camp, quiet in the early hours of misty, grey dawn. Even beneath the cover of your tent, the smell of the battlefield can reach you—damp and bloody, contaminating the fresh air you’d been treating yourself to.

Something shifts inside of you, and you glance down at yourself, hesitantly raising your palm to your lower stomach. You only found out about your condition mere weeks ago, but even had you only found out this morning, you would still be here, preparing for your freedom.

The baby won’t survive, anyway. Not with what your body has turned into.

————

“You’re ready for today?”

A wry smile curves your lips, settling deeper into the chair that’s been set to one side of his room, the large bed in the centre already made despite him having risen as recently as yourself. Neither of you have ever particularly been ones for sleeping in, having so much to do at all times of day. “I’ve been ready for the past five hundred years,” you answer, leaning your chin on the heel of your palm.

The King of Hybern reflects your smile—the slightest twist of his lips. “Perhaps I made a mistake sending Amarantha to seize control of Prythian,” he muses, slipping the shirt over his head, pulling his dark, shoulder-length hair free of the collar once it’s on, making to tighten the laces that can be used to close the V of the hem. A note of dissatisfaction slides beneath your skin as his amulet is obscured—a hollow iron circle, his crest welded from the dark metal inset to its centre.

“Perhaps,” you agree lightly, watching as his fingers tighten the ties of his trousers, noting the distinct lack of armour—he’ll be watching over the Cauldron today. “Though in that case she might still be alive,” you murmur quietly, a little smile dancing in your eyes.

“You disgrace her,” he chuckles lowly, pulling the thick coat from his bed, leather on its exterior to keep out the bite of wind or the lick of rain, while lined with a warm fleece. “You trained beside her for a good portion of your life, at least honour her memory.” The King of Hybern shucks on the coat, the hem of leather coming down past his knees, and he adjusts the cuffs before making for the large, wooden chest at the foot of his bed.

“There was little to honour,” you counter, straightening in the chair as you watch him decide on which daggers to hide beneath the coat. “She was brash and brazen at the best of times, too quick to grow comfortable on her throne. And I never liked her bedside manner. She was always too grabby and rough for my liking.”

“She was ambitious,” he counters, strapping a small blade to the interior of the coat, hidden away in a pocket on his left side. He pauses, briefly considering something, then glancing over you, how you’re lazily sprawled across his chair, “though her nails could have been a bit shorter. They were an unpleasant surprise, at times.”

Your lips curve at one corner, sharing a look with him, before he returns to selecting his daggers, settling on one with a jagged, serrated edge, a wicked hook to its tip.

It’s then he turns, blades concealed beneath his coat and he silently walks to you, charcoal eyes glittering as you sit straighter. “How long have you been serving me now?” He asks, pausing at your side, so you have to incline your chin to look at him, baring your throat. “Five centuries? Six?”

“Six and a half,” you reply, “if you’re counting foot soldier duties as serving.”

He smiles a strange smile, glittering teeth showing briefly beneath familiar lips. “Loyalties are rewarded,” he says cryptically, his palm settling beneath your jaw, inclining your chin—it would be easy for him to snap your neck with the slightest snap of his hands. “Have you thought about what you want?”

“It seems greedy to ask for something before I’ve even succeeded at winning this war,” you reply.

“Consider it a show of assurance,” he remarks, “I have no doubt you’ll prove instrumental to Prythian’s ruin. Now, what would you like, upon your victory?”

Your eyes gleam with hunger, and you wonder if it’s at all possible he might not already know what you desire, more than anything. And looking at the way those charcoal eyes of his are gleaming, as if goading you on, urging the words to spill like honey from your velvety tongue—you feel it’s impossible. He knows what your request will be. And he’s practically dragging the desire from your throat, with the grip he has on it.

“Make me your queen.”

———

Darkness pounds at your mind, eyes aching as if the blood vessels are bursting, hot pressure building, ready to splash out through your pupils. The air is cool…cold, skin hypersensitive to the slightest shift in temperature, telling you there’s a layer of sweat over your exterior, alerting you to each swish of air.

Your thigh stings, the laceration taking its time to heal, longer than others of your kind would. The small cuts you’d been given the day before—a few inches long—have scabbed over, no longer in danger of leaking blood, but there’s going to be a definite pucker around each cut. A shiver traces up your spine, an involuntary shudder passing through your lungs as coldness sweeps across your skin, like a winter’s breeze.

Slowly, keeping your breathing as even as possible, you crack an eye open, only to be met with darkness. Hesitantly, the other slides open, and you peek at your surroundings but the dark seems impenetrable, thick and absolutely solid. Your nostrils flare, and the faint smell of ammonia and iron waft up along with the sharp tang you associate with stomach acid, the air itself thick and damp, slightly humid. Fertile and rife, perfect for things to start growing.

Casting your gaze downward, you can spot the stitching that’s covering the split in your right thigh, jaggedly stitched up, and from the looks of it you’re quite glad you weren’t conscious for it. You also notice the grime that’s already begun settling on you, dirt and mud and gore still layering your skin, save for the small perimeter that’s been cleaned around your thigh. The thought of how you must smell is a grim one.

“You’re awake,” a voice observes from the darkness, making your ears twitch.

You keep your mouth tightly sealed, waiting to hear what the observer has to say. Let them speak their part first, before you start making your own moves. Already you can tell this one is different from the previous ones—yesterday’s one had a lighter voice, squeaky and dragging. This one sounds like the first roll of thunder before a storm breaks.

“You’ll forgive me for the haphazard stitching. Healers are needed elsewhere.”

So this one’s to blame for the child’s-quilt on your thigh. It’s more than likely it was done intentionally carelessly, rather than simply poorly—poor stitching could lead to further infection, while careless stitching just might leave a trace of a scar. On a regularly healing body, at least.

Straightening in your chair, you try to pick out where the voice is coming from, but the darkness is so thick, and your eyes have barely had a chance to adjust, and with the faelight bobbing above your head there’s little chance they will anytime soon. Keeping them shut would be the quickest way, but it would be leaving yourself open. More open than you already are, that is, with your arms bound at your back. They haven’t bothered to shackle you to the chair itself today, the ties from yesterday are gone, and you can feel the weight of the stone around your wrists: Gorsian shackles—utterly useless on you.

“What do you want today?” You ask into the darkness, stretching your fingers to keep them awake and ready. It’s already been at least three days, and you suspect whoever has come to visit today isn’t just any old torturer. You can tell from the silence they keep, how undetectable they are despite your honed senses, sharper than most’s. They had to be, for you to survive.

“The same thing anyone might want from a prisoner of war,” the voice replies, ghosting through the room, bouncing about in the darkness so it’s impossible to tell its root. “And what is that?” You ask, following the script, familiar with the direction of the conversation—unaccustomed, however, to be on this side of it. “Information,” the voice replies, and there’s less than a second of detectable presence before your hair is wrapped around a fist and dragged back, your throat exposed as you’re positioned over the back of the chair, making it impossible to swallow. The faelight glares down at you, beaming into your adjusted eyes, and you’re forced to squint as your vision blurs from the sting of the light and the grip on your scalp. Cool steel settles just below your jaw, the tip of a blade spiking into the soft flesh just beneath the hollow of your mouth.

Your teeth grit together, hissing sharply at the roughness of the touch, thigh aching from the tension that shot through your body. A laugh forces its way from your chest, ragged and strained as you peer up into the faelight, pupils tightening to slits in the face of the brightness, “give me something in return. I can’t very well go back empty handed, can I?”

Your captor roughly tugs on your hair, your lip twitching a little from the pain but otherwise unruffled. “You might go back with no hands at all, unless you’re careful.”

“Threats already? You haven’t even told me what you’re after,” you bite out, voice heavy and grim.

A beat passes between you, then the steel is flipped away between deft fingers, removed from your throat in favour of pressing to your sternum—a warning before the cuts begin, gradually skinning you alive until they get what they want. Fury simmers quietly inside of you, but you keep it tucked away. That’ll only come in useful once the pain starts setting in. A fuel to fall back on when food would become a problem. But it’s high time you return to your king. You’ve spent long enough here, all because of a stupid, foolish…

“Would you like to hear something interesting, then? In the name of compromise?” The voice asks, low and rasping, and you sit silently, waiting for what they have to say.

“The one who visited you yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that…each one refused to come back the next day. Insisted there was something wrong with you.” The hand tightens on your hair then releases, the presence vanishing like a flame snuffed out, leaving your skin tingling with awareness. “Once is by chance, twice is a coincidence, but three…three’s a pattern.”

Something hisses past your ear, and you jerk in your seat, not foolish enough to stand. You glare into the darkness, peering deep from beneath your lowered brows, lips turned down in the corners as you try to pick out even the faintest shadow, but they all blend together so seamlessly, like one giant, blank wall. Not a single shape to be found.

Something whispers to your left, then cracks to your right, your pulse beginning to pick up involuntarily form the confusing stimulus, attention split between both directions.

A figure steps into the grey shift in light, silent and menacing as it prowls forward, one military-grade boot in front of the other, and you take in the towering silhouette, the great wings looming in deeper shadow. Your eyes follow the light as it glides up his frame, revealing long legs clad in Illyrian leathers, scarred hands within easy reach of visible weapons, a lean waist and broad chest, the Night Court insignia clear over his heart. Cold, cutting hazel eyes, with a glint you recognise. After having spent so many centuries gazing into eyes like that, it would be strange to not be able to place the intense glint of honed reproach, the look that desires utter eradication of the thing that’s causing suffering.

Calm and deadly, he is your exterminator.

“We’ll start with an easy question,” he says, gaze unfaltering as he meets your own.

“What is it that makes all kinds of magic recoil from you, General?”

A slow smile breaks across your lips, delicately curving in a mocking grin. You should have known this would be his question, that they would have figured something was wrong with you by now—the slowed healing, the way their magic leans back from you, as if trying to scuttle away.

“And you?” You ask, a gleam in your eye. “What’s your title?”

His mask doesn’t shift, not even the slightest hint of emotion in his dark eyes. Just silence. Patient, grating, silence.

“Not even the name of my captor?” You push, smile slipping away, settling back into a wall of ice to match his own—you can play that game, too. “Or are you nobody? You don’t seem like you’re nobody, though.” You angle your chin, shifting in the chair slightly, re-flexing your fingers, testing the gorsian shackles. “You’re clearly important, if you were sent in to investigate after three turned away, and considering the insignia you’re wearing, with those wings…master torturer of the Night Court?”

He inclines his head, “Spymaster. Shadowsinger.”

“And how do your shadows like me, Spymaster?” You murmur, able to guess the answer.

His dark eyes narrow on you almost imperceptibly, then his right hand is wrapping around the hilt of one of his blades, inset with strange markings, as dark as obsidian. The hairs on the nape of your neck rise as he thumbs the blade free, a sharp glint in his eye being the last thing you see of him before he steps away into shadow, falling seamlessly back into the darkness.

“How long had you planned to let this war go on for?” He rasps from the darkness, the question bounding in and out, coming from different sides that make it impossible to track his position. All while he’s free to observe from the shadow. “You ask that like we have control over the nature of war,” you reply neutrally, keeping your gaze sharp, but all it looks the same. If you could find a way to put the faelight out, or to lure him to stand before you… Getting some information first would be preferable, though.

“But maybe we had an idea.”

The sound of steel slicing through air comes from your right, and you instinctively follow the familiar hiss of a blade, body tensing, as if expecting it to come flying out from the darkness.

“You’d have to be confident in a victory to have a timeframe in mind.” His rasp echoes throughout the room you’re kept in, whispering in varying volumes as it’s bounced off shadow. “We’ve had a long time to prepare,” you reply vaguely, features remaining blank, despite being unable to so much as feel the weight of his attention. If it wasn’t for the fact you’d seen him, and were having a conversation, you wound’t believe he was in here with you. You hate to admit it, but it’s impressive.

“And I suppose you believed you’d win?” He questions.

“I know we’ll win. Whether I’m in here or not.”

The steel tip of a blade grazes the top of your back, slowly tracing the length of your shoulders, occasionally pressing deep enough to disrupt the skin, but mostly remaining as a taunting reminder—he could choose to cut you at any moment, as deeply or as slowly as he pleases. “What made you believe that? Numbers? Experience? Speeches?”

“We have the cauldron,” you reply, keeping apprehension clear from your voice, the tip of the blade pressing a little too deeply into the back of your left shoulder. “What was it like, by the way? Seeing your soldiers wiped from existence in the blink of an eye?” The blade bites into your skin, probably pushed in to about an inch of flesh, and you grit your teeth as he twists the steel, opening the wound up. “I’m fairly certain we targeted your aerial armies on the first day,” you grit out, remembering the wings at his back. “I’m guessing you knew some of that scum?”

The blade retracts calmly, but he makes no further incisions, walking back around to stand in front of you. He’s strangely under control, considering how badly the war will be going for his side.

“Why are you so repulsive to fae magic?” He repeats. Unruffled by the comment. Good. “Why don’t you come closer and figure it out yourself?” You reply, noting the living shadows that are gliding down from his shoulders. “See if your shadows can answer that question.”

He regards you silently, then slides the blade back into its home at his hip, walking forward until he crowds your space, scarred fingers biting brutally into your cheeks, squeezing as he leans down. “I don’t think I need an answer. Not anymore.” You keep your mouth shut, confused by what he’s saying. “You see, despite your certainty, you were proved wrong. Two days ago. I would like to know what it is about you that makes magic react the way it does, but at the end of the day, it’s ultimately of no importance.”

You glare up at him, muscles tense from the grip he has on your cheeks, squeezing your jaw.

“You lost the war,” he says, quietly. “Your king was decapitated by one of the humans he used as a test subject. Felled by his own creation.”

There’s no falsity in his gaze, just ugly, unforgiving, truth.

And he’s in reach.

You twist your wrists in a snappy movement, harsh enough the already weakened gorsian stone crumbles away, allowing you to launch from the chair, hand seamlessly wrapping around the hilt of his blade, sliding it free with the familiar sing of steel.

He’s caught off guard—it’s impossible to break out of those shackles—his moments of surprise allowing you to use his weight against him, pushing into the frame of muscle in the places you’re familiar with, tripping him up. His wings thrash as they’re caught beneath him, shadows vanishing at your proximity, shoved away to some godsforsaken pocket as you aim the blade for his throat, his own scarred hands wrapping around your wrists to loosen your hold. But fae are made of magic, their very strength dependant on it. Encountering a creature that nullifies any and all types…his muscles tremble beneath you, shaking with the force of keeping you from plunging the blade into his throat.

“I’ll kill you, and your High Lord,” you hiss, leveraging your own weight, so the blade sinks down toward the bare, unprotected part of flesh. “I’ll end every single one of you, and I’ll save that abomination for last,” you snarl, in regard to the human who he’d told you decapitated your king.

His strength is draining swiftly, and he knows you can sense it, can feel the tremble in his muscles, and the steel inches closer, spurred on by his weakness.

The Spymaster grits his teeth as he shifts suddenly beneath you, allowing you to gain precious inches so the steel scratches the swell in his male throat, but in turn allowing him to raise his leg from the ground, stomping his boot into your stomach, sending you flying back, crashing into the chair you’d been sat on, the faelight flickering above.

Your lips part, eyes going wide as nausea rises up swiftly, having only seconds before you’re vomiting onto the floor, heaving up chewed food and saliva, a dizzying feeling sweeping through your entire body.

You’re flipped over not even a second after you get the first clear breath down, the Spymaster over you, dark eyes cold as ice as the steel of that blade glints in the unnaturally pale faelight. The blade hisses down, aimed to slice up beneath your ribs, cutting into your heart, but his eyes have dropped to the hand you have over your abdomen. Nostrils flaring at the slight tang of blood.

His features slack. “You’re—”

You take the chance, knocking the blade from his hand, reaching to wrap your hands around his throat, but something impacts with your temple, a second figure coming from the darkness that you hadn’t noticed, and you feel as the hit registers.

A fresh wave of dizziness slams into you, the world tilting dramatically before you’re slumping, heading for the floor before hands catch you. Making sure you don’t land on your front.

The world goes silent.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x yn #on the wrong side of history

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dthmet · 10 months

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It came to me in a dream. /j

I’m only posting this because I need somewhere to put my shenanigans. (And also so my next post makes more sense but shhhhhh secret)

Basically, me and my friends all started playing this Burger game on roblox together in Tf2 cos and it was fun as FUCK

I jokingly said “what if I made a Burger King AU were they all work at burger king” I was gnna write a fanfic (think I still might) about them all instead of being mercenaries, they are burger king employees, and the thought hasn’t left me SINCE.

So, here are some little ideas I thought would be funny to put down somewhere other than my notes app:

Scout chasing Spy around the kitchen areas with a tray, trying to hit him with it. (Actually happened in game, it was funny as fuck)

Medic being weirdly protective over his “area” of the staff room, were he sits and experiments on the food. (Wait, where did he find all of those medical instruments??? And is that… a mutated burger???)

Spy wearing suits or turtlenecks under his uniform, he says it’s because at least SOMEONE has to look presentable in the establishment. (Engie then reminds him he’s working at a Burger King, not a 5 star restaurant. Spy then spends the rest of the work day moping around and mumbling about how “he could’ve done better than this”)

Engineer surprisingly being a clean freak and gets heavily offended when Sniper forgets to wash his hands in the employee bathroom. (After that Engie refused to let Sniper be anywhere near the customers or kitchen until Engie made sure Sniper’s hands were 100% clean.)

Pyro has almost burnt down the whole building MULTIPLE times. Any kind of food you get from them is always somewhat burnt, or has some unwanted candy that pyro got from god knows where lodged into it.

Heavy has scared off so many rude customers, whenever somebody has an issue with an entitled customer who’s just there to complain and scream for their manager, they always call Heavy in to stare them down and calmly (yet intimidatingly) explain that they need to leave— or whatever applies to the situation.

Demo has shown up drunk to work so many times, it’s a miracle he hasn’t been fired yet. But also occasionally if a rude customer tries bothering him, he’ll cuss them out with very slurred Scottish slang/insults— only reason he hasn’t been fired for that yet is because no one can even understand what he said. (“Awa’ an’ bile yer heid! Ye bawbag!”)

Solider is a hit with the middle aged men, he often yells about america and waves the American flag around the building, once Solider had gotten ahold of the speakers in the Burger King and started blasting the American anthem on LOOP. (He was not allowed to uses the speakers again after that.

Sniper is absolutely horrible with the customers, he’s always either saying too much or too little (and usually when he is saying too much it’s because he started panicking, and then told some customer all about how Australia is like, definitely over sharing about his own personal life in Australia). He ends up accidentally putting the customers off of their food by sharing some gross detail about the bugs or animals there, he then sits outside at the back and cringes over how stupid that was of him.

I May return soon with more Burger King AU info… shhhhh

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #burger king #Burger King AU #tf2 scout #tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #tf2 engineer #tf2 medic #tf2 soldier #tf2 pyro #tf2 heavy #tf2 demoman #this is so stupid #tf2 au

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prettyboypistol · 1 month

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TF2 Mercs x Romantic M!Reader

Scout

Has never had anyone pull out the stops for him. He's the youngest of 7, his life has been full of hand-me-downs and overlooking.

When you hand him a bouquet of roses he actually fucking cries.

Dinner, a movie while holding hands, cuddling under the stars? God, he feels like a princess in a disney movie and you're his prince charming

Soldier

He's touched, really, he is! But has a hard time expressing it. He gives you a big ol' kiss and thanks you with a smile, but is lowkey pretty awkward when you offer to dance with him.

He looooved the homecooked dinner you made for him- after all, restaurants aren't really his scene. Course after course if just amazing!

Afterwards, you convince him to slowdance/cuddledance with you while whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He blushed so hard you can feel the heat on his cheeks.

Pyro

OH MY GOD??? ALL THIS FOR ME??? THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!

Well, that's what you think they signed to you as they blubbered tearfully and hugged you. You decorated the recreation room with streamers of deep red and had a bowl of icecream to share while watching a movie!

Their favorite part is when you lit the streamers on fire, making a brief flaming heart.

Demoman

What's better than a roadtrip and sightseeing in a new place? You two snuck out and drove to Dallas for a long weekend out. It took you eons to convince the Administrator for a long weekend too, so it was extra heartfelt!

Big foods, big hats, and big inside jokes nobody else will understand, most of all- you take Demoman out to light fireworks in the desert. Big ones.

With all the clamoring to see the light show, Demoman is elated to kiss you in public with nobody noticing.

Engineer

Going to his favorite museum of engineering and listening to him talk is what Dell found most heartstopping. That dopey look of love as you listened intently had him in a chokehold.

Brushing the backs of your hands together feels more scandalous than holding your hand as you give him a teasing wink.

After, you cook his favorite meal? "Oh darlin', you're an angel."

Heavy

Doesn't know how to react at first, insisting he doesn't need to be spoiled. Then you pull out the handknitted mittens with bear paws on the inside and he's all the way on board to let you spoil him like a king.

You get a thank you kiss for everything you do, a promise to repay the favor later (;P) with every surprise you give him.

Oh boy does he, the more you love on Heavy, the more he loves on you.

Sniper

Survivalist camping with him over the weekend is how you win his heart. He sees you fishing at the crack of dawn and you just smile at him and hand him a pole. The comfortable silence has him blushing like a poppy.

Play wrestle this man. Play wrestle him and win. Pin this man to the ground with a playful yet exerting smile and he will never forget the moment until the day he does and then some. Then kiss him. Do it.

Spy

Ah, a nice restaurant where he doesn't have to worry about the bill, a gala where he doesn't have to assassinate anyone, and a handsome man he isn't obligated to sleep with for information- this is the perfect date!

He's quite the flirt as well, but as long as you can keep up with him, you'll win out in the end with your romance attack modifiers of the date on your side.

Dancing with him is a must, even if you're bad, it's still overwhelmingly charming to Spy.

Medic

YOU BOUGHT HIM NEW SYRINGES AFTER HIS OLD ONES SNAPPED???? AWWW YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE!!!

Much like Spy, Medic loves a fancy dinner and dancing, but he likes the thrill of a mission to help digest his food. That's why you two break into the blood donation truck and take some especially weird samples of blood that you find.

While the police chase you, you two share a kiss. Be gay, do crime!

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pyan-ero · 3 months

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what lingerie the TF2 mercs would buy you for valentines day! w/ scenarios+ headcanons. NSFW ahead ~

Scout!

- bought it the instant he saw it! he imagined you in it and couldn’t control himself, got hard instantly.

- isn’t too into pet-play, but calls you kitty, and pets you when you’re like this. likes it if you’re flustered, really enjoys seeing how you blush all over.

- it isn’t on you long, though, he prefers to see you completely naked, in nothing but a little collar beneath him. it makes him nervous, presented with someone so hot and submissive beneath him.

Soldier!

-what did you expect? it was fitted to your exact size, and he was adamant to the store to NOT use a real flag. the store charged him a lil’ extra for ‘not real flag’ material. he happily paid it.

- he becomes flustered and cannot move whenever he sees you in it. might pull at his collar and say you’re ravishing. will ask if he can touch you (usually treats you like property(with consent of course))

- is very, very gentle when he touches you. he kind of stares, trying to commit this sight perfectly to memory. the night will be very romantic, loving, in a way it hasn’t been before.

Pyro!

- was told that lacy, fitting lingerie was best for valentines day— by Spy, of course. He decided, no, and found this cute, adorable garment and decided that it would look best on you. He loves the pink, and the fabric, and bows!

- he would immediately start complimenting you, telling you that you’re so beautiful, and he’s so lucky to have you, and would just praise you. probably forgets he’s supposed to have sex, until you remind him.

- he is entirely focused on you, and your pleasure alone. you try and redirect him, but he’s so deadset on making you feel good that he won’t do anything else. mumbles praises in your neck the entire time.

Demoman!

- didn’t really plan, but bought it last-minute. It worked out, because he found this beautiful little garment and knew it would look magnificent on you. He knew it was the one!

- is immediately really grope-y, but in a really soft and nice way. he loves the thin, flowing material, and keeps it on the entire time. He can’t get enough of you.

- will eat you out, pushing the skirt up your hips and holding your thighs. you know he is a GOD when it comes to head. you will not get any rest.

Heavy!

- he was very ashamed to be shopping for lingerie, was flustered the entire time. He saw this, and imagined it on you, and immediately had to buy it.

- is silent whenever he sees you in this, but you can tell how he’s feeling through his eyes. total adoration, total love, total devotion. he realizes that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, but obviously doesn’t say that then.

- He would gently touch you, and kiss you, and tell you how wonderful, sexy, amazing, intelligent etc you are…and hollllyyyy fuck are you about to be stretched!

Engineer!

- as a gentleman, he wants something very classic. something that you would love, but still feel comfortable both in and out of. might fashion it with a little white collar, or necklace with his insignia on it.

- he wants to dress you in it, so he takes his time. pulling your stockings, fastening them to the garter without and wrinkles. smooths the lace, the material. makes sure to get everything perfect. he steps back and looks at the completed ensemble, and my lord, do you look perfect.

- is hesitant to even have sex with you because of how amazing the set is. you’re like a doll, dressed to perfection and beauty, and to disrupt that? who would he be? but, he is still a man, and he has his needs. might want you to ride him so he can look at you the whole time.

Medic!

- even i, dear reader, am unaware of where Medic got the garment. even with my divine power, this is a mystery. Maybe, he just had it. and somehow it perfectly fit you. who knows…

- but holy fuck. the king for foreplay, he legitimately goes two hours without even touching you. he loves watching you bumble, all flustered, pretending to be a nurse with your ass hanging out. that latex, how it clings to your skin, and he can see how much you’re blushing?

- after those two hours, though… the examination table isn’t even broken, it just doesn’t exist anymore. it existed at the beginning of the night and now, it’s just gone. who knows what happened, other then that Medic sucked, fucked, and creampied you so hard that you know German dirty-talk more than your own name. Hope you’re on birth control!

Sniper!

- doesn’t really care for lingerie. he’s a simple man, with a simple plan, underwear and clothes get in the way of fucking you into next Sunday. This, however, taunted him. Easy to cut, isn’t it?

- Sniper loves the hunt, you love being hunted. it’s perfect :) running into the desert in this, and nothing but this? you’re a reward, and the way to get to the reward is to get you.

- it’s a really easy hunt, tbh. he gets you on the ground, and cuts through the garment like it’s nothing, and takes you, right there, in the wilderness. multiple rounds, too!

Spy!

- the most expensive lingerie out of the mercs, and he gets it months in advance, too. he’s a man who knows what he wants, and what he wants? to spoil you rotten. the only thing he expects in return is submission, and of course, you give it.

- he can play coy, act unamused when he sees you, but his mind is racing. thinking of every position, every sound you’ll make. everyone involving you, and he’ll abruptly stand, walk to you…

- and the night is a wonderful, pleasure filled blur. orgasms within the double-digits, soft music playing the entire time, the little jewels of your lingerie clanking…ah. Spy <3 he might even stay til morning just to ravish you again.

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kydrogendragon · 5 months

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Dreamling fic idea I'll probably never get around to:

Dream is the highest ranking cleric in the city. His gifts are sought after by all and the cost of his services reflect it. He has treated and healed everything from Kings to Demi-Gods. But he is tired of his position. Those he cares for and treats are grateful, yes, but his services are almost expected. And the one time he fails because the bishop was too far gone, even for Dream's skills, he was berated for his failure. Whispers echoed through the kingdom that the High Cleric Dream was losing his touch, that the gods that favored him so are losing interest.

Dream begins to think that maybe they are right. Then he meets Hob - a necromancer that works out in the battlefields, mostly. Someone who he would normally never cross paths with until he does. His sister had advised him that a change of scenery could be good for him and his soul. To recharge and rest a moment and reconnect with his divine gifts.

Hob is helping carry in the wounded and sick from the most recent skirmish in the outerlands. Dream hovers, watching as this captivating handsome man, covered head to toe in grime and blood and dirt, gently guides his fellow soldiers towards the healers bay. And then he walks towards the bodies of those that had not made it.

Hob kneels by the dead, and Dream watches with curiosity. Necromancy was not viewed highly. Most necromancer positions were ones of war, raising the dead so that they might keep fighting. Dream wonders what possible reason this one might have for raising them here in the city. He freezes, thinking perhaps Hob was a traitor or spy and is planning to unleash an attack.

But no. No, as the young man's body beside him jolts to life, a wheezing, gasping noise releases from the cold dead lips. And Hob just smiles. He grabs the corpse's hands, giving it a gentle pat, and says, "Easy there. It's okay. The pain is gone, yeah?"

The corpse just nods.

"Good. Good," the Necromancer says. "You asked me, said if you died on the field-"

"That you'd bring me back, I remember." The corpse speaks, his voice rough. The sight is unsettling to Dream.

"That's right," the Necromancer says, smiling still. His voice is warm and low. Dream strains to hear it from his hiding spot. "What did you want me to say and to who?"

Dream furrows his brows in confusion. What odd game is this man playing at?

"Tell my parents... that I loved them. That I'm glad I got to serve my kingdom as I had. I... I did, right? I did good?" Dream's heart clenched at the quivering in the young soldier's voice. They remembered. They preserved their memories and thoughts and feelings. But...

Dream shook his head. No, corpses brought to life by necromancy are just reanimated. There should be no soul left within them. That is what every teaching has said before. The only exception being a corpse that is reanimated within mere minutes if dying. But this soldier died on the battlefield. He died days ago, at the least. So how?

"You fought so well," the Necromancer says. Dream sees tears fall from those warm brown eyes. "You saved many lives out there. You served king and country well."

"Good," the soldier says with a sad laugh. "Good... then. Then tell them that as well, please? And... and if you can find my brother, his name is Calrose, tell him I'm sorry for all the shit I gave him when we were young. And tell him that he was right about the ale. He'll know what I mean."

Dream feels he ought to turn away from such a seemingly private moment but he finds he cannot. He's transfixed on the sight.

"And tell my girl, sweet Alice, tell her I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise after all. Tell her I tried and that I-" And the young corpse bursts into tears. Or sounds like it, at least. There are no tears to be shed but the pained wail that is drawn forth from his throat couldn't be mistaken for anything else. The Necromancer leans toward and holds the young boy in his arms, ignorant of the rotting flesh and stale blood.

"I'll tell her. I'll tell them all. Don't you worry," the Necromancer whispers against the man's skull. There is a large gap in his head, Dream realizes now. His skull looks to have been smashed by something strong and heavy. It is most likely how he died. "You can rest easy now, lad. Be at peace. You've earned it."

And as the Necromancer lays the young man back down, Dream watches as the boy takes a final, shuttering breath in and sees the light in his eyes fade as the air is released. He is still once more but with the barest of smiles on his lips.

Dream is dumbfounded by this. By all of this. Everything he feels he knows has been turned upside down by a single man. So he follows him. He watches his movements through the city and witnesses many times his strange version of necromancy. He also witnesses the joy and sadness that it brings to the loved ones he tells each corpses last words to.

It's in a tavern, down by the ports, that Dream officially approaches the Necromancer. Hob, of course, picked up on his newest shadow that first day. It wasn't until just recently that he realized who it was that had been tailing him. And he's petrified. Hob well knows that necromancy within the walls of the kingdom is forbidden unless authorized. He thinks Dream is there to arrest him.

But no. Dream just wants to talk. And he doesn't ever mention his position as High Cleric either. And guessing by the black hooded cloak he wears, Hob is guessing Dream doesn't think he knows who he is either.

So they meet more often. Hob tells Dream of his life, of his experiences. He tells him of his experiences with Necromancy, specifically, and how he's found that more clings to a corpse than you might think. Especially if they had things they still wished to say.

Then one day the kingdom is attacked. The forces manage to breach the outer walls. Dream is darting all around, healing as best as he can, trying to help bolster their offenses. He sees Hob in the chaos of it all, rising corpses to help the fight. It is the first time he has seen this type of magic used in battle. It is the first time he sees Hob wield his skills for a fight.

Then Hob is shot at, an arrow sticks out of his chest and blood is running down his chin as it floods his lungs. The corpses he commanded fall to the ground as his focus breaks. Dream runs to him, ignorant of the continued onslaught. He holds Hob's hand as he calls forth every ounce of his drained power to breathe life back into damaged cells. But the arrow was poisoned. Death magic clings to the arrowhead and infects Hob's body from the inside out. He removes the arrow and allows his magic to flow inside, coating Hob is a warm, white light. He is healing, but it is slow. And with Dream drained as he is, he cannot overwhelm the opposing magic as he might normally. Still, he continues. And he is winning, slowly.

And then more arrows strike the pair. Dream covers Hob's body with his own but the thick cloak he wears only protects him so much. The garb he wears marks him as a Cleric and he has heard enough stories and read enough tales to know that picking off the healers early on is a prime battle stategy.

Hob tries to push him off, to cover him instead, but Dream holds him down, even as the venom embued in each strike weighs him down, Dream continues. Hob begs him to stop. That he'll kill himself if he keeps this up. And Dream knows that he is correct. He will die. But, he finds, as he summons forth the last reserve of his strength, he does not mind dying if it means Hob gets to live.

Besides, there are still words he would say to Hob. He will see him one last time before he goes for good after all.

He pushes all that is left of him into Hob and the death magic fades away. There is only light and love left in his cells. No more poison. Hob is safe.

Dream collapses. Hob scrambles up and drags them both out of the line of fire. Most of the enemy soldiers have left, continuing up through the kingdom. There is a clashing of steel and iron and the sound of magic being flung in the distance. But all Hob can see is Dream. His face lax in his lap. It makes him want to laugh and cry all at the same time because the first time Hob gets to see that beautiful face this calm is when he's dead...

Hob pulls the arrows from his body, discarding them in a pile and pulls the man's body close to his chest. He wishes, not for the first time in his life, that his gifts were of healing instead. Hob bows his head and kisses the soft skin of Dream's forehead and he whispers the words he has heard Dream speak before. Healing words. Hob feels a strange tingle within him. It responds differently than the magic he is used to. And then it is gone.

Hob frowns. And, going off of instinct, he speaks the words that he knows like breathing. His normal powers flood through him but they are also different. It twirls within him, mixing with some sort of foreign piece. But he continues, calling forth for Dream's spirit in the Ether and guides it back to his body. A soul cannot be reattached once the link between is broken. But it can reside there for a time. This is what Hob has learned over his years of study.

And today he is proven wrong. He watches as the chain that links them heals. It glows in a brilliant white light as Dream's soul is guided by golden hands that he knows are his own magic.

Hob looks down.

Dream's eyes open. And he smiles.

The best they can figure, once the kingdom is secured and the people and healed and tended to, is that Dream's own magic stuck with Hob and allowed him to perform both Cleric and Necromatic Magic simultaneously, effectively bringing Dream back from the dead.

It is something that needs further research and is happily agreed and funded by the Crown. Hob is promoted and works side by side with Dream now as they continue their research. They still go down to the healing bays on the weekend. Dream assists with the wounded and Hob still gathers the dead's last words. Life is good. Better than is has been. And Dream finally feels like he's rediscovered his sense of purpose. And Hob? Well, Hob's finally found what he thought he's never get: Love.

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #the sandman #ky writes #cleric!Dream #necromancer!Hob #au idea

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