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scuttlingcrab · 7 months

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Mortals

A Warlock is Born

Summary: Korrilla summons Raphael to aid her in a fight at the Devil’s Fee. Raphael recruits a new warlock to his cause.

Notes: This is part of an ongoing collection of short stories focusing on Raphael and the mortals who have impacted him throughout his existence. Each little story loosely ties into the main plot of Baldur’s Gate 3. The second part will be out soon!

The first story, The Curse of Lady Luck, can be found here. You do not need to read them in order, as each story is stand-alone.

Part 2: A Warlock’s Sacrifice is here!

(Image via breadandbloodybutter)

Raphael’s spine tingled when he felt Korrilla’s summons. There was a sharp tug at his chest, attempting to pull him towards her requested destination. Not now, imprudent creature. He anchored himself in his chair, falling back into a trance as he stared at his latest painting. His eyes danced over the thick swirling brush strokes and the vibrant oranges and reds of the setting sun.

He had positioned his easel on a hill near Neverwinter, a superb location overlooking the Trackless Sea. Raphael’s preferred spot for seclusion and indulging in mortal leisure pursuits, one of his many guilty pleasures.

The sky was ablaze around Raphael but there was no blistering heat. Instead it was juxtaposed with a gentle breeze that cooled his skin as he watched the sun disappear behind the horizon. There was no equivalent in Avernus, where the raging skies barely changed save for a sparse cloud or two that brought iron rain and the occasional arcane thunderstorm.

Fiery oranges clashed with dark blues and light purples as they fought for the dying attention of the sun. The ocean waves were calm, mirroring the chaos in the skies so perfectly that it looked like an infinite void. Raphael’s mouth salivated as he took it in. He must capture it all, a perfect addition to his ever growing art collection.

Raphael carefully picked up his paintbrush, as if it might crumble with the slightest change of pressure, and dabbed the tip of it in paint. The final stroke. As Raphael brought the brush to his canvas, Korrilla’s second summons tore through his body. He winced as his chest heaved forward, nearly sending him tumbling down the hill. His body flickered between both locations, a loud ringing pierced the air as he got glimpses of Korrilla’s face and the Devil’s Fee; her eyes frenzied, lips tight, she tried shouting something at him but Raphael snarled in response. Her image dissolved as he fought to stay centred in Neverwinter.

When Raphael blinked again, he found himself on the ground and the canvas in tatters beneath him. Raphael had punched a hole through the painting during his struggle against Korrilla’s beckoning. His hands trembled as he picked up the demolished canvas. He could fix it with a snap but that would simply be cheating. Raphael’s jaw locked and he dug his heels into the grass, the soil beneath him bubbling like lava.

“Will this infernal torment ever cease!”

Raphael roared, his voice booming throughout the deserted beach, louder than any thaumaturgy spell could ever hope to achieve. His canvas caught fire; his work, his precious sunset, dissolving in an instant. Whatever was left of his wasted afternoon blew away with the next breeze.

Raphael rose, his footsteps scorching the grass as he turned away from the ocean. He raised his arm, preparing to furiously snap his fingers but halted, eyes darting to his sleeves, then to his entire doublet, and trousers. He was covered in paint and dirt, his outfit wrinkled and soiled, as if he was a petty commoner. He huffed, disgusted with himself. How very mortal.

With a snap, Raphael undefiled his clothes, rectifying any hint of failure. He narrowed his eyes, unsure yet of the punishment he would bestow on Korrilla as he vanished into a deafening inferno.

––

“Korrilla! Did I not explicitly–”

Raphael emerged from his fiery portal and was immediately met with a blaze not of his making. Chaos and disorder welcomed him as he stood agape in the entranceway of the Devil’s Fee.

The diabolist shop was in ruin. A massive bookshelf on the far left of the room was the main source of fire; the flames grew, slowly licking their way across the ceiling. Raphael stepped forward, his feet crunching against broken glass and stone rubble from the shattered infernal statues that had once proudly stood high.

One of Helsik’s gilded imps lay mangled in the centre of the room, its body tangled in silk rugs and surrounded by deep claw marks on the parquet flooring. The reception desk was nonexistent, the only remains of the rich mahogany panelling were the sharp splinters scattered across on the floor.

Raphael’s imagination spun like dice as he observed Helsik’s unconscious body discarded in the far back of the shop, a fallen shelf sat atop her small frame. No amateur could get the better of Helsik, surely? Raphael’s interest had piqued, however he found himself gritting his teeth in frustration as he looked around for Korrilla. She would not get out of this so easily, even in death.

There was a loud crash from the second floor, glass shattering and muted sounds of struggling; grunting, kicking, the wood creaking above him with every faint movement. In a heartbeat, Raphael was up the stairs. He crept towards Helsik’s quarters, the door to her room falling off its hinges.

Korrilla was pushed into the far corner of the dining area, her face battered and bruised and her dress nearly burnt to a crisp. A scrawny half-elf gripped a curved dagger at Korrilla’s throat, drawing blood that trailed down her neck. The half-elf had a round youthful face and donned a messy bob. Korrilla outsmarted by that half-breed? A runt of the litter, at best.

Korrilla’s eyes lit up when she spotted Raphael lurking at the threshold. He did not acknowledge her in return, but continued to focus on the half-elf. His pupils dilated, exuberance simmering inside him as he observed this potential new investment.

“What an interesting turn of events.” Raphael proclaimed, as he entered the stage with a swagger.

The half-elf jumped like a spooked rabbit at Raphael’s words, quickly shimmying so that Korrilla’s body was now in front of her. The half-elf squeezed the dagger a bit more into Korrilla’s neck, causing her to grimace.

“Please, don’t let me stop you.” Raphael guffawed, “I do love a good show.”

Korrilla’s brows furrowed and she bit her lip, any ounce of relief Raphael had brought quickly drained from her face.

“What I find most curious… is if Korrilla couldn’t kill you, then you must have some talent. Yes? And besting Helsik? She will not be happy when she wakes. Even so, it is amusing to see the Devil’s Fee in such shambles. I’ve often dreamed of this day.” Raphael suppressed another chuckle.

The half-elf met Raphael’s calm visage with fierce eyes and determination. A creature yet to be tamed. This will be most enjoyable.

“Cat got your tongue? No bother. You will drop that weapon, pretty little thing, before we continue our game.”

“And if I don’t?” The half-elf responded, voice low and quivering.

“I’m afraid you’ll find a very unpleasant end to your miserable little existence. And it will be such a waste, as I hope to make some use out of you.”

The half-elf stared at Raphael, her expression unchanging.

“Did I forget to note that my patience is wearing thin?” Raphael spoke through pursed lips.

Korrilla’s face twisted as Raphael folded his arms, sensing his impending outburst.

The wood underneath Raphael’s feet started to smoke as he took a step forward, leaving charred marks in his wake. The half-elf sniffed the air as Raphael approached, her eyes growing in size. Raphael took another step and transfigured into his cambion form, loosening his neck as his wings filled the available space. His tail thrashed and his horns grated against the ceiling like nails on a chalkboard.

“Drop the weapon.”

The half-elf released the dagger, kicking it across the room. She raised her hands and backed away from Raphael.

“I yield.”

Raphael simpered.

“Wise.”

Korrilla stumbled forward at her release. She held a hand to the wound in her neck muttering a healing spell to seal it.

“And YOU!” Raphael rumbled, louring to Korrilla. “You simply couldn’t take care of this creature? You do not know what I have sacrificed to come to your beck and call. Your worth is diminishing, Korrilla.”

“Please accept my sincerest apologies, Raphael. I await whatever punishment you see fit for my errors.” Korrilla immediately bent the knee, staying submissive and daring not to move even a muscle.

“We will discuss your punishment later.”

Raphael stepped away from Korrilla, edging closer to the half-elf.

“Your name. Now.”

“Dolofina.”

“Dolofina…” Raphael repeated, chewing her name in his mouth.

Raphael raised his hand dramatically above Dolofina. She watched his movement, shrinking away in anticipation. Raphael bared his claws and paused, leaving his hand extended. Just one more moment… let her think it’s the end… Then with a sly smirk, he snapped his fingers and the pair vanished.

––

Raphael and Dolofina materialised in a rain of sparks, dropping into the central chamber of the House of Hope. The large circular table in the middle of the room, usually decorated with platters of delectable food and drink, was bare. A boring sight no less, but he had no time to waste on formalities today.

Dolofina fell to her knees on the polished marble floor, her thump reverberating throughout the vacant halls. Raphael saunted past her, moving towards the wall near the open hearth. He pressed his palm against one of the paintings and it popped open, revealing a hidden bar behind it.

“Your poison of choice?” Raphael asked, as he uncorked a bottle of Jasmarim Shadow, letting it breathe while readying a glass for himself.

Dolofina remained on her knees, panting heavily, her hair slick with sweat. Her face grew paler as she shook her head vigorously at Raphael’s hospitality.

“Oh? Are we not up for celebratory drinks?”

Dolofina floundered to her feet, retching over the balcony.

“Poor creature. Some get used to the sweltering heat of Avernus. Others simply learn to tolerate it. I can’t make any guarantees.”

Raphael poured the wine into his glass, savouring the glugging sound that issued from the bottle. Ah, sweet music. He swirled the beverage gently before bringing his nose close to the rim. He inhaled, smiling to himself before taking a sip.

“Exquisite. Rich and delicate, teases your senses, and makes you crave more, even after the bottle is finished. You can’t find an intoxicant like this anymore.”

Dolofina clung to the railing, dry heaving.

Raphael closed the painting and sat down on the studded leather couch underneath it, crossing his legs. His eyes surveyed Dolofina, observing every inch of her taut body, her once tall figure now reduced from the heat. What a gaunt little thing, and yet with so much joie de vivre.

He never tired of a mortal’s first introduction to the Hells. Most creatures reacted the same way, with their slight variations. Weeping, laughing hysterically at their fates, one poor sod even had a heart attack and expired in front of Raphael; luckily he had been expeditious to secure the deal so the soul wasn’t squandered. Yes, it was quite cruel, but his infernal blood thirst for the entertainment, the anguish. And oh, the mortal perspiration was mouth-watering.

“Pray tell, what was so important in the Devil’s Fee that you had to risk it all?”

Dolofina wiped her lips with the back of her hand before steadying herself against the balcony. She hesitantly removed a large diamond from her pocket, holding it between her thumb and index finger. Raphael lazily flicked a wrist and the diamond flew into his hands. Dolofina shrieked, attempting to grab it back.

“Oh, you’re joking?”

Raphael observed the diamond in his palm, rolling his eyes.

“I… needed money. They said the Devil’s Fee was an easy target.”

Raphael squeezed the diamond and his hand was suddenly engulfed in a white inferno. He watched the fire dance around his hands, the sensation tickling his knuckles, before it turned into a striking blue flame that somehow burned even brighter. He released his fist, the blaze dissolved and the diamond vanished, without even a trace of ash. Raphael rubbed his hands together, that was that.

“Twas worthless anyways. Mortals, always attracted to shiny little things of almost no importance.”

Dolofina stared at Raphael, her face contorted with rage, nostrils flaring. There she is. There’s the fight.

“That was mine. I nearly died retrieving it.”

“Nothing belongs to you anymore. I am not in a generous mood today, yet your antics have inspired me. I can make use of someone like you. Under my employment, you won’t be resorted to thievery.”

“I don’t work with devils.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Dolofina’s new contract appeared on the table with a low hiss, a quill floating beside it. Raphael didn’t even bother snapping his fingers, his painting, or the lack thereof, lurked at the back of his mind; taunting him, the wound stinging his ego.

“Today’s your lucky day. Refuse, and I strike you down where you stand and consume your soul as a measly canapé. Accept, and you get patronage. Power. Proficiency. And a longer life expectancy.”

“And you want what exactly? My soul?”

“Your soul and your cooperation. You will answer to me and act as my agent. There is a war of the millenia brewing and I need all the strongest fighters. You could become a champion, you know, there is a lot of potential.”

Dolofina peered over her shoulder, her eyes darting for any possible escape, a window, a door… that glimmer of hope Raphael loved to see sucked away from mortals still lingered on her face. Say goodbye to hope, little pet.

“Signature please, and your life will begin anew.”

Dolofina bit the side of her lip as she inhaled, looking up at the ceiling, as if pleading to the Gods for a last minute intervention. Her green eyes met his as she dragged her feet towards the table.

“Fucking Nine-Fingers…” Dolofina whispered to herself, “I’ll ring her bloody neck the next time I see her.”

Dolofina sank into one of the leather chairs in defeat, then signed herself away to Raphael.

“I will say this only once. In my house there is decorum. There are rules. There is a balance to uphold. If you make the same mistake as you did above, steal from me, even think about breaking the terms of our contract, you will wish for the sweet release of death by the time I am finished with you. Do not make me regret this decision.”

Raphael waved away the contract and Dolofina instantaneously fell to the floor, screaming in agony. Her body convulsed as if she was bewitched and she writhed in pain, tears pouring down her red cheeks. The veins in her legs briefly pulsed, turning dark purple as it continued to grow, slowly travelling up her body. Her hand reached out, as if seeking Raphael’s aid and instead, shot out a crackling bolt of purple lightning at the ceiling, shattering one of the metal chandeliers. It came crashing down next to Raphael, missing him by mere inches. He titled his head to the floor, eagerly watching his new pet, as he took a sip of wine.

“What the–!” Dolofina screamed again as her body accepted the new torrent of power.

“You will need training. I know the perfect teacher, and I think you’d get along splendidly.”

Will be continued.

#writing #bg3 raphael #raphael the cambion #baldurs gate 3 raphael #bg3 #fanfic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #raphael baldur's gate 3 #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #korrilla #mortals #RIP Raphaels painting #raphael #raphael bg3 x reader

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seventeenpins · 11 months

Text

west

prologue

pairing: Joel Miller x nb!character

word count: 2.7k

genre: period western/horror

summary: Dakota Territory, 1879. Joel Miller, a widower, lives on the outskirts of Deadwood with his brother and daughter. After travelling north from Texas two years earlier, they've put down roots in the community. Tommy came for the gold rush, and Joel came to keep an eye on Tommy. The end of the world arrives piece by piece, and then all at once.

warnings: glaring historical inaccuracies, canon typical violence, allusions to a suicide attempt, essentially just the opening of the show/game but set in 1879 with some bits adjusted, the horrors of being a person in the 1800s, nb love interest is essentially a reader self-insert but is named (tho won't appear till the next chapter), it will be a slowwwww burn.

a/n: Ok, a funny thing that didn't come up in my research till I was ninety percent thru the outline and halfway thru the chapter but had independently decided on 1879 as the setting -- Deadwood actually burned down on September 26, 1879. Figured it was serendipitous. Happy Birthday, Joel! 🫠

The day the world ended, the sun rose bright across the valley. Autumn was just starting to emerge and dust motes appeared suspended in the bright sunbeams, forested wilderness surrounding the town of Deadwood. The leaves weren't changed, not fully, but here and there you could find a red tree amongst the green ones, and you knew they'd follow soon.

Joel was exhausted. His head ached. His bones ached. He could already feel the stiffness in his muscles from yesterday's work, and today would be no better.

The first few cries of the rooster hadn't done so much as stir him, but now as morning truly broke, he could smell mouth-watering aromas wafting up from below, heard the bustling in his kitchen and his belly rumbled, waking him up right quick.

He scrunched his face up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and went over to the basin to splash cool water on his face. He stared at his reflection in his glass. Another year older. Another strand of silver in his hair. Thirty six. He'd made it to thirty six.

He pulled a shirt from his drawer and frowned. It was soft, cotton, and one of his favorites, but he was sure this one was torn at the shoulder, left to waste away in the oft forgotten mending basket. He shook it out and peered at it–sure enough, it had been torn, but now it was mended with fine, careful stitches.

Sarah. It must've been.

That girl was busy herself, but it warmed him, that she'd taken the time to mend her old pa's shirts without him ever having to ask.

He dresses quickly, tucking in his mended shirt, buttoning his trousers, adjusting his suspenders. He wasn't a vain man, but he takes pride in his work, and his mama always told him "It ain't about vanity, Joel. You take yourself and your appearance serious, others will too."

He grew up with little, but his mama was an accomplished seamstress. Her mending was impeccable, and any time she found a discarded bit of fabric, she'd bring it back to life and make it twice as pretty as she found it. Joel reckoned she was the best dressed woman in all of Texas. She collected issues of Good Housekeeping and Harper's, taking account of all the latest fashions. She built corsets and cages and all the ladies would flock to her to do them up just as pretty.

Joel combed back his hair. Stared in the mirror for just a moment longer, lost in his memories. Nodded, and stepped downstairs.

"Pa!" Sarah grinned at him as he entered the kitchen, "Lookin' mighty fine this morning."

She pulled him in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, baby girl," he grinned back, "You makin' us breakfast?"

"Yep!" She nods, and hands him a plate. Drop biscuits, a little burnt, swimming in gravy, a cup of wild berries on the side, and a hot cup of coffee.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the spiraling tendrils of coffee vapour and let out a delighted hum. "You spoil me, kiddo."

"'Course," she nodded, and took a big bite of her own biscuit.

"Uncle Tommy home?" Joel asked, and Sarah shook her head, a couple of biscuit crumbs scattering around her, "Nah, he went out early today. Said he wanted to get done with his work early so he can celebrate your birthday."

Joel raised an eyebrow. "Celebrate my birthday?" he scoffs, "Stop by the saloon or lose all his money at cards and still make it on time to dinner is more like it."

He took one last gulp of his coffee and placed the mug down.

"We'll have a nice night," Sarah assured him, "An' I told Uncle Tommy he best be here in time for supper or else. And I'm makin' you a cake."

"Okay, baby. You'd best be off to school, now. I'll get these dishes taken care of."

"You sure?" She asked.

"Positive."

Sarah nodded, pulled off her apron, tossed a few of her favorite books in her satchel and tore out the door.

Joel went off for his work. Only two years they'd been in the Black Hills, Joel, Sarah and Tommy, but they'd made a nice little home. They came up after Sarah's mama passed, and Tommy heard about the gold rush. He insisted it was all because of the rush he wanted to come, but Sarah always suspected he came because he knew Joel would follow, and her pa needed a change of scenery. He'd almost faded into a ghost himself, sitting round their empty old house, nearly lost in memories. Grief had a way of consuming him.

So they'd traveled North, left Texas behind for good, and made a new life for themselves.

The schoolhouse had been around since before the Millers arrived in Deadwood, but there hadn't been a teacher till Spring of this year. Joel was glad Sarah finally had a chance for a proper education. Smart as a whip, that one, and hungry for knowledge. He couldn't wait to see what she was gonna do.

There weren't a lot of kids, or even that many women in the community outside of the brothels, but the Millers had established themselves. Tommy was something of a wild card, getting into bar fights more often than Joel would prefer, but he'd never gotten on the wrong side of a quick draw, and he had enough charm he managed to get out of most of the trouble he found himself in. And Joel–Joel was reliable. Whether he was fixing someone's step, or making sure to haul that extra meat back after a hunt to ensure one of Sarah's friends would have enough to eat, he could be depended on.

The day the world ended, Joel saddled up Delphine, his dapple grey, and mounted her, tools packed neatly in her panniers. Today, he'd be working on repairs at the general store. They rode from their home at the outskirts towards town.

As he approached, he slowed to a walk. Something felt off, like there was a tension about to snap. But no one was bleeding, and some days on the frontier that felt like a high enough bar to clear.

Along Main Street, he could hear strained voices.

"The telegraphs stopped coming-" He heard one man say.

"Problem with the wire?" Another asked.

The first man shook his head. "Naw, had some of my guys inspect it. Everything should be workin'. It just- it ain't."

"How long's it been going on?"

"Been five days now. Never seen it like this before."

"Ain't seen any coaches for weeks now, too. It's like the route just stopped altogether. Don't know how to get word to my folks back east about the new baby if we've got no mail and no telegraphs."

The day the world ended, Joel made it home by sunset, just in time to find Sarah plating up their dinner.

"Good day?" She asked, and he nodded.

"Yeah, got lots done. Next time you go by the general store, you'll see a door that swings smoothly on its hinges and brand new windowpanes."

"That's great, Pa!" she smiled. It warmed her to see his pride in his work.

"Uncle Tommy home yet?" Joel asked.

"No," Sarah frowned, "Thought he'd be back a couple hours ago, too. Guess you're right."

"Reckon he's lost track of time. Though- Huh, I didn't see him at the saloon when I rode by."

"There's always the cathouse?" Sarah suggested, and Joel snorted and shook his head. It wasn't an impossibility.

"Well-," Sarah paused, "There'll be cake waiting for him, but at least have your supper before it gets cold."

"Thank you baby," Joel smiled, took his plate from her, and dug in.

The night felt heavy, something in the atmosphere pressing like a weight through the world. All the food was eaten (besides a small plate left for Tommy) and the cake was cut, when the gunshots started outside.

Sarah started and Joel bolted upright, swinging around to grab the rifle by the door without a second thought.

"What's happening?" she asked.

Joel shook his head, crouching down by the window, pushing the curtains aside and peering through.

"I don't know, baby. Just stay calm, stay low. We're gonna be okay."

There was no one directly outside, but the gunshots continued, and the more Joel stared, the more he could see smoke rising from town.

"Looks like a fire," he told her, "Don't know what the shootin's about, though. And–" His eyes narrowed, heartbeat pounded. "We gotta block the door, baby, there's someone coming."

"Is it Uncle Tommy?" She asked, eyes wide and voice small.

"No, I don't think–" Joel had grabbed the heavy mahogany table by the legs and started tugging, but did a double take out the window. "Wait, you're right!"

It was Tommy, galloping towards their home on a mount Joel didn't recognize. Before Tommy was even a hundred feet away, Joel could hear him call out his name.

"Joel!" Tommy bellowed, "We gotta get outta here!"

Joel swung the door open and Tommy stumbled in.

"Somethin's happening," he wheezed, breaths coming quickly, panic etched across his face, running to the cabinet and filling his pack with ammo. A knife. Another revolver. "We gotta pack up anythin' we can't afford to lose. The town's on fire. There are these people, fuck, Joel, it's like they're the Devil's got 'em."

"Like the Devil's got 'em?" Joel asked, pulling two bags from pegs by the door. "The fuck you mean? You been on the shine again?" He turned to Sarah. "Start packin', baby. Clothes, medicine. Cash, too, you know the drawer?"

She nodded and ran upstairs, and Joel turned back to Tommy, fumbling through papers and photos, knowing he had no time for sentiment but couldn't bear to leave without trying to think of everything.

"They're fuckin' possessed," Tommy explained, "Won't listen to reason. It's a fuckin' mess in town. A few coaches came through today and there were men on it raving, saying some kinda devilry was coming through. They seemed crazy, so we just laughed. Didn't think much of it."

He shook his head and ran a palm down his face. That's when Joel noticed the blood on his sleeve.

"Jesus," Joel said, "You hurt?"

Tommy shook his head, confused, and then looked where Joel was looking and exhaled. "Naw," he exhaled, "That blood ain't mine."

"So what happened?"

"Well," Tommy continued, "An hour or so later we heard screaming. Turns out a couple folks who'd come in by train from down South a day or so ago, who weren't feelin' all that well, they'd been to the doctor and went crazy. Started twitchin'. Bitin'. Proper bitin' people. They got these things in their mouths, these weird fuckin' tendrils-"

Joel stared at him, a muscle in his jaw tensing.

"I know it sounds crazy, Joel, but something bad is fuckin' happening. Don't know what it is. All I know is people are tearing each other up. And we gotta get outta here."

Joel was silent a minute and then nodded, solemn.

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "We're gonna get outta here."

"We are," Tommy agreed, "But we both know the only way out is through town, and it's a shit show right now."

"Fuck," Joel hissed and looked out the window again, "Looks like the whole town is on fire."

"It is," Tommy nodded, "But we can avoid Main Street. Go to the outside, and around to the thoroughfare."

"Fine." Then Joel called upstairs, "We gotta go, baby!"

Sarah re-emerged, two bags packed full. "I got clothes for both of us. Money. Few other things."

"Thank you, baby."

They saddled up their horses, Tommy on his stolen mare, Joel and Sarah on Delphine.

Joel hated this, hated that they had to pass through town to pass by Deadwood and across into the Black Hills, but they were at the edge of the gulch. No way to go but through.

Before they rode, Joel cupped the back of Sarah's head with one hand, closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He nearly didn't, worried her pa would be embarrassing her. But he did. For the rest of his life, he was always glad that he did.

As they rode through flames, they saw the foundations of the place they called home begin to crumble. It was chaos. It was worse than Joel ever could have imagined. The town was engulfed in madness, men eating one another toppled over onto the dusty ground. Smoke choked them and made their eyes water as they rode through with cloths pressed to their mouths, trying to avoid the worst of it. There were a few folks who had built barricades and stood beyond them, guns aimed, trying to take down the most violent of the possessed. It was horrifying, their friends, colleagues, and neighbors engaged in a fight to the death. It was wrong wrong wrong and by God it was the end of the world.

They saw the younger Adlers torn to pieces, and the elder running on all fours as she tried to rip apart someone else.

"Hold onto me, baby," Joel said, pulling her in in an attempt to shield her from the bodies. She'd already gotten a glimpse and couldn't help but stare, and she stared for a moment before she felt nauseous. Then, she screwed up her eyes and held on tight.

They saw Jimmy's place in flames. The baker's. The saloon. There were women running from the brothel, still rouged and bright as they aimed their guns at the monsters around them.

Through side paths and shortcuts, down alleyways and in the gaps between houses, they rode desperately through Deadwood. The buildings Joel had helped erect and the repairs he'd completed in the past few years had given him an intricate knowledge of the settlement. They rode fast and sure, evading the devils that clutched at the air, reaching for their ankles as they rode by.

Makeshift barricades had been put up all along the outskirts of town. Each way they turned, there was no way through. They rode back and forth, crisscrossing the streets as they tried their best to pull away from the writhing bodies in the dirt.

It wasn't till they passed the very last buildings down Main Street, right by the edge of town, that they slowed.

The sheriff lay dead, a bullet right between his eyes, bleeding out on the dusty street corner. A circuit rider loomed ahead of him on his mount, hands resting on his shotgun that, slung over his shoulder. Blood drenched his forearms, spattered against his coat, so soaked it shone visible even against the heavy wool. There was a fear in his eyes, a terror that unsettled them.

When he saw the Millers, he straightened and raised the weapon.

"Preacher, let us through," Tommy said, and the homilist darted his eyes between the men.

"Can't let anyone past," the man said, "This here's the reckoning. No one's gonna escape the inevitable."

Tommy raised his revolver. "I ain't askin' again. Let us through."

The preacher steadied his shaking hands and aimed his shotgun "But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up-"

It's hard to say who fired first.

In a split second, two gunshots rang out, fragmented echos of one another. The preacher fell. So did Joel and Sarah.

The bullet grazed through Joel's side, and he clutched at his abdomen, holding the wound.

"Joel-!" Tommy cried as he flung himself from his mount, the preacher dead and already forgotten.

Joel rolled over and crawled towards where Sarah lay. The bullet that had gone through Joel pierced her belly and she shook, blood spurting and pooling from the wound.

He tried to apply pressure, tried to slow the bleeding, but her screams and sobs stilled him.

"I'm sorry, baby," he cried, and she shook, eyes darting around, trying to focus and failing.

"Pa-," she croaked.

"It's okay, baby girl," he lied, "You're gonna be okay."

She exhaled in a final gurgling puff, blood spattering across her perfect face, and Joel howled.

She was gone, he knew it, but still he cradled her.

Tommy stroked her hair and wiped the blood off her cheek. Joel pressed his head to her chest and wept, horrible strangled heaves caught in each exhale.

The day the world ended, Joel's world ended, too.

They carried her body with them for miles, Joel holding her close even as he felt her begin to cool and stiffen. Time escaped them as they rode, and around sunrise, they found a creek with wildflowers blanketing the banks. A small herd of pronghorns leaped along the water.

Tommy dug a hole and Joel told her stories, rocking her back and forth in his arms. All the ones he could remember, that she loved so much when she was little. Told her to rest easy now, baby.

They lowered her into the ground, and Joel wept. Tommy assembled a small cairn at the head of her grave. Joel looked down at his mended shirt and realised it was ruined with blood. The last gift from his daughter, and he'd ruined it.

Joel embraced Tommy. Held his brother close and told him he loved him. Muttered something about needing a moment to himself and wandered off.

The day his world ended, Joel tried to follow her into the darkness. A gunshot rang out, echoing through the hills.

Tommy ran to the sound and found him, crumpled but very much alive. He held his big brother close, cloth pressed hard to his bleeding temple, brushing away his streaming tears as he cried himself, terrified to lose all of his remaining family in a single day.

The day the world ended, the last two Millers were covered in blood and filth and tears. All they had was each other, their horror and their fear.

#tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x nb!reader

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pomegranatecrab · 8 days

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So, I wrote a thing where Tony has an asshole cat for a bit of light hearted stony, but I’m reposting because I’ve changed how the cat looks. I feel like it’s pretty obvious why I did it and I think it adds more to the story. This is around 2k now but when it’s done I’ll post the rest on ao3:) (also there’s more now)

Steve had met Tiddles once, the cat aboard HMS Argus during the war that enjoyed tugging at the bell-rope. He had napped in Steve’s shield, killed a few mice and accepted ear scratches during his brief stay. He wasn’t unfamiliar with cats. They mostly liked him. The strays near his old building would peer out at him from the dumpsters while he wheezed, furious, on the ground after his latest fight.

Tony Stark's cat, Palug, was the sickliest, scrawniest looking cat Steve had ever seen.

He’s small, more tail than anything, a mottled combination of blonde, with sharp little teeth that he licks every few seconds. He had been steadily watching Steve for a good few minutes while he waited for Mr Stark, eyes brimming with suspicion.

Tony Stark breaks the tension by striding into the mansion's living room, beaming at Steve and Palug, hands in his pockets. He’s dressed impeccably, black shoes with an artful heel, cream coloured trousers and a navy jacket atop a well-fitting vest. His tie hangs over his shoulder, collected almost immediately by Palug, who trots over to the couch with it in his mouth.

“You’re the first to move in, but everyone else isn’t far behind.”

It’s his second time in the house, and he had forgotten when he accepted the invitation that the devil resides not in hell, but at Tony Stark’s personal home.

He had to get new shoelaces for his boots, darn holes in his socks and take the blame for a trodden on petunia that Jarvis had glared something fierce at him for the first time he had visited.

Steve shoots a smile at Tony, and a wary look at Palug.

“He’s cute, isn’t he? He won’t bother you.”

Cute isn’t usually a word that eludes a tiny cat, but the pure anger radiating off him is enough to chase off the allegations.

“I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” Steve says, tightening his resolve.

There were more important things to worry about in this new century than a cat. Iron Man’s friendship, getting to know Tony Stark, their generous benefactor, and dealing with the awful reality that everything he knows is gone.

————

His socks are missing.

He has three pairs, and they’ve all vanished.

A set of Stark Unlimited socks, given to him when he woke up, and two plain white pairs that he bought after collecting his jaw off the floor at the sight of the little price tag beneath them.

It was more than enough.

Steve scratches his head, and shoves his feet in bare. Any blisters would heal before they’d become an annoyance.

Iron Man is in the kitchen, sipping something green from a straw. It looks frankly, hideous.

The sight of him is enough to draw a smile. If there was one thing that had been consistent since he woke up, it was Iron Man. He lends Steve books without a second thought, discusses movies from the 1930s with him, shoves new foods at him whenever he can, eagerly awaiting his reaction despite not being able to enjoy the meal with him, and of course, basketball.

“Shellhead! Ready for a game?”

Iron Man straightens. The faceplate, devoid of emotion, does nothing to negate his enthusiasm as he nods.

“Winghead! Are you ready to lose spectacularly?”

Steve grins. He wonders if Iron Man is smiling under the mask. The voice modulator works well, but his joy bleeds through all the same.

“No flying this time.”

There’s a rather smug silence, broken by the obnoxious noise of Iron Man sucking up the last dregs of his drink.

Steve turns on his heel, heading for the gym.

“Or rollerskates.”

“You can keep up, though!”

————

“Come on.”

“No.”

“You have superhuman balance and reflexes, you’d be fine.”

“No!” Steve laughs, reclining backwards on his hands, the basketball rolling pathetically between his legs.

“Roller skates are just as great as flying,” Iron Man says, sitting propped up on the wall next to Steve, tapping one finger restlessly against the ground.

“You’ll get them in a garish colour.”

“What’s garish about red, white and blue?”

Steve rolls his eyes and shoves at Iron Man’s shoulder.

Their game had been cut short by Palug, who came trotting in when Iron Man left briefly to grab them some water bottles, and sunk his teeth right into the hole meant for the pump.

Iron Man hadn’t cared that the ball was popped, plopping down with his customary straw, red and gold, and chattering about how J.R.R Tolkien had been a stain on earth.

“He wasn’t as popular as he is now,” Steve mentions, “it was all about Steinbeck.”

“Have you ever read the Gift of the Magi?” Iron Man asks.

“Heard of it,” Steve offers, “but I’ve never read it. Only ever read what was in the library.”

“It's very short, but nice. You’d like it.”

“I’ll add it to the list.” Steve pulls himself to his feet, offering a hand and pulling up the armour with ease.

The long, long list.

“Mr Stark has a copy.” Iron Man collects the deflated ball, tucking it neatly under his arm. “I’ll make sure he gets it to you.”

“I don’t want to bother Mr Stark,” Steve says.

Or his feral cat.

“You’re never a bother, Steve. Now, come on. I’ll show you the mansion's library.”

————

The rest of the Avengers move in soon after Steve does, filling the mansion with a range of personalities. Jarvis is unphased by the variety of character, and soon bans Hawkeye from the stove, which Steve thinks only encourages the build up of empty pizza boxes.

He’s eating his breakfast outside, savouring the taste of eggs, the salty richness of bacon and the odd texture of mushrooms, something he’d never tasted before. The silence is odd. There should be bare feeding slapping down the dilapidated road, children ready for the long walk to the library or the corner store, walks Steve usually couldn’t make.

Tony Stark’s mansion boasted a large garden, impeccably maintained and secluded from the bustle of New York. Cobbled paths coil around the large expanse of grass, weaving through beds of flowers, ending at the gazebo that Steve sits in. It overlooks a small pond, home to some brightly coloured fish that had flocked to the surface the moment he stepped onto the platform.

Steve’s watching the orange one he’d dubbed ‘Monocle’ when he notices them.

A pair of his socks, filled with suspicious holes, floating amongst the reeds.

He sighs, scraping his chair as he stands, and is glad that he’s at least tall enough to scoop them out of the water easily, plucking the drenched fabric between two fingers.

There’s a familiar jingle behind him.

Palug jumps elegantly from the stairs onto the table, nose twitching over the bacon. He snaps it up between his teeth, hops onto the chair and politely chews on his prize, before hacking an awful, chest rattling cough.

Steve scowls at the cat.

“You-”

“Steve!”

Steve straightens, pretending like he hadn’t been about to engage in a petty squabble with a spoiled house cat.

“Mr Stark.”

Mr Stark waves a hand, rolling on the balls of his feet as he looks around, darting small glances at his face, before settling on Palug, who was still clearing his throat, plopped on the table and flicking his tail.

“Tony is fine, please.” He holds out the book in his hand, faded and worn. “Iron Man mentioned you were interested in this?”

It was a copy of The Gift of the Magi, a thin book with a painting of a woman with long, gorgeous hair on the cover. Belatedly, Steve realises this is the book Iron Man had recommended.

“You didn’t have to go out of your way for me. Thank you.”

Tony smiles. He steps forward to rub a hand over Palug’s back, inciting a heavy litany of purring.

“I first read that at school. The librarian let me take out double the amount of books usually allowed. I’d take them all down to this big tree right on the edge of the school grounds and read until curfew.”

Steve runs a thumb over the wrinkled lines marring the illustration, yellow cracks that web across the fine paper.

“She must have liked you,” he murmurs.

“She said I was the only boy that didn’t carry on like an imbecile,” Tony grins, “high compliments.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, stepping stiffly around Palug, who still gazed at him with fiery eyes, despite the content rumbling bubbling from his chest.

He all but books it back to his bedroom.

————

Steve reads the Gift of the Magi twice and thinks about his old life each time.

He’s jealous, really, that these characters got to make their sacrifices and come back to each other.

But Iron Man had been right. He did like it, and it’s on the third read that he notices the library loan card at the back.

‘Tony Stark’ is etched in careful handwriting in every single box, the dates all varying.

At the bottom a loopy scrawl had been left in black ink.

Mr Stark, you’re the only boy in school who checks this book out. It’s yours. Enjoy your summer.

Mrs Rembly.

Steve’s lips twitch.

It’s a bit backhanded, but thoughtful.

He imagines Tony as a young boy, utilising his precious free time with the sprawling, imaginary worlds at his disposal.

The clock on the wall, ticking monotonously, points glumly to the number three. He hasn’t slept all night.

Steve sighs, standing from the comfortable armchair he’d pulled over to the window, and heads into the hallway, treading quietly to the kitchen. There’s soft voices trickling in from the room, audible to Steve only because of the serum. Warm light pours out onto the floorboards, relieving the heavy darkness that the mansion boasts at night.

“I tell you to rest and you never do. Instead, you sneak outside and pick fights with cats twice your size. Do you know how that makes me feel, Palug?”

Steve pauses beside the elegant archway that connects the kitchen to the hallway.

“It makes me very anxious,” Tony says. His voice is stern, though obviously fond.

Palug chitters, a soft little sound that’s nothing like the awful howls he’s normally capable of.

“You’re an utter bastard,” Tony murmurs, right as Steve reveals himself, stepping quietly into the light. Palug is lounging on the counter, his tiny head rubbing light circles into Tony’s hand. He glares at Steve, stretching out his skinny legs, all wrapped in brightly coloured bandages.

“Was he attacked?” Steve asks, worried, even with evil little blue eyes staring holes into his soul.

Tony frowns at Palug, arms akimbo.

“More like who did he attack,” Tony grumbles, “he can slip out beneath the slightest crack in any window and he goes off to fight Maine Coons and the largest alley cats you’ve ever seen. I’m sure he’d have moved on to mountain lions by now, if we had any in New York.”

Steve raises an eyebrow; silently judging Tony’s cat for being an idiot.

Just yesterday morning he had watched the cat wheeze his way over to his water bowl.

“He’s the size of a rat,” Steve says, “and not even a big rat.”

“I know,” Tony groans, rubbing lightly at his chest, the fabric creasing stiffly under his hands.

“Maybe you could take him on walks,” Steve offers.

He had seen it himself at the park, cats leading their owners into shrubbery from a thin lead, usually only to get shooed away from the native fauna.

“I tried, he just chokes himself to death on his harness. He’s a stubborn little thing.”

Steve shrugs, stepping a suitable distance away from Palug while he grabs a glass of water, frowning at a bottle of green smoothie that was half full.

“Iron Man must have left this here,” Steve says, emptying out the contents into the drain, Tony’s wide eyes following the movement with dismay.

“Yeah,” Tony says, after a minute of blinking, “I’ll tell him not to do that.”

He was rather pale, but dangerously beautiful in the low light.

The tips of Steve’s ears begin to burn, an awful realisation crawling into the midst of his stomach and settling like a stone.

Palug blinks demurely at Tony, before turning his gaze to Steve, tail flicking in immediate displeasure. A small paw stretches out, innocently, and pushes Steve’s glass right off the ledge of the counter.

It doesn’t shatter, thankfully, thanks to Steve’s quick reflexes, but it does spray water all over his socks.

He thinks the cat might finally get his comeuppance, but it never comes.

“Palug,” Tony groans, “don’t do that! You could hurt yourself.”

He fusses with the bandages on Palug, checking them all, muttering under his breath.

Steve stares at Tony, who had, only a second ago, been staring at Steve from beneath thick eyelashes. He hadn’t realised how blue Tony’s eyes were, very much like Iron Man’s, startling and intense in their colour, and brimming with cleverness.

“Goodnight, Tony,” Steve says quickly, stepping back towards the door, his only escape. He looks pointedly at the ceiling to avoid the allure of ethereal eyes, and walks silently back to his room, red right down to his chest.

He was not allured by Tony Stark, or jealous of a sickly, scrawny cat.

#tony stark #stony #my writing #616 #616 stony #steve rogers

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theflirtmeister · 7 months

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38 for the writing meme, you know I gotta ask for hoffheight 🫡🫡

Amanda refuses to go downstairs to collect the boy’s corpse. She stands at the top of the basement stairs shaking like a small dog, mascara thick and clumpy on her lashes as she blinks wetly at the darkness below. Mark is almost sickened by it - that this is John’s latest recruit, this is who he’s throwing blind faith into.

“I’ll do it,” Mark says, when the trembling verges on pathetic. “Give me the bag.”

Their fingers brush as she hands it over, and some horrible part of his brain screams Angie! Angie! before he shoves the thought aside. The bag crinkles in his hot palms, and he shoves it into his trouser pockets before he can think twice about it. Amanda looks like she’s about to thank him, and he barges past her before she has the chance.

The bathroom is dark, with only the sounds of dripping water for company. It stinks of blood and rotting flesh - the Doctor’s foot festering on the tiles. Hoffman kicks it so that it skids across the floor, hitting a soft lump lying at the other end of the room, still chained.

Adam Faulkner-Stanheight makes a confused noise at the back of his throat.

Mark steps back in surprise. He thought the boy was dead, everyone thought the boy was dead. There’s a series of bin bags upstairs that they’re going to dispose of his body in, once Mark’s carved it up. John had practically signed the death certificate. Yet Adam is lifting his head from the floor, blinking at the intruder, eyes and nose red from crying.

“Lawrence?” He slurs.

Mark doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t stop staring at Adam, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, the way his shirt is clinging to the outline of his ribs. He’s very pretty, like something out of a painting. Mark doesn’t normally go for pretty boys, he likes men who can throw him around, who will press him to the floor and make him cry. He could probably make Adam cry.

“Lawrence?” Adam says again. He sounds frightened.

Mark takes a step forward, then another, until his feet are brushing against Adam’s legs. Adam tilts his head up to look at Mark, eyes rimmed red. His skin is tinged with green - he’ll probably bleed out or die of starvation if Mark doesn’t suffocate him. If Mark doesn’t put his hands on him.

He drops down onto one knee, staring into Adam’s face, unable to look away. Adam looks back blearily, then raises one slender arm, and touches his knuckles to Mark’s cheek. His fingers are cold against Mark’s hot skin, and his lips part slightly, as if in amazement.

“You came back.” Adam says, and kisses Mark.

His mouth is dry and chapped, and he tastes like a corpse. Mark kisses back, cupping Adam’s face between his hands, increasing the pressure until they’re both unable to breathe. He breaks away, panting, and Adam whimpers, wanting more.

“Shush,” Mark says soothingly, reaching into his pocket. The bag crinkles, but at the bottom is a key, tarnished metal. “I’m here to save you.”

Adam’s gaze is unfocused, but he smiles anyway, gums pale white.

“Lawrence.” He sighs, and Mark can be Lawrence, for a little while.

#ANSWERED #hoffheight #yeahhhhh fucked up kissing

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mikhailwrites · 11 months

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Remotely possible II / Ghost x Soap

Kinktober #23 - Sex Toys

Somewhat standalone-ish continuation of this thing where Soap convinces Ghost to wear a remotely controlled sex toy for a day. This time, Ghost gets his revenge.

Read Part I

Part II:

The absolute silence of the room is disturbed when Soap yelps and nearly falls from his chair. Everyone turns to him, mostly questioningly but, in Laswell’s case, with a clear suspicion.

“Sorry, sorry, something’s bitten me,” Soap murmurs an apology. A scarlet blush of embarrassment is clearly visible on his cheeks. Ghost is the epitome of indifference, unwilling to spare Soap a single glance despite this being all his fault. Well, the little remote controller in his pocket played a part as well.

“If I may continue,” Laswell interjects, apparently not in the mood for jokes as she explains the latest AQ resurgence in Al-Mazrah, accompanied by satellite images.

The rest of the briefing went smoothly and without any interruptions, which cannot be said about the lunch. Soap’s only saving grace is the overall noise in the mess hall, so the loud clang of a fork falling onto the plate and high-pitched yelp are only noticed by his squad mates sitting around.

Gaz leans in closer, looking from Soap to Ghost and back. “You lot are out of your bloody minds! If Price knew...”

“If I knew what, Kyle?” Says a voice behind Gaz’s back.

Soap promptly excuses himself, ready to leave the table. “Where do you think you’re going, Sergeant?” Price’s heavy hand lands on Johnny’s shoulder promptly, stopping his retreat and pushing him back down before Price sits next to him. “Well, who’d like to enlighten me, then?”

“I... I have no idea what you mean, Captain,” Soap stutters and hisses because someone kicks him in the shin under the table. Ghost.

“Last week, Ghost was acting like someone put a cockroach into his trousers; today, it’s you. I’d like in on the joke,” Price smiles. The kind of smile that spells imminent doom.

It takes Soap tremendous effort to hide the panic. He needs to say something. The longer he stalls, the harder it would be the sell the lie.

“Alright, alright, we made a bet, Ghost and I,” he admits, trying hard to think of something, anything! Fortunately, Ghost rescues them both. “It’s a shocker. Taped to a thigh. We were comparing our interrogation training and couldn’t decide who was trained better.

Johnny stares for a second too long. That’s... actually... ingenious. The sort of shitty brag-bet only soldiers can think of. And it explains their weird behaviour. Ghost’s brilliant! Gaz chokes on the drink he hoped to hide his disbelieving stare with. He knows very well what’s going on.

Price sighs and massages his temple in an equivalent of “I’m too old for this shit.” Yet, in the end, he only says, “I guess I should be grateful you’re content to pull off shit like this on downtime instead of the field.” Price shakes his head and stands to leave them alone. Before he does so, however, he turns back to them. “I hope it goes without saying that you cut the crap now and act your age and rank, lads.”

Soap nods, but Ghost is going to collect the debt to the last bloody minute, especially since Soap is on a rookie training rotation in just about an hour.

Ghost is camping on the roof of the armoury with some snacks and a pair of binoculars. He’s keeping Soap in the illusion of security for the moment. The Sergeant crosses part of the obstacle course to kick someone’s ass for slacking off. Ghost waits a few seconds into the apparent monologue until he presses the button. The setting is low, but he can still clearly see Soap flinch. Can almost hear him lose track of his words.

He leaves the vibrations low, knowing full well, from his own recent experience, how maddening it starts to be after just a few minutes.

He’s right, of course. Soap starts to fidget, then he starts to pace and, finally, sits down on the low wall because that’s perhaps the best way to hide the bulge in his trousers. Should’ve worn camo today. Ghost smirks at his own joke as he flicks the intensity slider.

Blush creeps high on Johnny’s cheek as he looks around, trying to locate Ghost. No luck. Simon is feeling particularly cruel, so he increases the intensity once more. Johnny very nearly doubles over. It’s enough for one of the recruits to come over to him, presumably asking if he’s feeling alright.

Soap replies something before he nods, stands up and apparently excuses himself. Ghost is reasonably sure he’s going to lock himself on the toilet and wank, and that just wouldn’t do.

Ghost leans against the stalls. There’s only one occupied, and there’s no one else present.

“Hiding from me, Sergeant?” Ghost says in a deep purr as he knocks on the door. There’s only silence. Then the lock clicks. Ghost squeezes in. The stall is way too small for the two of them, not that Ghost cares. Especially not when he sees Johnny sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, his trousers undone and something wild shining in his eyes.

Ghost’s own cock twitches at the sight. Suddenly, there’s an idea. “Stand up,” Ghost commands, and Johnny obeys like the good soldier he is. Ghost takes his place as he sits down and pulls Johnny to sit on his lap, back pressed to Ghost’s chest. It’s a little bit of work to get the trousers and the briefs out of the way, but they manage. Johnny spreads his legs as much as the trousers allow, and Ghost looks down over Johnny’s shoulder, humming in approval as he sees his hard prick already leaking.

Simon holds Johnny up with one arm while the other sneaks between his legs and a bit further until he touches the hard base of the plug, feeling the vibrations. He presses on it, pushing it a little bit deeper. Johnny whines, or he tries to, but Simon’s hand promptly clasps over his mouth. “Be quiet, darling, unless you want someone to see you like this.”

Soap nods weakly. When Ghost grabs the plug and starts to pull it out slowly, Johnny does his best but still cannot completely stifle the whimper and the moan as he feels the stretch. Ghost doesn’t pull it out all the way. Instead, he pushes it back in and repeats it. That’s when Johnny understands.

“Simon,” he starts but is cut off by the sound of opening doors followed by footsteps. They both still, Soap putting all that training to good use as he controls his breathing. They hear the sound of a belt clasp, a zipper, and the telltale hiss of piss hitting the urinal. Ghost, against his better judgment, resumes his earlier actions. Soap stiffens with surprise and, most probably, a bit of fear. Which, of course, doesn’t really help him as he clenches around the plug all the more. He’s happy for Ghost’s hand still firmly covering his mouth.

When he proposed this whole idea to Ghost, he had no plans of taking it this far. On the other hand, he should’ve seen it coming. Both of them were always up to push the other further, consequences be damned. It’s the whole reason they started this twisted parody of a relationship. Getting fucked by a toy in the public toilets is, however, the stupidest thing they’ve ever done. No, he corrects himself; the stupidest thing they’ve done so far.

All the thoughts leave him as soon as the soldier on the other side of the door washes their hands and leaves. That’s when Ghost picks up the pace. That’s when he whispers into Johnny’s ear to touch himself. He does, gripping his hard, neglected prick and flicking the thumb over the cock head, spreading the precum to make the wank smoother and easier. The plug in him isn’t angled right to hit his prostate, but the vibrations make up for that, riling him up, forcing him to speed up, to tighten his grip as Ghost whispers filthy little things into his ear.

The danger of being discovered, the rush of this whole daring endeavour, and, of course, the fact that Ghost has been slowly edging him for the better part of the day gets to him fast. Ghost forces his wrist into Johnny’s mouth, sensing he’s close and giving him something to bite into instead of crying out.

He does. Ghost hisses quietly as Soap’s teeth sink into the skin right before he feels him seize, watching the thick ropes of cum staining his tee and hand. He stays tense for a few seconds before sagging against Ghost, who catches him from sliding onto the floor.

This was a horrible idea. But god damn it, was it worth it.

#call of duty #ghost mw2 #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost x soap #soap mw2 #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #kinktober #kinktober 2023

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tehhzeebcouture · 3 months

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lostcauses-noregrets · 9 months

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Lostcauses Fic: A Good Man

A small side story to The Permanence of the Young Men. This is my 100th Eruri fic and it's a gift to the fandom for Levi's Birthday ♡

Falco is standing by the sink washing dishes in the neat kitchen that overlooks the small garden at the back of the house. It’s a bright spring day and the cherry trees, so ubiquitous in Hizuru, are swathed in frothy pink blossom that dances in the gentle breeze. Falco likes coming here, to the little house on the square. It’s quiet and peaceful, a world away from the noisy chaotic home he shares with Gabi and the kids a couple of streets over. He wouldn’t change it for the world, but he enjoys the quiet respite of Mr Levi’s house.

Pieck had come to visit earlier in the day, recently returned from the latest delegation to Paradis, bringing news of the diplomatic negotiations and undiplomatic gossip. Much as he enjoys her visits, Levi is always exhausted afterwards. He tires easily these days, especially after time spent in company. After she left, Falco had made Levi a fresh cup of tea, tucked a blanket around his knees and left him to read the newspapers that Pieck had brought from the island.

Falco’s quiet reverie by the kitchen sink is interrupted by the crash of falling china from the room next door. Hands flecked with soapsuds, he rushes through to the parlour, where he finds Levi grey faced and clutching his chest. The blanket is crumpled on the floor, tea cup shattered at his feet in a pool of spilled tea. Crumpled in the Levi’s fist is a copy of the Eldian Herald.

“Mr Levi!” Falco drops to his knees in front of his chair, heedless of the puddle of tea soaking into his trousers. “Are you all right, Mr Levi?”

He’s struggling to breathe, breath rattling and wheezing in his scarred lungs, and when he looks up, his face is grey, his one good eye glassy and unfocused. Falco knows he’s not seeing him. He’s gone; lost in an endless nightmare. He gets like this sometimes, they all do. There’s no escaping the war and its traumatic aftermath.

“You just wait there Mr Levi, don’t worry, I’ll get your pills.”

He dashes to the bathroom and extracts one of the many bottles of pills from the medicine cabinet, collecting a glass of water on route.

Back in the living room, Levi’s breath is still rasping in his throat, but Falco is able to slip the pill into his mouth and coax him to drink.

Falco eases the newspaper from his fist, sets it aside, and sits beside the older man, holding his scarred hand until the awful attack passes.

Once his breathing has eased, Falco helps him to his bed. He grumbles irritably as Falco helps him change into his neatly pressed pyjamas, before tucking him under the covers. He’s breathing more easily now and his eye has lost that terrible vacant stare. He just looks old and terribly tired.

“It’s all right Mr Levi," Falco attempts to reassure him. “Just rest, Ms Peick’s exhausted you. Sleep until morning, you’ll feel better then.” He draws the blinds and quietly closes the door. Though it’s barely late afternoon, he knows that the sedative effect of the medication will ensure Levi sleeps until well after dawn.

Falco goes back to the parlour to clean up the mess, carefully picking up the larger pieces of broken china then sweeping up the tiny shards. It’s a shame, it was one of Levi’s favourite cups. It was a plain old thing, much coarser than the fine Hizurun porcelain Levi has quite a collection of, but it was his favourite nevertheless. The cup had a small winged crest stamped on the bottom, and Falco suspects it may have come from Paradis originally. It’s broken beyond repair now, so Falco sweeps the pieces into the bin, then fetches the mop to clean up the spilled tea. The blanket is soaked, so he carries it through to the laundry, before returning to straighten out the rest of the room.

Picking up the crumpled copy of the Eldian Herald, Falco attempts to smooth out the creases. The front page is dominated by a picture of a statue of a young man with his arms outstretched. It's not a very good likeness, but Falco knows it’s supposed to represent Eren Yeager. He’s never seen a copy of the Eldian Herald that doesn’t have a picture of Eren Yeager on the front page. The headline trumpets “20 Glorious Years of Freedom”. Beneath, it promises a “full photo spread from the Eldian Nation’s biggest Freedom Day celebrations.” Falco flicks through the newspaper and finds images of massed ranks of marching soldiers with their characteristic helmets and rifles, surrounded by crowds of cheering people. There are photographs of various dignitaries Falco doesn’t recognise and several of the Queen standing beside her daughter, the Princess Ymir. Falco guesses she’s supposed to look regal, but to his mind she just looks rather sad.

Turning to the centre pages, Falco finds a double page spread titled “Heroes of the Eldian Nation: Commander Erwin Smith, 13th Commander of the Survey Corps.” At the head of the page is an imposing picture of a handsome grim-faced man mounted astride a rearing white horse, holding his sword aloft as if poised in mid charge. The caption beneath reads: “Dedicate your Hearts! Erwin Smith, the last great commander of the Survey Corps”. Curiosity piqued, Falco sits down to read.

[Continue reading on AO3]

#lostcauses fic #eruri #levi ackerman #falco grice #erwin smith #gabi braun #nile dok #snk #can't believe i made it to 100 #happy levimas

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shreeisspecial · 6 days

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Ethnic wear is an integral part of Indian fashion, celebrated for its intricate designs, vibrant colors, and cultural significance. Whether you’re donning a kurta, saree, lehenga, or any other ethnic dress for women, accessorizing plays a crucial role in enhancing the overall look. Accessories like jewelry, footwear, and other embellishments can transform a simple outfit into a stunning ensemble. In this article, we will explore how to accessorize ethnic wear, ensuring you make the most out of your traditional attire.

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watercolorfreckles · 2 years

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Deep Blue // Part 2

Part 1

The cabin boy thought of her often: the siren made of spun gold with eyes and scales like the sun.

As a pirate with no crew, in a foreign land, he didn't have a lot of options. He made scraps of change working under the local fisherman, casting nets and charting patterns. The fishermen would work by day, only to dock by night, never straying farther than the bay. It was a far cry from the ship with blackened sails he'd come to know as his home, where they chased the horizon with a bone-deep hunger to move; to live.

He had to get back to the ship.

Working on the docks, he felt like a fish on a line. Only allowed to roam so far before he was reeled back in to a world smudged gray and docile. He craved the thrill of the life he had once known. And, perhaps, for a glimpse of the sea maiden who had spared him mere weeks ago.

He wasn't sure how it started, exactly, but he found himself collecting things for her. Trinkets and paperweights that he thought a siren might enjoy. He began leaving his offerings on the beach where he woke up, every evening laying them on a smooth rock near the shore.

First, a gold pocket watch he'd swiped from the wandering trader. Then, a crystal he'd taken from the market. A brass harmonica. An emerald-green bottle.

Each day he'd return to find the gifts no longer there.

The displaced pirate itched to see her again.

After placing down his latest offering--a stolen music box--in the designated spot, he sat down beside it.

The lull of the waves sweeping the shore was a balm against the restless ache of him.

He tried to shove the feeling down; to remind himself that he'd only ever been a cabin boy. He was more often assigned to swabbing the deck or galley work than he was to anything exciting. Barely a pirate at all. Still. The longing settled deep between his ribs.

The cabin boy cranked the key in the music box and opened the lid. The mermaid figure in the center of the box turned in a slow circle.

Laying back against the sand, he closed his eyes, humming the tune along with the music box. The melody was a shanty that sailors often sang amongst the tossing waves, usually with mugs of ale in hand.

He wondered, distractedly, how far their songs carried over the waters. Did sirens ever listen to humans sing?

A calmness spread over him. The kind of ease that only blanketed him when in the sea's company. It tucked him into a serene embrace, coaxing his mind to settle.

He felt the tide rush up under him.

It wasn't even cold.

His eyes snapped open at the realization.

He sat up, eyes locking with that of his siren's. She caught the pirate's ankle at his sudden movement, squelching any twitchy urge to skitter away from her.

The cabin boy swallowed. "Hi."

The siren wasn't humming now, though she must have been just moments earlier, if the distance the tide had risen was any indication. He wondered how long he had laid there, entranced, as she'd watched him.

Her head tilted, innocently, even as her claws pressed, sharp, against the ankle of his trousers. "Most humans who are lucky enough to escape the clutches of a 'sea demon' such as myself are not so foolish as to offer themselves up a second time."

The light of the setting sun set the blonde of her hair aglow. She looked like magic.

It left the pirate a little dizzy with the brilliance of her. When he didn't say anything, the siren continued. Her smile was dazzling.

"Come to surrender yourself to me? I’ll admit, you would make a pretty sacrifice. So vulnerable. I'm almost offended you haven't built me an alter."

She tugged him by the ankle a few paces deeper, where the water leveled his chest. His fingers scrabbled into the sand beneath him for purchase, breath hitching in panic. When she let go, he stilled.

She'd already let him live once. He wasn’t certain whether that helped or hurt his chances.

In the shallows, he could see the siren's tail clearly. The intricate knit of her scales were gilded as if made of woven stars.

"I wanted to see you," the pirate said finally. His voice was croaky with rasp, whether from the salty air or the fear in his belly. He thought to himself how grating the sound must be to the ears of a creature of song.

The siren’s smile only grew.

"Pretty thing, you are only tempting me to do what is of my nature." She shifted closer, sitting up in the water to press a clawed hand over his heart. "You are so sensitive. I've never even had to sing to you outright to catch you under my spell. I hum a few notes, and you’re mine."

The pirate watched her. "You spared my life. I am grateful."

"That is why you leave me gifts?"

His eyes widened, surely betraying his eagerness. The soft underbelly of a puppy rolling over. "D'you like them? I know they're not quite treasure--"

"Your human trinkets...amuse me." Her eyes wandered to the music box, its tune stammering to a halt.

She lifted it up to scrutinize it, turning it upside down.

"Would you... Would you like for it to play again?" the pirate asked, a little breathless.

The siren's attention flicked to him, a sword's tip ready to slice him down the middle.

When she didn't refuse, the pirate reached out. He kept his movements slow and careful; easy to track. His fingers fit the key in the back of the box, twisting it around a few times.

The little mermaid statuette inside began to dance to the music again. The siren tilted the box right-side up for a better view, leaning in close. Her eyes were wide and focused, like a cat following a beam of light.

The cabin boy watched her, drinking up that curious and voracious look in her eyes. "Is it alright?"

"Why do you bring me these things? Why have you sought me out?" Her accent was a patchwork of various sea-bordering dialects, melded into a unique cadence. The melody of her timbre was velvet against his nerves.

He shrugged, straightening the hem of his sleeve. "You...saved my life."

"From your own crew. I ought to hunt them down again. Sing until they yearn for me, until my song is the only thought in their minds, and they are so desperate to reach me that they leap to their deaths in my waters." Her claws dug scars into the wood of the music box.

The pirate's insides sloshed cold. "No-"

The siren's gaze flicked to him. For the creature of sea that she was, it burned all the more scalding. "No?"

He opened his mouth to speak.

"Go back to hell, demon!" A harsh voice barked from the shore.

The pirate barely had time to glance up. He heard, more than saw, the harpoon fly from the fisherman's gun. It sliced through the air with an audible shing.

The tip buried itself in the siren's tail.

She gasped out a strangled cry, the first sound to come out of her mouth that wasn't beautiful. Branches of red bloodied the water, clouding the shallows like an angry sky.

Grabbing the pirate by his shirt, she yanked him forward. Her claws gouged the skin beneath. "You set me up!" Her voice was a knife’s edge now. ”Your incessant stalling tactics should have been my first clue. Don’t worry, I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Panic and guilt swelled in his chest. The fisherman--his boss--must have been looking for him when he stumbled upon the pair.

"N-No! No, I didn't know he would come here, I'm sorry!"

Her eyes, gold as the heat of summer, smoldered. "You will be."

Diving under the water, the siren tugged the pirate with her. He spluttered in a flail of limbs, sucking in a final breath as the siren dragged him away from the fragile safety of the surface.

The music box sank, forgotten, to wedge itself amongst the rocks. It was the last thing the pirate saw before his vision began to fog.

Part 3

Muahaha cliff hanger! I'm not totally satisfied with this, it's a bit of a rehash of the last part, but I spent a lot of time on it so here you go! I hope to make a part 3 as well :) Hope you enjoy! Thank you for every nice comment or ask or reblog I get, it really means a lot to me <3 your support goes a long way to motivate me and I appreciate it so much.

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#siren x pirate #pirates #siren song #hero x villain #heroes and villains #writeblr #writblr #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #hero/villain #civilian x villain #civillian x villain #female villains #female villain #not a prompt #my writing

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