#char [the right man at the helm] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fouroutoffivestars · 1 year

Video

youtube

65 is the only movie honest enough to tell you ahead of time how many minutes you’ll wish to have back once the credits roll. The only issue for me was that sixty-five is a sadly low estimate.

I will warn you right now that this review leaves nothing to the imagination, so if you want to watch this movie, scroll on.

This movie stars Adam Driver of Star Wars notoriety as a star-faring pilot, Mills, at the helm of a transport vessel. Victim of a rogue asteroid belt, the vessel crash lands on an alien world, leaving only Driver and one other traveller alive. The planet in question; is Earth—65 million years in our past.

Coming from the creators of A Quiet Place, I was expecting big things. Before watching A Quiet Place, I, like many other movie-goers, watched the trailer and got very excited. Although A Quiet Place had a beautifully crafted script, a great cast, and a chilling enemy, the trailer was misleading. As with so many trailers these days, it was crammed with all the best bits to draw in audiences. As I mentioned, A Quiet Place still had many strong points to drive its success; sadly, 65 falls short on all fronts.

The main emotional draw to the story surrounds the loss of family: MIlls’ daughter and Koas’ parents, played by Ariana Greenblatt. The symmetry could have worked, but I felt the two storylines were too weak and disjointed to have any real impact.

I believe this was mainly because the two main characters didn’t speak the same language, which made any true bond near impossible. Why this was the basis for the characters’ interactions, I don’t know, but considering the film as a whole, it seemed fitting to include such a ludicrous barrier.

Another point that confused me somewhat was Koa’s fluctuating confidence. One moment Koa was happy to wander unaccompanied, although she had been frightened, attacked and almost eaten, and then she was so scared that she even shied away from Mills when he saved her life. Mills had fewer dimensions to his character and remained a stoic grump for most of the movie.

My last couple of points relate to those annoying little things you notice and can’t get out of your mind. First, we have the miraculous reappearing backpacks. Now, I will caveat this next piece by admitting I could be wrong. I would need to watch the scenes back to be sure, but at the time of watching, their futuristic sachels appeared to have come straight out of Diagon Alley.

On approximately three different occasions Mills and Koa were in situations where their backpacks were well and truly left behind but suspiciously reappeared in the next scene. This bizarre occurrence included a scene of the two diving through a hole into a cavern below, a la Luke, Leia, Chewy and Han, and leaving all their possessions behind, only to miraculously have everything back a moment later.

It’s constant inconsistent plot twists like this that left me confused. The obvious technological advantages Mills had at his disposal left me in no doubt of their survival throughout. I will admit that the final blow to secure their safety came thanks to a 65-million-year-old horn (technically only a few years old) coated in poison, which raises another issue.

Why make a big thing of Koa coating it in the poisonous berries Mills has warned her about? Sure, Koa used the horn in the end, but which injury do you think the dinosaur felt most? The poison or the three-foot-long spike in his eye. Also, about five seconds after being stabbed, he was char-broiled to death. The poison never had a chance to work.

Overall I feel cheated. Movie makers are often outspoken about how the flood of superhero movies is ruining cinema. Well, I, for one, will take a heavily criticised but enjoyable Ant-Man over dross like 65, any day of the week.

1 out of 5 stars.

#65 #adam driver #ariana greenblatt #dinosaurs #movie review #review #Movie Reviews

2 notes · View notes

spacexmagicxandxsheepxbleats · 8 months

Text

"Where are those so called 'Gods' when you need them...?"

//: TW Gore, Body Horror, Blood, Violence Mentioned/Implied SA - over all awful things.

Someone asked, here it is - how Mar got the hole in her face. Bonus music to go with it (spoiler the words she's saying are from the song~ The female singer of Heilung, Maria, is Mar's 'voice claim').

Flames flickered around her, swaths of inferno crackling and licking at the trees. Sap seeping from the eyes carved in the bark like smoking tears, ash and smoke, the creaking of weak trunks and branches, their 'voices' adding themselves to the rotting figure's throaty chant...

"Bræðr munu berjask ok at bönum verðask, munu systrungar sifjum spitla," bells of brass and chimes of bone sang in time and tune with Mardoll's movements, punctuating each syllable as it hazed from the nose of her helm.

The Nightmarish visage, the proto-iteration of The Ram sold in the City, was carved of Ahamkara bone by the Warlock Arlo and gifted to the Risen post Six Fronts. Once perfect and whole it now sported a broken horn, it's blackened surface scarred, charred, carved and adorned with small charms and trinkets.

Fractured Ghost Cores whirred in it's sockets, the light of the fires shimmering in the cracks of their 'eyes'. Were they still alive....?

"Answer me! Where are your dead gods now?," the speaker, an Exo, paced the perimeter of the clearing. His face obscured by his helm, his cloak smoking as stray embers alighted on the fabric.

The Guardian's he brought with him were seeming to struggle to keep their footing and their wits in the face of the creature they harried.

He was met with that infernal chanting, the continued song, the same dead words and he was growing impatient.

Barking a command the group's Titan made to grab Mardoll in a bear hug from behind.

Hunching, curling slightly into herself and flexing her back she bristled her matted fur cloak, bracing hidden, forged and barbed iron spikes set amongst the hairs.

When the man grabbed hold and squeezed Mardoll lost a small amount of breath and momentum with her chanting, falling back into her cadence once the large Guardian cast her aside to slap and pull at a handful of the spines that found purchase in the flexible gaps in his armour.

Growling, pacing back the way he'd just gone, Outlaw - the Exo calling the shots, leveled his hand cannon and took the shot. Putting a hollow point round through the Titan's head, dropping him like a sack of sand from roughly thirty feet away.

"Useless cunt....," Outlaw hissed, pointing his gun and menacing the others to get on with it.

Turning their attention back to Mardoll they thought to attempt a united front, all four rushing the smaller woman. She'd already taken some damage in the hours long stand off, coupled with the constant chanting and sweltering heat of the Solar ignited blaze around them the Risen had to be getting tired, right?

"Gal anda viðr, gangla viðr, riðanda viðr, viðr rinnanda, viðr sitjanda, viðr signianda, viðr faranda, viðr fluganda, skal alta fyrna ok um döya," the words repeated in quick succession, rolling off an unseen tongue as desperation crept into the quartet pressing the charge.

Blades were deflected in flashes, blows exchanged in kind, a knife was lost to Mardoll's upper back - an iron thorn taking it's place in it's wielder's hand.

Even that did little to slow the assailants and the assailed.

A smile twisted Outlaw's face plates, catching sight of blood dripping from the hollow nose of The Ram, "See!? The Bitch Bleeds! She's not a god or phantom of the forest! Keep pressing her!"

'Will it work?' the voice whispered in the Exo's mind, pulling a sneer behind the visor of his helm. His Ghost, nearly shattered by the woman he now tried to kill, shuttered in Outlaw's eye socket.

It was afraid, like it was those centuries ago when Outlaw - under a different name- lost his status as a Warlord to Mardoll. All because he killed some dirt child he orphaned and she so happened to pick up....

"...It will...if not, we keep trying until it's enough...", his tone softened, his response quiet, but the rage still seethed in the syllables.

One by one the Guardian's fell but not with out dealing a decent amount of damage to the Ram headed creature...

Watching her stagger a step, swaying to keep her balance, Outlaw made his move. Marching with a purpose across the torn ground, stepping over the dead and grabbing Mardoll by the front of her armour, giving her a hard shake.

"Rumor has it, some Stormcaller blinded you... That why you keep these sad fucks in your head? Hmm?," another hard shake and he let her go, watching an unsteady step he cocked back and punched her. HIs fist connecting with the right side of her helm.

Outlaw laughed as she lurched, huffing impressed that she kept her feet under her, "What, you done singing? Or is this," grabbing her again he pressed his thumb into a bullet hole in her chest, just below her left breast, "Taking the piss out of you...?"

"Sér hon upp koma öðru sinni," airy and snarled, Mar responded, taking a swing of her own at Outlaw's head. Her hand connected, he reacted by stepping back, but also forcing his thumb deeper, now passed the first knuckle...

"That, almost, hurt...But I bet this," hooking his thumb in the wound he pulled, jerking her closer, "hurts more..."

The man almost purred, his forehead now pressed to her own, the Ghost Cores in Mar's helm shuddering before focusing on the Ghost in Outlaw's face, as if they could see it through the Exo's helm.

"It's a shame really, every thing that happened...that kid? Wasn't worth it... you should have just taken me up on my offer...we could have been great you know... Stronger than any other Lord's in the area...", his timbre changed, becoming low and husky as he lamented softly, "...you were hot back then, still are, all thing's considered... but rather than lay with your own you followed that god damned Ranger and his god damn friends..."

"....Those fuckers were using you, riding your abilities and power....", he cursed his laps, the fact he closed his eyes a moment. She reared back and head butt him, the visor of his helm cracking with the impact.

"Still a sore fucking thing isn't it?! You failed them and they fucking used your ass! Yet you still fucking mourn them! Their dead! Fucking Gone!," grabbing Mar by the throat he hauled her off the ground, drawing his serrated blade he plunged it to the hilt into her abdomen, "That little bastard is dead and you know what!? This is the same blade that slit his little pig throat!"

Drawing the blade back Outlaw struck again, stabbing just below the first strike, "I watched your Ranger's eat shit, sat and smiled while the tall one got his fucking head blown off....really got me going," twisting the blade slowly he drew it out, then back in again, "wished I could have had you broken and beneath me, to fuck you while you cried and begged to go to them...."

He groaned, stabbing her once more, "get's me hard thinking about it....", sighing he threw her to the ground, wiping his knife across his chest as he stepped towards her, kicking Mar to her back and dropping his boot to her wounds with a sigh, "...I might be made to reconsider this you know...."

Crouching over her, settling himself on her hips, he let his free hand press up the front of her armour, feeling the make of it and her curves beneath it while he sheathed his knife, "It'd truly be a waste to kill you...you really are a rare creature... unique Light, strange tattoos...a brute force and savagery that hides behind soft features and doe eyes... What I wouldn't give to have you on me..."

He peeled his helm off, letting it drop next to him as he reached for her's. Roughing it off so he could see her face he tutted softly, puling a cloth from one of his pockets.

"...Sheela did a number on your eyes...you really can't see shit can you...?," leaning down he dabbed at the blood beading from her nose, "Such a wild, untamed thing you are..."

Outlaw didn't hesitate, bending closer he pressed his alloy lips to hers, mechanical taste receptors picking up the blood on her mouth, "Not quick to struggle...are you submitting...?"

He pressed back in, kissing her again, "You don't have to di..!"

Mardoll's hand snapped up, having found one of the dead Guardian's blades in the grass beside her, and slammed the weapon to the hilt into the side of Outlaw's neck.

Sparks and fluids erupted around the knife as he recoiled off her, scrambling back and to his feet he drew his hand-cannon.

"Stupid whore!," he roared, leveling the gun, his finger flexing to pull the trigger.

At the last possible second, Mardoll's Ghost, Revenant, flashed into view, dropping a massive stone onto the Exo's forearm, disrupting the shot.

It wasn't enough.

The round ripped through Mardoll's left cheek, blowing her teeth and a considerable amount of bone and flesh from her face, sending her reeling back to the ground to lay still and staring into the dirt...

Revenant vanished, and before Outlaw could take a second shot a shadow in the flames across from him gave him pause.

A massive creature stood there, it's silhouette some where between a serpent, wolf and squid... a myriad of milky white eyes focused on the scene unfolding, a pressure formed in Outlaw's mind, a disquieted unease that built to panic and primal terror.

Something he thought he left behind when he traded flesh for metal...

With out hesitation, his Ghost transmatted him out of there.

".....You, came....," she could barely speak as she struggled to turn over, the words more or less fell out of her mouth, slurred and slick with blood, impeded by flayed flesh and pulped bone.

As soon as the words slipped out, she fell into the void of near death.

The creature entered the clearing, bathed in flames it shifted it's shape, taking the form of a man, drifting closer in the guise of a Tall Ranger...

#destiny rp #musings #tw at the top of the post #ask answer #Spotify

1 note · View note

omgreally · 3 years

Text

Spice

Din Djarin/F!Reader

Rating: Very E for drug use and sex, 18+ ONLY

Words: 2205

Summary: When there’s no bacta and the Mandalorian is injured, alternatives must be explored. And so must you.

Warnings: Consensual drug use, sex under the influence, fingering, unprotected PIV sex, praise kink, dom!Din (Don’t try any of this at home please)

“Oh,” Mando says, and his voice is rendered thick - as much by the vocal modulator in his helm as it is by the drug suffusing his system.

Suffused, yes, that is how he feels right now - he’s gone from a slight tingle to a complete, bodily experience: his arms and legs feel as if they are experiencing gravity differently than to the rest of him.

He understands, now, why people do this. Why they kill and crave over this - this spice. Why you, of all people - so innocent-seeming, so pure - had any in your possession. For pain, you told him, and he believed you; for terrible, otherwise unignorable pain.

It had come in handy this day, after a particularly disastrous hunt. He sits sliding down in the pilot’s seat, pants tugged to his knees to expose the leaking wound in his outer thigh.

It’s flesh-deep but it was bleeding too much to just wrap and forget. He had to burn it.

And he has no bacta.

It’s a teeth-gritting concept even with anesthetic, but without it...Mando doesn’t think he’d make it through without passing out. So alternatives had to be explored.

And explore he had.

“Are you okay?” Your voice drifts in to Mando’s awareness, and he opens eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed. You’re a picture of hesitance, of too-close details; the curve of your mouth, the sweep of your eyelashes that suddenly spring out at him. Too easy to zero in with tunnel vision on what he shouldn’t be looking at.

“Yes,” he murmurs, slow but not sleepy. Everything feels - more, from the smell of the spice through his helm’s filters to the smoothness of the leather gloves on his hands, the weight of Beskar on his shoulders. He flexes his hands open-closed, rolls his head on his neck.

“And your - your leg?” He’d almost forgotten. The reason for trying this in the first place - no bacta, and a blaster wound in his thigh.

Cauterizing the wound feels like a distant memory, even as the implement lies smoking by his charred leg. The blood’s only oozing now, rather than flowing, which he knows is good.

“It’s better.” Mando takes the fresh bandages you offer him and wraps them around his leg, tight and supportive. He leans back, thinking maybe he should put his pants back on.

Meanwhile, you linger, and your skin glows in the reddish haze thrown by the spice burner. It fills the small space of the cockpit - the baby asleep in his capsule in the hold.

“I’ll go,” you say, your eyelids heavy - you’re clumsy, sightless as you fumble for the edge of the panel to help pull you to your feet. Mando sprawls in his pilot’s chair, legs spread, and stares at you from beneath the dark slit of his visor.

“Don’t.” It’s a statement - not a request, and you’re frozen to the spot by his tone. You stand still before him, inhaling sharply, forgetting - another lungful of spice to go to your head.

“Come here.” His helmet barely moves as he speaks, but you think you can see the shadow of his eyes if you tilt your head at just the right angle - but as soon as you take a step forward, he leans up, a leather-bound hand closing on your wrist.

“Pretty.” He says it as coolly, calmly as any other word, but you shiver with it nonetheless - the hairs on the backs of your arms, your neck lifting in trembling anticipation. And Mando delivers, reeling you in.

He nudges his knees in close, between yours, and you part your legs in surprise as much as compliance - and soon you’re sitting straddling him, and he’s heedless of the rasp of your inner thigh across his bandaged wound.

“Mando, you - we shouldn’t,” you protest, which kills you, because if it wasn’t for the fucking spice you would be jumping at the chance - at him. The mysterious man in Beskar has been driving you insane ever since you met him and hitched a ride with him and his weird green child.

“Why not?” he muses, like he’s giving it serious thought - then discounts it, closing his arms around you, and you feel his fingers at your back, sweeping down your spine, around the curve of your ass - fitting you to him.

Kriff, he’s hard just from this.

“Because,” you protest, shifting your hips to get away from the pressure - but that only serves to press the curve of him against the hidden swell of your clit. “Because.”

“Pretty,” he murmurs again, and your scalp prickles. He’s tugging your shirt up, squeezing at your breasts, thumbs just rough enough against your nipples. You arch, drawing in another sweet, spice-laden breath.

“Help me with these fucking gloves.” This, now, this is an order, one you hasten to obey - you reach in between you for his hands, taking one in between your much smaller two. Fuck, his hands are huge, and you know from the feel of it that he’s-

You’ve managed to tug one glove almost all the way off, going finger-by-finger. As soon as it falls his hand is on your face, following the curve of your jaw, the hollow of your cheekbone, the seam of your lips. You kiss his palm, and his fingers are softer than you expected, aside from the faint scars.

He has another to add to the collection, you think to yourself.

It’s a strange sensation, his Beskar chest in front of you and the warmth of his bare thighs beneath yours. You’re torn between a sigh and a tremble, so instead you do both.

Once his other hand is free - and you’re careful to avoid his dangerous-looking bracers - he zeroes in between your legs, working beneath the hem of your pants with a dexterity that surprises you. Even spiced to the eyeballs, he’s kriffing fast.

He cups you through your underwear, and you groan from deep in your chest, then silence yourself, embarrassed - he chuckles, a modulated buzz in your ear.

“Don’t worry. I want to hear you, baby.”

Maker. You hadn’t thought him the type to use pet names. But, well, his name is pretty much one, so maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. Either way, it tears a surprised whimper from your throat.

His hand slides up, and then down again, and with shock you realize he’s inside your underwear - a second before two deft fingers work their way down the seam of your cunt, sliding into your folds and nudging at the apex of your entrance.

“Fuck, Mando, y-” you begin, broken-off and shuddering as his fingers plunge into you. Your walls contract and you hunch up on his thighs as he begins working those fingers in and out, effortlessly.

Words are lost. There’s just the thick slide of his digits flexing into and inside your weeping pussy. You can feel his entire hand growing damp with you as he fucks you with his fingers.

When the edge of his thumb makes contact with the hood of your clitoris, you quake, and he senses it, increasing the pressure til you’re squirming. You can feel your orgasm building to a high, tight point, trembling on the edge of a highwire.

“You gonna be a good girl and come for me?” Mando rumbles then, dark and deep, and you’re lost - answering with a high cry as your hips snap up into his trapped hand and your thighs clench while you quake. You come, so hard you can hear blood rushing through your ears, the roar of hyperspace in your veins, a bloom of sensation flooding between your legs.

It fades, eventually, to a sigh, to loosened muscles and a lazy smile pressed into Mando’s pauldron. He’s holding you close, working his hand out of your pants so he can stroke damp fingers up your stomach, around, down your spine - marking you.

His hands on your hips urge you to stand suddenly, on shaky legs, and you’re too wrecked to protest - so he meets no resistance as he yanks your pants and panties in one deft move down your legs.

“Mando, w-” you begin, but then he’s on his feet too, tall and broad above you. He eclipses everything else, and your breath holds in your throat.

The spice burner has long since run dry, you realize. This feeling - this heady buzz in your skin - it’s all him.

“Do you want this?” he asks, firm and clear, and you swallow as you nod, without even needing to think about it. Your doubts evaporate as he cups your cheek, rubs a thumb across its soft surface.

“Yes.”

He spins you round, so quickly you’re dizzy - leaning forward to brace yourself on the nearest surface; the control panel. Mando reaches past you to flick a couple of switches, probably to make sure you don’t hit anything vital, and then he’s grabbing you by the hips again and yanking you back into the grind of his still-clothed erection.

You gasp - you have to be getting the (admittedly, thin) fabric of his briefs damp with the source of you but he doesn’t even seem to mind. The thought makes you weak-kneed, pliant to him as he kicks your legs apart and arches your hips into the right position.

He shucks his underwear down enough to free his cock and balls, all of which ache for you. He shows you by dragging the shaft of his dick over your leaking slit, smearing your slick along the length of him.

“Bet you taste good,” he growls, and you almost splinter your fingernails at the force with which you grasp the edge of the console. “Fuck, so sweet and - and addictive-”

Just like this. The intensity is bringing things out of him he’s never felt before. Sex for the Mandalorian has always been quick, a means to an end, release, relief and he’s never bothered much to enjoy the minutiae of it. But this, this is something else, and he’s not entirely sure if he can blame the drug coursing through his system - or you.

He finds the hollow of your entrance with the head of his cock and pushes in, and you split open around him, drawing him in; it’s a moment before he realizes the loud groan that fills the cockpit is his and not yours. You’re impossibly tight around his shaft as he sinks in inch by inch, squeezing him, and he pets your spine and murmurs filthy praise as you whimper beneath him.

Mando isn’t sure who starts to move first - whether it’s you, pushing your ass back against him, or him testing the waters with a deep grind of his hips. But soon it’s impossible to stay still, and he chases the bloom of warmth at the base of his spine with the back and forth of his thrusts, his cock spearing deep.

“Mando-” you gasp, still holding onto the console for dear life; you can feel a second, deeper orgasm building, and you’re powerless to fight it. Since when was it so easy for a man to bring you to completion - usually it was a quick tumble that left you bored and frustrated, but this is different, and it’s not just the spice.

“Yeah, pretty girl,” he says, snaking an arm around your waist, bare fingers sweeping through the curls of your pubic hair, zeroing in on your swollen clitoris. He teases back the hood with deft fingers and wrecks you with circling pressure. “Just like that.”

And that’s how you come - crying out, clamping down on the slide of his dick within you, feeling him pause and gasp as the rippling grip of your inner muscles milks him hard.

When his release hits him, it’s bright orange-white, a flash in every nerve, the spice making it throb in his head as hard as it throbs in his cock, balls drawing up high and tight to his shaft as he pumps you full of his come. He moves through it, relishing the way you jump and moan, his fingers firm on you as he draws it out.

Eventually, he’s spent - not hollow, but full, shaking and sweaty beneath his armor, his helm an impossible, constricting weight. He has the sudden urge to rip it off - to inhale the warm, close air, the remnants of spice, the smell of you, of sweat and sex dampened by the barrier of Beskar. But he doesn’t. He can’t give you that yet. He can only give the shift of his hips as he holds you to him, full of his come and his still-hard cock, his arms around your waist, caging in the force of your breath.

“You okay?” he wonders, fuzzily, the edge of his helmet pressed to the side of your neck. He feels you nod, and your fingers lace with his over the trembling flat of your stomach.

“See,” you say, “Told you it’s good for pain.” Your voice is hoarse, fucked-out, and Mando feels a thread of pride in the tapestry of post-orgasmic sensation.

“You didn’t mention it was good for pleasure, too,” he says - half-chiding - and he drinks in your chuckle, feeling it warm him as much - if not more - than the spice.

---

taglist: @thepoisonofgod @furious-rogue-stuff @tanzthompson @skyshipper @an-author-of-stars @helmet-comes-off @mouthymandalorian @remusstark @himbodjarin @thisshipwillsail316 @cannedsoupsucks @onebrownoneblue @pedrosgirlx @thewayofthemandalorian @bunniesofsteel @blackd0gdesignuk @coaaster @withakindheartx @djarrex @rickinthewall @salt-is-a-terrible-currency @fireghost-x @tobealostwanderer @mufflerfluffler @casssiopeia @what-iwish-you-knew

Please let me know if you’d like to be untagged or tagged, here!

#the mandalorian smut #mando smut #din djarin/f!reader #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #mando/you #mando/f!reader #mando/reader #mando x you #mando x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader

156 notes · View notes

kellachfromthewoods · 3 years

Text

Devil's Advocate

Among those in the Resistance who'd captured enemies, especially in the Southern Sagolii and the Peaks, there was a tongue-in-cheek saying: "I'll play Diabolos' Rogues here and say we massacre their entire family for no reason."

Einrich didn't exactly care about the reputation his unit of ambushers. Unlike the Resistance, he knew the men and women under his care would be ready to do whatever was necessary to end the Garlean menace once and for all.

The only thing he cared about is that they'd been branded criminals for it.

The strategist did not take it personally - After all, they had to keep up appearances. The Resistance sought to win their lands back and eventually negotiate the Garlean surrender. The Diabolos' Rogues, as they called the unit, would put every Garlean citizen to the sword, with Einrich preparing an even worse fate for Garlean purebloods.

None of this was clearer than when the Diabolos' Rogues got wind of a provincial visit by a small-time noble's family. Barely anyone of note in Garlemald, but their daughter had enlisted and they wanted to see her.

None of them would see Garlemald again - Not that they would have, considering its current state, but that does not matter. It's how they met their end that mattered.

At first, the rogues weren't even seen as on the level of the Corpse Brigade when it came to nefarious acts, but after this operation, anyone in the Resistance who could bring the Diabolos' Rogues to justice would be commended.

The noble wanted to see if their daughter was doing well leading a bunch of savages into battle, and brought over their family so they could see their sister. Based out of Castrum Abania, their daughter patrolled the area in the southwest for rebel activity with a small detachment of troops, nothing major. They'd maneuver to the southwest, investigate, and then move back to the Castrum. This was the safest assignment for what was essentially a favored patrol group due to their leader's lineage.

Not to say they were not efficient, but that day, they had been read like a book. They marched with the exemplary discipline of the Garlean Army, until the troops fell into a spike pit dug by the Diabolos' Rogues, sparing the leader. Being surrounded, their leader sought to rescue as much as possible before whoever set this trap came around, but she saw firsthand the cruelty of this set-up. Garlean grunt fabrics stood no chance against gravity and spikes forged with the craftsmanship of pure vengeance.

Brought to her knees by her assailants after killing a few while defending herself, she saw a man with a plague mask order the group to dump barrels of something into the pit, and only when she started smelling the charred flesh of her comrades did she understand what that was. Even if some of her troops were still alive, after this bonfire, they would not be. Still, were they dumb? This would alert the Castrum! Perhaps she could be saved even if her fellow soldiers were dead.

That would not come to pass. The leader vanished alongside the ambushers, and she soon found herself tied up in a cave. It could be any of the mountainous caves - They didn't call this the Peaks for nothing.

The plague masked man was there as well. She immediately tried to make out any fixture other than his stupid plague mask. Before the day was done, she would see him dead.

Einrich, however, had other ideas.

"I want to state the following - no matter what happens here, you will die. There is no scenario where you can bargain for your life." The plague mask said.

"I will not talk. Not on my honor."

"Not that you have any, but as you wish. Remain silent then."

Einrich spoke to another person in the unit, and they left. He adjusted his gauntlets and the white glow they gave out soon turned a sickly green, a color most sinister.

The other person the plague masked man was talking to came back with three prisoners and just with their attires the leader knew exactly who they were. Her father, her mother, and her little brother. Why were they even here? They were safe in Garlemald! Why did they come here?

"Ahem.

To my dearest daughter,

We will be visiting in a few weeks to see how the army life is treating you. Hopefully you'll have crushed these rebels by then, especially with our emperor's son Zenos at the helm! Peterius has missed having you around, and I'm sure seeing you will cheer him up."

She'd never gotten that letter. It somehow had been intercepted before it made its way to her. The hope in her eyes was replaced with sheer horror as both father, mother and brother recognized their daughter, both in the same predicament.

"W-we'll get out of here, right Mecilia?" said the youngest.

"We have to." was her only answer.

Einrich interrupted the two camps.

"Allow me to repeat for those of you who were not here the first time around. No matter what happens here, you will die. You cannot bargain for your life. However, I will ask some questions and your answers will determine the order and method of executions."

"The Empire will never let your resistance get away with this!" the father yelled, amidst crying among his wife and son. Einrich's implacable plague mask simply turned towards the father, looked at him longly, and tapped his knee. The Au Ra man staring at them, and what seemed to be a Lalafellin woman approached him. The Au Ra man kept him standing while the Lalafellin woman took a massive swing right on the knee tapped by the plague mask. Crying out in agony, the noble was left crumpled on the floor.

"Interruptions aside, let's start the questions."

The plague mask asked for simple information which, if he was able to intercept a personal letter in the Castrum, he should already know. Of course, Mecilia forbade herself from answering. This simply made the plague masked man turn from her and go towards her younger brother. His gloves sprayed a mist on him, and immediately his skin started melting slowly, his nerves burning as the child cried out in sheer agony from the damp cave air interacting with his stripped flesh and the incredibly sensitive skin nerves being slowly eaten.

"No! What did you do to my brother!?"

"An experimental mixture of Gobbue phlegm and Bavarois remains. As I have said, your answers will determine the order and method of executions. This was an easy question to answer as you are of a certain rank within the Castrum, so you should have access to the head count. As you figured you could lie to me without consequences, I figured you could stand to see your brother digested in front of your very eyes."

A spoken being was melting before his very eyes and not only had he caused it, he had no sympathy for a child! A mere child! He had nothing to do with this war!

"You... monsters! Savages!" the noble's wife could only thrash about, her bonds far too secure for her to do much of anything.

The Lalafell rebel went to strike the wife, but Einrich put his hand up to stop her.

"Her being correct in this case won't change the outcome. Next question." Einrich moved behind the captured Garlean leader. "Assuming where I am standing is the center of the camp, and each of your family members are the warehouses, which of these contains your Ceruleum deposits?"

Thinking, maybe she could at least save her family, or buy them some time. Even if she told the truth, as ruthless and inhuman as these monsters were, they surely could not do anything about their Ceruleum deposits, right? She decided to tell the truth. Of course, her family had no way of knowing which answer was correct, but the behavior of her captor was a good indication.

"Very well. Do we need anything else?" He addressed his two accomplices. They shook their heads.

"All right, start with her. Throat, make sure the parents watch. The mist should finish with the child sooner than later, and then sell the parents to the Qiqirn of the ziggurat as a show of goodwill. We have a war to fund after all."

Days later, the Resistance soon found a locket belonging to the family while defending from a cannibalistic Qiqirn attack and following an investigation with a member of the so-called "Diabolos' Rogues" warning the Resistance about what had happened.

This horrific tale only helped the Resistance keep the high road as no one wanted to be compared to this sort of atrocity.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #einrich woods #cw: gore #cw: child death

1 note · View note

thevirtualcanvas · 4 years

Text

Tin Man

Mando x Reader [GN]

No real pairings? Just friendship

Suitable for all.

2.3K

After escaping Nevarro - Mando gets into a dog fight and ends up crash landing on a small planet in the outer-rim. Where he meets you. A little snippet about Mando learning to trust.

Enjoy!

He's a man with three names. A faceless figure, a lonely entity travelling across the galaxy to pay a debt of life until he draws his last. Those who fear him call him The Mandalorian. It's a title and a mantle. A creed on the brink but courageous and unwavering none the less. They whisper it, as they cower on a remote rock at the edge of the outer rim. Yell, as they notice the glimmer of the unmistakable helm walking towards them with silent determination. His title trembles from their terrified mouths, battered and bruised as his quarries offer tithes and bribes, promises of a life of riches if only he – Just. Let. Them. Go. An indistinguishable grunt is all he offers, we all pay our dues. This is the way.

Some call him Mando. It's spoken with familiarity, contempt. They think they know him well enough to accost him with a nickname. They believe because they require his services, that makes them safe from his ire. Some laugh, call him friend, or partner, slapping him fondly on the back of the shoulder, all the while watching cautiously as he leaves, a nervous tick in the corner of their eyes wondering if they'll become his next bounty. They imagine themselves serving time, petrified and stuck in their own minds in his terrifying carbonite jail. He keeps quiet, indiscriminate, that fear serves him well.

His third name is a treasure, known by few. It travels with him through the galaxy like star dust, dying silently as it travels unspoken in the lonely void of space. Only to spark and shimmer in a warm explosion of light as it dances across your lips. Din... He chokes back a barrage of feelings when you repeat back to him. The last people to speak that name, who gave him that identity are gone, another casualty of a war that claimed the lives of millions. He's not sure why he told you. You were a stranger, an unknown – but you and yours took them in, kept them fed, gave them a room and fixed the Razor Crest. He felt like this was a way to repay that debt.

The Mandalorian protested at first – his stay is unnecessary, dangerous. Him and the child were being hunted and you disarm him with a smile and a soft laugh, the planets sun bouncing light of your cheeks through a deep set canopy.

The real danger is on the idiots that venture into my home with the intent to harm. Relax, Bounty Hunter. Your clan is safe here.

The Child lets out a high pitched giggle from his silver cradle and it seems as though it's decided this is their hiding place – for the time being.

You're from a small planetoid, it has no name, but locally known as Arbor. It's made up of dense forests and rocky crags with one port and a few sparse holdings across it's terrain. You and your father live like hermits, in a small dome like homestead covered in moss and flora and surrounded by a few cattle of some variety. You saw the Razor Crest bombing through the atmosphere, pieces of metal flaking off and burning as it flew through the sky. As you reached the smoking, charred hull you saw him – covered in metal dints, soot and the fabric of his cloak drenched from the monsoon rains. The Mandalorian is reluctant, he's stoic, guarded, and wary of your intent.

We can help you repair your ship.

A grunt. No thanks. He smacks a panel with a silent rage.

What about a dry roof over your head until the monsoon stops?

No.

You shrug, as you rest against your walking stick, the light attached glowing softly. Your eye catches something small at the opening of the ship. Then how about you come with me and we can feed your kid?

With a sense of exasperation, The Mandalorian follows you in the rain. You lead him through the valley to your home, and the small guest house, watching him assess and postulate dangers like wild animal on it's haunches. Your father greets the new guests and finds extra plates and spoons for dinner.

Get settled, do your perimeter walk if needs be, I'll be back in a little while with dinner. I'll also bring some extra blankets and some logs for the fire. My dad can help you get your ship fixed tomorrow.

The man is surprised at your lack of fear – it's new to him and you're either cocky or stupid. Wait. He calls as you leave. Don't you know what I am?

You lean against the door frame, watching his tilted helmet with a matter of fact Yeah? And?

The man's huff is broadcasted in a tinny warble. Doesn't that bother you? Or why I'm here?

Your laugh quickly warms the inside of his helmet. It was pure fluke, I saw you crashing through the atmosphere and landing in our neighbours backyard. I'm helping – it's what we do. You're not so scary, Tin Man.

The man is affronted, almost embarrassed. He tries to assert some that fear that he's expects of the people around him. The modulator cracks as he speaks. A warning. You have no idea what I'm capable of.

You take a step closer, watching your own reflection in the visor. Likewise. Besides, if your kid isn't scared. I see no reason to be. You point at the small green bundle with oversized ears, twitching as he sleeps soundly by the bed. Tiny squeaks escaping his mouth as he dreams.

He watches you through the night, observing as you and your old man take shifts in a crows nest, practically hidden in the canopy if it weren't for the embedded tech in his helmet. He hears one blaster shot, muffled, in the distance and then sleeps soundly with his blaster resting against his chest.

Your father leaves for the port on a small personal speeder, leaving you with the Bounty Hunter and his charge. He spends the week watching over his shoulder and being agitated at your ability to get under his Beskar, being respectful of his creed and down-right disrespectful at the same time. You never forced him to eat with you, gave him his space to look after his boy and check his surroundings. Never questioned his appearance, the arsenal of weapons at his disposal or the reason he was on the run.

We all have things we're running from, Tin Man.

It's steel, and, thank you – for not prying.

You shrug with nonchalance and throw him a pail. C'mon if we want milk we'd better get milking, Tin Man.

There are things the Mandalorian notices. Like the crows nest, or the ship in the barn, the EMP disruptors on the edge of the farm's perimeter. Or the fact there is some form of clone-war era blaster or pulse rifle in every concealed place he can see. Your words rumble in his skull. We all have things we're running from. Then he shakes them, it's not his place to pry.

Soon your Father returns, with a bundle of parts and a worried look on his tired face. Imps, in town – a lot them. He doesn't think he was followed but then again you can never be too sure. You spend the night in the crows nest, scope to your eye, scouting the trees for danger. The Mandalorian hears three shots that night, and he doesn't sleep.

In the morning, just as you're preparing breakfast he confronts you. Last night...

It's sorted. Don't worry. But he can see the fatigue and hear the way you draw the words out.

Din doesn't know how to be soft. He doesn't really know how to react to kindness beyond absolute loyalty and due diligence – but he tries. I appreciate the help from you and your Father but it's time for us to move on. I want you to have this. He places a coin pouch on the table. To cover your losses. Don't worry – it's new Republic.

You make a face at the money.

Is it not suitable?

No...it's not the money. I've just enjoyed the company. I'll miss it.

You can hear a rumble through the vocoder It has been an unexpected... but a welcome break for the kid.

Just the kid?

An explosion erupts through the canopy and can be seen through the kitchen window, a violent collusion of orange and red against the plush green of the forest.. His training kicks in and he reaches for his blaster as he tears through the house to rush the guest house for the kid and his gear. You're right behind him, resolute with a blaster held high scouting the edge of brush for that tell tale glint of white.

The Mandalorian puts the kid in the crib and seals it tight, promising him it'll be alright. When turns with pulse blaster in arms you can see the coiled tenseness in his stance, the adrenaline pumping, he'd done this dance before.

I'll get you back to your ship. My dad down is in the valley, air-tightening the shell.

The Mandalorian simply nods.

There is an unease to forest. Silence. You move quickly through the rivulets and, natural bridleways, An Imperial speeder dashes at the edge of your eye-line, headed in the same direction as the Razor Crest. Pulling the scope to your eye, you line a little ahead, take a deep breath, and squeeze. The rider slumps, and the speeder pelts into a tree exploding on impact. The silence is replaced by confusion and you tell the Mandalorian to run as you offer a diversion. He's conflicted, he's not a coward – that is not the way of the creed, but he has the little one to worry about. There is a troupe of Stormtroopers headed back to where their comrade fell, guns held high and squawking like chickens as they scour the treeline for the shooter.

Go. I'll follow. Make sure my Dad is okay.

He reluctantly agrees and flanks the Stormtroopers, watching as you drop them like flies. Not giving them the chance to return fire.

He makes it to the Razor Crest, taking out the stragglers from another one-sided gun fight. Blaster held high, your Father emerges from the inside of the hull. Dazed and bloody, but alive. He asks for you, grabbing on the Mandalorian by the armour and demanding why he left you.

That is what they asked. I was to find you and ensure your safety.

You stupid boy! I'm the son of a clone trooper – war is in my blood! That is not the life I wanted for my child!

The pieces click for the Mandalorian. The Imperials weren't just here for him. No, they were still hunting down the remnants of a time long gone. They must have seen the old man at the port and scanned him. Capturing both a Mandalorian and a failed experiment at the same time would mean a big reward for the solider brave enough to take them on.

Move out of my way, I'll find them myself.

But before he takes the step, you emerge into the crash – made clearing. Sweat on your brow, huffing like you'd just a marathon.

Calm down old man, I'm fine. I told the Tin Man to find you. Good thing too, looks like you were struggling.

Your father huffs. You cheeky pup, I took out more than you.

The Mandalorian looks to the trees, the thermals in his helmet detect more on their way. More are coming. I need to get the kid out of here. He taps on the bracer and the crib floats into the hull.

Then get out of here. Your father chides as he tries to straighten himself, readying for a second wave. But do me one favour, Mandalorian. Take my child too. Save them from this. Take them from this rock and find them somewhere safe.

Dad...no... I can't leave you.

He looks at you, placing a comforting arm against your shoulder, relishing the memory of this final touch. I always knew they would find me. It was just a matter of time. I even look like them. He points to the angular, rich features; unmistakably that of a clone. But you don't have to have this life. Do I have your word, Mandalorian?

The Mandalorian thought money would be payment enough, but the man behind it knew this was the way. Yes. You have my word. I'll keep them safe.

Your Dad sags slightly in relief. Good. Now go. You press your brow to his as the Mandalorian grabs you by the wrist, pulling you away from your life and your family.

You don't speak another word as the pressurised door closes and as the final image of the man who raised you imprints on your memory. The ship rattles as it's thrusters come online and you leave the atmosphere. Your eyes tear as the implications hit you – raw emotion boils over and you collapse to the deck, crying out in grief. Once you hit hyper-space, the man stands nearby waiting patiently until you can process what happened.

What now Tin Man? You say after a while, watching as tiny clawed hands pull at your tunic in sympathy. You don't turn to him, just focus on the soft, mewls of the little green alien who is desperate to be held. Picking him up with one arm and rubbing at your puffy eyes with the other.

He says something. You didn't quite pick it up. You turn and he repeats himself with a tinny clearing of his throat.

It's Din. My name is Din.

He folds his arms and you give him something resembling a smile.

Well, Din. You say as you get to your feet, his child in your arms. I guess that's a start. But I think I'll stick with Tin Man, for now.

He was a man with three names. The Mandalorian, Mando, and Din. They brought fear, respect and pain. In his arsenal he now carries a fourth, it speaks of friendship and kinship. It speaks of unpredictability and the ever-changing pace of life. It speaks to him. Tin Man.

#the mandalorian #the mandolorian x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #star wars #star wars fanfiction #my work

32 notes · View notes

neoatiny · 4 years

Text

Ateez!pirate au (Horizon)

Chapter 1, The Beginning: ??? (1)

Plot summary: Obedience has been the very core of who she is. Cursed with not being able to identify faces and haunted by dreams of a monstrous woman, she spends her days serving under the feet of others with no hope of freedom. Later proving herself on a slave ship, she's recruited into the ranks of the Horizon and meets the infamous Pirate King, Kim Hongjoong. The pirate life is uncertain, but at least she's free.

Warnings: mentions of drinking and infidelity, mentions of blood, drowning, themes of slavery, fire and burning, themes of death and murder, choking (oof this is a long list i’m sorry)

Word count: 2823

Synopsis: The monster awakens.

Masterlist / Next chapter

A monster lived below the island. A silly legend created by the town elders to scare the town’s children to sleep early. They would dramatically retell their encounters with the monster in the town square. A monster would emerge from the deepest hole in the island and eat the souls of the restless. To a young girl however, it felt like the monster lived just a floor below.

Underneath the starless night, the monster was stirring again. “You promise you won’t leave us?” She looks down to see the solemn expressions of her two younger brothers. She turns away from the window to kneel down in front of them. Taking their small hands in hers, she caresses them softly, giving a bright smile and answering back, always sure.

“What kind of question is that? I promise I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

She engulfs them in a warm hug, the yells of their mother screaming of their father’s infidelity and the sounds of his daily drunk vomiting still evident through the bedroom door.

She does her best to ignore the monster below, focusing on her brothers instead. She cups the side of their faces. “Hey, what did I say before? Don’t listen in on them, okay?”

She stares lovingly at the boys, memorizing their comforted faces. The memory disappears in an instance. She furrows her eyebrows in confusion, looking harder at their faces.

The youngest of the two, Eunjae, asks concerned. “Is there something wrong?”

To her horror, his face blurs, similar to a smudged charcoal drawing. She panics, hurriedly recalling all the memories of his features, but they all slip further away from her mind. The yells downstairs become increasingly louder. Both of the brothers pull away from her touch.

She gasps loudly, horrified at the sight. She stumbles away from them. Their blurred faces seemingly melt, dripping down and staining their clothes. There was no blood present even when their melted skin falls onto the wooden floor with a loud splat. She screams, frozen in place as her brothers’ voices deepen into something demonic.

Their bodies begin to stretch longer and longer until their heads reached the ceiling. “You’re a liar! You’re a liar!” They repeat aggressively. Their bodies turn a charred black before they lunge at her, snuffing out the rest of her scream.

Everything turns dark. Tears fall continuously from her eyes and she fears that she’s lost her sight. Her body shakes, choking back sobs.

The wind rushes strongly past her, a green-eyed lady dressed in violet emerging from the darkness. The violet woman emits an unrecognizable aura and the girl shudders under her presence.

This must be the monster.

Something deep in her stomach tells her she recognizes the violet woman. She desperately clings to the feeling, but it soon disappears.

“I-I can’t see.” Her voice cracks. “What’s happening?” She raises her trembling hands to touch her face, but they simply pass through thin air. She realizes in that moment that she had no face, no body. Her hands disappear in an instant. She was a soul without a husk made of flesh.

The woman’s eyes seemingly glow as she continues to stare at her. In one quick movement, she appears in front of her. The woman’s face flickers momentarily before it returns. She locks eyes with her. The woman’s eyes bleed red, the blood flowing down her face. Her face blurs, the horrid memory is quickly erased.

The woman’s snake-like tongue licks a stride against the trembling girl’s ear. The violet women’s voice comes out in a gurgled whisper. “Remember your end of the deal.”

She wraps her long hand around the girl’s throat and raises her high up in the air. She chokes, coughing out seawater. She can feel her lungs beginning to fill.

Her arms go limp. I can’t breathe. The woman laughs manically and she squeezes with unnatural strength, the girl feels like her head is going to burst.

The scene changes again and she awakes by the shore of an island. Gasping loudly for air, she digs her hands into the sand, screaming desperately towards a large ship in the sea.

“Wake up!” She screams, the vessel now coming closer. “Wake up!”

“Wake up!” A sharp boot awakens her to reality. She clutches her side painfully, moaning out in agony. A tall, lanky man stands above her. “Start scrubbing the deck before I pick any of the animals here to wash the floor with your blood, Hex.” He threatens, kicking her one last time before he leaves up the ladder.

Halfway, he turns his head around, growling. “What are you looking at?” The other unfortunate slaves cower into the walls of the dirty lower slave hold.

He disappears above, leaving the hatchet door open. She slowly begins to stand, crying out in pain. She almost falls onto a whimpering black-haired boy before she manages to catch herself against the wall. The boy’s shackles chink together as he covers his head to protect himself from an imaginary blow.

She staggers her way towards the ladder, beginning to climb as her legs tremble. She claws her way onto the deck, temporarily leaving the pathetic hole they left them all to die in. One of the more healthy-looking ship members harshly shoves a bucket of water into her arms, yelling at her to get a move on. The water spills onto her worn-out clothes.

She can almost feel the seawater in her lungs again.

“Get to scrubbing!”

She snaps out of her thoughts and hurries to spill the contents of the bucket onto the floor, washing away the dried blood from the past battles she’s only ever heard from the hole. She vigorously scrubs with the end of her shirt. She refills the bucket soon after, making sure to avoid wetting any of the men’s shoes.

Minutes turn into hours underneath the hot sun. She wipes away the sweat with her ever so thinning arm. She moves towards the very front of the deck, repeating the same tedious process.

The laughs of boisterous men turn silent as the captain of the Serpent ship, Captain Lee, leaves the helm, making his way down the steps. They all greet him in unison and he yells for them to return back to work.

The quartermaster, she recognizes by the design of his boots, runs to the captain and whispers something urgently into his ear. They both make their way towards the front, exactly where she is. Her heart pounds as his footsteps draw nearer. He kicks the bucket over as he passes, the water spills onto the cannons. The quartermaster hisses. “Make way for the captain, Hex.”

The cannon men begin to shout obscenities at her, but the captain roars suddenly, unsheathing his sword. “Enemy pirates on sight! Everyone, hands on deck! Ready the cannons!”

The cannon men push her forcibly, knocking her down to her behind. “Get back to the hole, wrench.”

She grits her teeth, scrambling to stand. She bows before climbing back down to where she’s belonged for over a month now, the familiar sound of chains ringing in her ears.

—

The ship has been shaking for a while now. Nobody below dares to speak, in fear that the enemy pirates would come and kill everyone breathing. The clashing of swords and the yells of commands from the battle master, she assumes, are heard. Blood pools from the ceiling above them all. The red drips down onto one of the slave’s head who refuses to move away from her spot.

The hatchet door suddenly bursts opens, a dead man on fire falls onto the ground, his singed flesh releasing a horrible smell. Everyone lets out a scream at the sight. A flaming arrow burns right in the middle of his chest. The fire begins to spread from his clothes, the closest slave beside the girl yells out in pain when he accidentally touches the flame.

He continues to scream as it spreads around his right hand. Multiple droplets of tears wet the hem of his shirt. In quick thinking, she raises the end of her shirt and covers it around his hand, patting out the tiny flames seeping through the material.

She hooks her fingers through one of the large holes in her shirt and pulls. The cloth tears and she wraps it around his hand in a makeshift bandage, tying it in place.

The fire grows larger. They won’t be able to escape if the ladder burns. She nudges the shaking girl beside her, gesturing to reach for the mop by her side. The girl complies, passing it to her. With the mop, she pulls herself up, almost falling over again when the ship rumbles.

The slaves begin to wail.

Using the stick of the mop, she attempts to push the man away from the ladder. Even though she’s one of the more healthy slaves, she’s unsuccessful.

She can feel all of the slaves’ fear-stricken eyes on her now. She gestures towards the cleaning supplies in the corner and back to the man.

The sound of the chains ring in her ears once more.

A shiny object glints from the man’s closed hand. She outstretches his hand with the mop, revealing keys. She pushes them towards a slave who gasps in shock.

Soon, with the newly freed’s weak effort combined, they all managed to push the man away from the ladder. She gestures with emphasis to begin climbing.

She and the burned boy are the last ones in the hole. He continues to sit, clutching onto his hand. She swings his arm around her shoulder, struggling to pull him up. Her sides stretch in pain. He shakes his head. She can feel the heat of the fire coming closer.

She struggles to carry his weight, pulling him towards the ladder. She pats him quickly on his back to climb. With one hand, he grabs onto the wood and successfully makes his way onto the deck. She follows without hesitation.

It’s chaos above. The men of the ship are sprawled in awkward positions throughout the deck, staining the floor. She morbidly thinks to herself how hard it will be to scrub the stains out later on.

She squints her eyes, adjusting to the sunlight. A large pirate ship is set dangerously close to the ship they were aboard on. The men’s swords clashed and it was evident that the strangely colored-hair men were winning.

You hear a man yell from above, gripping the rope from the mast. “The slaves have escaped!” An arrow is quickly shot through his head and she screams in horror. He descends face-first, landing with a bone-crunching crack.

Not a moment to lose, she grabs the boy slave underneath his arms, dragging him across the deck, positioning him against the stairs.

He groans in pain, holding tightly around her arm, spewing incoherent words.

Behind them, the other slaves cower at the feet of a large man. “No hurt! No hurt!” They beg. He wields a mace, threatening to hurt them all if they don’t return back to the hole. A man dressed in brown swiftly appears, harshly kicking him in the back, raising his crossbow and killing the man.

On the upper deck above them, the battle master fights with a skillful man dressed in simple white garments. The man with the crossbow focuses his aim at the battle master before he’s tackled to the ground, his weapon lands a few feet away from her. “Captain!” He shouts in his struggle. “Above you!” The attacker lands a punch on the defenseless man’s face.

On the mizzenmast, a man with a musket aims it towards the fighting pair on the upper deck. The man’s finger is close to pulling the trigger.

“Stay here, okay?” She alarmingly tells the boy. He drops his head onto the steps of the stairs, his chest heaving slowly.

Without thinking, she reaches the crossbow. Picking fallen arrows off the floor. A hazy memory fills her consciousness.

Ammo. She loads an arrow onto the weapon.

Pull. She pulls back the weapon, securing it.

Aim. Her breath shallows, focusing on the man above.

Fire. She shoots straight at the man on the mizzenmast. He drops the musket over, slumping dead on the railing.

Repeat. She quickly aims again at the man at the upper deck, shooting him right in the neck. He falls onto the floor, the white-clothed man striking him dead with his sword.

Someone pushes her off-balance, her head slamming hard against the wood. A high-pitched ringing fills her ears. The man lowers himself onto her and wraps his hands around her throat and squeezes.

Green.

She feels like she’s returned to her nightmare. The image of bloodied green eyes clouds her entire train of thought. She claws feebly at the man, too weak to fight back. Her eyes are wide as she chokes. He laughs sadistically. “You’re mine now.”

He squeezes tighter.

The heavy man lets out a surprised gasp of air, his hands losing his grip around her. His torso stains with the color red, the tip of a sword meeting close to her own face. He falls to the side, dead.

She struggles to regain her breath, coughing loudly, holding onto her neck painfully.

It’s the crossbow man.

He heaves, outstretching his hand towards her. Still coughing, she hesitates to accept it, skeptical of the kind gesture. He grabs both of her hands, pulling her up to stand like she weighed nothing.

The sound of unfamiliar cheers are evident throughout the ship. She looks around again, not recognizing any of the clothing of the men still alive and standing.

A loud bang comes from the captain’s quarters. The door is violently pushed open, and Captain Lee is thrown humiliatingly onto the bloodied floor by a tall red-haired man.

“I beg of you,” The captain cries. “Please spare me and the rest of those alive.”

The white garment man from before makes his way down the steps, thankfully not where she left the boy. He walks towards the captain, patting the red-haired man on the back.

“Thank you, Mingi.”

He nods. “No problem, captain.”

He kneels down mockingly in front of the defeated captain. His action reminds her of an adult trying to comfort a crying child. “Spare you?” He scoffs. “What would I get in return, hm? You don’t really have anything that I can’t just take after killing you.”

He turns his head suddenly towards her direction. “Yeosang, good job on the shooting by the way. You really saved my skin out there, I didn’t even see the shooter from above.”

The crossbow man, Yeosang, shakes his head. “I didn’t do that.” He raises his hand, holding hers. “She did.”

Murmurs begin to arise from the men around the deck as Yeosang’s captain makes his way towards her. “You shot Yeosang’s crossbow?” His voice was doubtful as he takes in her pathetic appearance. “You don’t even look like you have that much left in you.”

Yeosang cuts in, excitedly. “She really did! I got tackled by that man over there.” He points to the man lying dead on the floor. “I dropped my crossbow, but she grabbed and reloaded it and everything!”

His captain doesn’t say anything for a moment. She looks down at the floor, the captain in front of her still unmoving. She hesitantly moves her head to face him, giving him a look.

“Interesting.” Is all he says. He turns back to the sniveling man on the floor, kneeling back down.

“Okay, I agree. We’ll trade. I’ll let my crew let you and the rest of your crew live, that is if any of them are still miraculously alive, if you give me that girl over there.” He points directly towards her.

She stills in fear. Yeosang places a hand behind her back, waiting to catch her if she faints.

Pirates. She was going to be traded to pirates. The most dangerous individuals of the seas.

Captain Lee raises his head meekly. “The-The Hex? You would not want her, no. All she is good for is scrubbing the floors.”

“Hey.” Mingi kicks Captain Lee’s behind warningly. “Don’t speak to my captain like that.”

Mingi’s captain unsheathes his bloodied cutlass slightly. “Are you challenging me?” He asks dangerously. “No! No! Of course not!” Captain Lee raises his hands defensively. “It’s just that she would be only of a liability to you.”

“Really?” He mocks. “Why is that the case? Because it seems like the deck scrubber was a much better shooter than any of your dead men here on the floor.”

“She’s cursed.” The captain quickly explains. She feels like someone has just repeatedly punched her in the heart. “We found her on an island a month ago. She can’t see faces.”

41 notes · View notes

guidedbygunpla · 3 years

Text

Gundam Redux Prequel Chapter 4: side 7

“continue pursuit, this ship is willing to continue the fight well beyond its own means….I am intrigued” Char said, resting against the captains post aboard his Musai. On the screen in front of him, a great two hulled battleship roared towards Side 7’s Green Noa.

“captain, heat scans show large hollow areas aboard the ship, think this one of the transport ships like Prince Garma took out on Earth?” one of the crewmen called back to his captain

“it’s possible Slender, though what a cargo carrier would be doing this far out……no, that couldn’t be possible” Char said, shock showing in his eyes as he began to ponder what this could be

“crew, we are likely going to need to launch mobile suits, its possible that, because this suit hasn’t launched any mobile suits yet, and the carrier earthside that Garma was able to knock out was a mobile suit carrier ship, we might’ve caught this thing before it was able to pick up its cargo compliment…we might be able to stay a great victory for Zeon today soldiers. Keep our distance from that ship, let it dock, once its docked, launch in mobile suits and prevent from what its trying to onboard from leaving that damned colony!” Char called out, his crew cheering him as he called out. _________________________________________________________________________________

Denim Launching

Slender Launching

Gene Launching

Char watched the 3 Zaku launch from the Musai and approach the sunward airlock of the colony.

“keep me posted on what you see in there boys, send back video if at all possible” “sir___ble to send__ideo____minovski densi____ery high” Slender called back

“sir….minovsky density is incredibly high within the colony super structure, it cant just be all from the Trojan Horse” Darius called back to Char, just as a burst of pink light fired inside the colony

“Darius what was that?” Char called back “ugh…..judging from the minovski signature, a mega particle burst….inside the colony” “that’s impossible, it didn’t pierce the structure in any way so it couldn’t have been from the Trojan Horse…..theres no way, Slender, Denim, Gene, report” there was a long silence

“theres a ______ite Mobile Suit, four of ______ an’t sto_____” followed by static “Ramirez, get the Musai over the main window, I need to see whats going on” Char yelled at the man at the helm of the ship.” the Musai moved up, and over the great window of the colony. Light from the sun blasting through the Musai as the giant mirror arms hovered over them. Below them they could see four figures overtop of 2 Zaku, and an exploded husk of another. One looked like a tank, another a great red mobile suit, and then two slender suits, one carrying a sword and a great red shield, and the other a beam cannon as long as a Zaku was tall.

“shit, captain Char those are mobile suits….like the ones Garma met on Earth” “hush, Ramirez, move the ship back to orbital distance, I am going to go in there and see if I can get a few pictures of what is going on. ______________________________________________________________________________

Char floated in through the open hatch of the sunside dock of the colony, air rushing out at him as the door on the other end of the dock had been left open by the zeon troops he had sent to their death.

“Ramirez, Darius if you can hear me, I am now entering the Colony, I can see the suits from here, they appear to be lifting pieces of the Zaku, and of additional mobile suits similar designs to themselves. I will get closer to see if I can take photographs directly of these suits

Char continued down the hallway, and out into the colony proper, he slowly allowed adjusted his jetpack, so that he matched the colonies rotation, and began to fly towards the ground,making a less than dignified landing, rolling in the dirt near the outskirts of town.

He could see the great mobile suits working away to lift parts of the suits that had been laying out on carrier trucks onto a great conveyor belt, heading towards one of the other docking bays, likely the one where the Trojan Horse was docked. Char grabbed the camera he had brought with him, and began to snap away at the suits. Adjusting the lenses and settings to get heat, and minovski readings of the suits. After he had been taking pictures of them for a while the suits themselves made their way onto the belt, and they too were loaded aboard the ship. A few dozen jeeps and ambulances coming down the ramp and going out into the city “well, Darius, Ramirez, if you can copy me…I have taken around 100 pictures of the four suits and I am heading back to the dock. Luckily it looks like they are also loading a lot of refugees onto the Trojan Horse, so I should be able to make my escape through the dock without too much worry, see you guys in a few” Char said, putting the camera back into the small case on his belt loop. He turned and began walking towards the great faux mountain at the edge of town that lead to the dock. A staircase rose all the way up its side for emergency situations when the roads or conveyor were turned off, unsafe or simply down for maintenance. “stop right there….drop the gun and take that mask off” Char heard call out to him from the bushes as he made his way to the exit. A woman holding a revolver looked out at him as she stood from behind the bushes and approached him “….you’re pretty brave ma’am, you don’t look like a soldier, and you definitely aren’t a guerrilla” Char said walking towards her

“take one more step and I’ll shoot, I swear it!” she said cocking the gun. Char stopped and stared at her, she looked familiar, like a memory, someone from a past life

“take the mask off, and turn around!” she said again, motioning with the gun for him to turn around. Char undid the clips to his normal suits helmit and slid it back onto its resting position above the normal suits backpack. And undid his mask, sliding it off his head the red tint of the lenses fading allowing him to see the world in its true colors for the first time in weeks.

“wha…..what?” the woman said as char did so, a look like she had seen a ghost across her face, char smiled. Lunging towards her, kicking the gun from her hand. “nice to see you too, Artesia….it’s been too long” Char said standing overtop of her, just then a Jeep drove up, and one of the soldiers riding in it fired a shot at him. Char pulled his mask back on, as he used his jet pack to launch back towards the Dock, another shot firing up at him, cutting through his side, piercing his kidney. Pain rocking his body. He made his way to the docks inner wall, and once he saw that no one was following him, he reached into the pouches around his belt and injecting himself with pain killers, and then covered the area where the shot pierced his normal suit with a bit of 0G tape to prevent air loss. “Ramirez! Darius! Fire up the engines! Catch me, and begin pursuit of the Trojan Horse!

a zaku launched from the front of the Musai, and grabbed Char just as he launched from the Dock, the fuel in his Jetpack largely spent. The Red Zaku grabbed him, and then turned to head back towards the Musai. Once aboard they felt the ship launch forward, lunging towards the Trojan Horse, as it began to leave dock. Char Stumbled onto the bridge, looking at the great view screen ahead of him, the Trojan horse moving far faster than they were. “Darius, track the ship, follow its heat trail, and ready the med bay, I got shot….think its bad” Char said clutching his side

Char awoke in the medbay hours later, an IV pump next to him whirring away slowly pumping pain killer into his vains.

“ugh…..Where are we?” Char groaned out, the intercom in the room, mounted near the door called back “we’re nearing Luna 2, looks like the Trojan Horse is trying to get repairs or something near the Federations last real strong hold near earth.”

“do we have reinforcements in the area? We aren’t going to be able to take those suits on, even with my Zaku” Char called out, sitting up on the operating table, pulling the IV line out of his arm, bubbles of fluid floating freely out into the room

“well…Captain Gadems Papua should be in the area, we could radio for assistance”

“call him, we’ll need more Zaku, those Federation suits are monstrous”

#charma #gundam

1 note · View note

firemagicked · 3 years

Text

Safety Off

((Meant to be directly related to this post. Read that first!))

Darnath meant safety.

It was an indisputable fact. A constant in his mind, backed up with evidence and nights spent curled up sometimes in the only place that held any sanctuary against the dangers lurking in his thought. It was comforting, and a cornerstone of Lyren's sometimes shaky stability around certain times of the year.

Darnath had tried to kill him.

He hadn't been in his right mind. Something was wrong. He, the demon, was clearly not in full control. These were all facts. And none of them changed the bruises dug deep, the rasp in his voice, the way he could taste blood in his throat everytime he coughed. The way he could still feel cold fingers wrapped around his throat and a face monstrous in rage.

The dawning victory of the rocket had been overshadowed swiftly. He had managed to send a swift message home, that it had gone through, and explained away the hoarseness in his voice as the rocket's fumes. And this had been after he sputtered down three potions.

The girls had believed it at least. He wasn't so sure about anyone else but it was them he was focused on. Questioning where Darnath was. Accepting hsi explanation with disappointment. He couldn't tell them, any of them, that someone they all loved was currently… gone mad.

Darnath's armor and clothes were charred in places, and Lyren didn't dare actually change them. It had been arcane, not fire, that had finally gotten Darnath away from him - or him away from Darnath really. Once he wasn't immediately in his sights the death knight seemed to… forget about him. As a target.

Unfortunately that didn't fix the situation… and it wasn't unique to Lyren. When he went after an Argent Crusaders Lyren teleported them both out of there, closer to Icecrown. The Argent Crusade wouldn't tolerate an undead, any undead, out of control.

He shivered in the chill winds beneath the citadel and eyed Darnath…. Darnath's body. There was none of the usual intelligence. Whatever had been going on… had reached a peak. There seemed nothing of him left.

Appearances were deceiving. The mark on his back still said Darnath was in front of him and as long as he was, there would be some way of getting him back. Clearly, this was an Icecrown problem. perhaps because of the hole in the sky, perhaps because of the broken helm. Lyren didn't know. But someone else might.

"Hey," Lyren talked to him as if he was still there but whether he listened or not now seemed to be… up to chance. "We need to go to the Citadel. We're going to see the former Lich King. You like that guy. Bolvar Fordragon? Knights of the Ebon Blade?"

Darnath's eyes were peculiarly empty but he cocked his head as Lyren talked… too close and yet carefully just out of arms distance. He seemed to be listening. Maybe. Lyren pointed at the top of the citadel. "Up there. We're going to… teleport as far as we can. And then walk."

Because Darnath's body was an uncoordinated mess half the time, and the other half was trying to murder things. Sometimes him. Getting on a mount seemed like grounds for trouble.

He reached out with his arcane carefully, wrapping it around them much more gently than his emergency teleport. Icecrown didn't like him much - neither, it seemed, did Darnath right now. He was a fire elemental in a land of cold. But Icecrown didn't protest the arcane quite as much, so fire and life were kept stuffed down as far as they could go and they disappeared from the shadows of the citadel in a blink.

They appeared inside… but only just inside the first floor of the ring. Lyren pressed his lips together and when his teeth bared he forced them into a smile. "Great. So. We're walking to the top. Fun."

It was at least and unfortunately empty inside. Unfortunately because while walking Lyren often… forgot. Darnath felt mostly like Darnath. Safety. He drifted closer as their steps echoed in the cold lonely walls, all the death knights above.

Too close, Darnath apparently decided. It was fortunate really, that the citadel had so much empty space because rather than burn his lover, or actually fight him, it was much easier to throw himself off the platform toward the bowels of the towering place of death.

He landed fine of course. A line of sight swift teleport, and in the blink of an eye he was safe. Just… much farther down. He glared upward at Darnath, who… seemed confused as to why he was all the way down there.

"Fuck it," he decided, taking a quick glance around. Extended his senses. Life - it was something he was much better at than he had once been. Death Knights however… not always as easy to sense. Still… they also cared much less about secrets like his.

He was a bird of fire the next moment, thrust his wings into the air. Much, much smaller than Sunsoul. Still big enough for one or two people to ride… and more importantly big enough to dive at Darnath, head hitting his stomach hard and flipping him backward. It was half determination, half a prayer the death knight was in an uncoordinated mood for a few moments.

He didn't plan to be in this form long enough for Darnath to get a grip on injuring him. He flapped up to the top level and stopped abruptly, a little vindictive as he watched Darnath fly off his back and land perfectly on the icy doorway to the very top. Short of going back outside, it was the quickest way.

The glow of fire was still fading from him when she stepped out on two feet and perfectly elvish looking body. It got them attention. He bared his teeth at the watching death knights and helped Darnath to his feet. Discombobulated as he was, Lyren could touch him without harm. For now. Who knew how long that would last. There was still nothing in his eyes that touched of recognition. Lyren grabbed at his hand and dragged him forward, eyes on Bolvar. His loss to Sylvanas had caused this and he didn't care how powerful the former paladin was, he had better be able to fix it.

Another death knight stepped in front of him. orc. Nearly twice his size. He knew him, faintly. Had never worked in lock step with the Horde close enough to meet him in life - but with Darnath he had passing knowledge of each of the Four Horseman. He glared at him anyway.

There was a glance at his feet, then cold eyes speared him again. He tightened his grip on Darnath, who could decide that someone was a threat again at any moment, and very briefly looked down, then up again.

Ah. That would perhaps put the death knights on edge. There were trailing steps of melted water behind him. They were of course quickly refreezing. This was Icecrown. "I need to speak to your Highlord."

"Let them come." Bolvar's voice echoed "His fire is no threat to me."

Lyren narrowed his eyes. Was that an edge of amusement? Possibly he was imagining it. ...Possibly he wasn't. This was the man who had put on the Helm of Domination to save the world - not that all of them had known that at the time. A man who was forever filled with dragonfire and stood there before them with it still glowing out from him. He was dead, yet alive. Lyren was exactly no threat to him and had no leverage.

But on Atlas Island there was a family waiting for Darnath to come back. An island of employees that needed him. Friends. Teenagers that called him Big Brother. A (supposedly) sleeping dragon. A rookery full of whelps and the old elf that took care of them. Darnath's father who would most certainly carve Lyren's soul to pieces if he brought Darnath back like this. His own siblings, and two little girls that, frankly, he sometimes suspected liked Darnath more if only for the way he was completely unable to say no to them. And him. His love was just one of many, but it was what he needed now, to keep his own fire lite - and spreading, ice cracking around him..

He hissed through his teeth and dragged Darnath past the bare opening they were allowed. Bolvar was tall and large for a human and he was small for an elf and any other time a discussion would have left him tongue tied. But he was singularly driven and he stared up with fire-orange eyes into the placid gaze of the former Lich King.

"Something is wrong with Darnath," Lyren spat out, guilt and self loathing and worry and fear mixed into a ball against anger, determination, love, need. "And you're going to fix it."

@darnath

#my writing #Lywriting #Darnath #Lyren #Lyren absolutely yelled at Bolvar #but I don't have a good Bolvar voice in my head for writing #Atlas Company #Flarewind Family #spoiler: Bolvar does not fix it #Into the Maw: Atlas Edition

3 notes · View notes

conspicuous-gallantry · 1 year

Photo

“Now you’re sounding like Spock.” “If you’re gonna get nasty, I’m gonna leave.” “Tomorrow is Yesterday,” STAR TREK (1967) ✦ “Did I get it right?” “Great, Bones, just great...” STAR TREK III: THE SEARCH FOR SPOCK (1984)

294 notes · View notes

ignigcna · 4 years

Photo

𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔.

FULL NAME : Daenerys Targaryen APPELLATION(S) : Daeny, Stormborn, Khaleesi, The Unburnt, The Silver Queen AGE : 36 Years Old BIRTHDATE : April 20th, 1984 ZODIAC : Aries

GENDER : Cis Female ETHNICITY : Caucasian RELIGION : Agnostic

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Hetero SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Bi-Curious RELATIONSHIP STATUS : Widowed, Involved

MAFIA ALLEGIANCE : Targaryen POSITION : Pakhan DAY JOB : Businesswoman / Entrepreneur ( CEO of Khalasar Conglomerate, The Dragonpit, and various other ventures ) FINANCIAL STATUS : Inherited and Illegal Wealth

𝑷𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝑨𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆.

FACE CLAIM : Katheryn Winnick HEIGHT : 5′6″ PHYSICAL BUILD : Curvy EYE COLOUR : Vivid Blue HAIR COLOUR : Pale blonde, with golden lowlights

𝑭𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚.

FATHER : Aerys Targeryen ( † ) MOTHER : Rhaella Targaryen SIBLINGS : Rhaegar, Shaena ( † ), Daeron ( † ), Aegon ( † ), Jaehaerys ( † ), and Viserys Targaryen EXTENDED RELATIONS :

SISTER-IN-LAW : Elia Martell

NIECE & NEPHEW : Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen

SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S) :

HUSBAND : Khal Drogo ( † )

LOVER : Daario Naharis

CHILDREN : Rhaego Drogo Targaryen ( † ), Kovarro Drogon Targaryen ( Adopted Son ) HOUSEHOLD PET(S) : A Horse named Silver

𝑭𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

COLOUR : Crimson, Charcoal, Black WEATHER : Spring FOOD : Stroganoff BEVERAGE : Cabernet Sauvignon, Scotch, TIME OF DAY : Sunrise

𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚.

HOBBIES : Reading ( usually epics, classics, and non-fiction ) MBTI TYPE : INTJ ( The Architect ) ENNEAGRAM TYPE : Type 8 ( The Challenger )

𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅.

tw: passive mention of abuse, death of a child, and murder.

Born in the golden age of the Targaryen rule over King’s Landing, she was the youngest and only surviving daughter of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen. Her name came with privilege, and the great burden of sin to bare alongside the rest of her family. As a young girl Daeny could hardly stomach the violence and death that was so quintessential to the life of a mobsters daughter, she learned young that there were no good men in their world, and least of all her brutal and abusive father or her brothers. A fact only proven when her father promised her at the age of fifteen to a man whose tales of brutality were famous all the way from Essos a city far from King’s Landing, a city which he solely ruled with his brunt force and mountains of wealth. Her father’s decision meant she would have to live a life away from the only people she found comfort and safety with, all for the promise of power. Little did she know that power would benefit her more than anyone else far in the future.

Rhaegar was the pride of the Targaryens, and he ascended to the metaphorical throne when Daeny was barely old enough to understand the weight of such a responsibility, she remembered her brother being kind to her, but little else considering he was never around, always busy with the family business. She does however bitterly remember her pleading with Rhaegar to speak to their father on her behalf to change his decision in regards to her marriage to Drogo, but his only response being they all must play their part. Her brother had broken her heart that day, she never made another plea to anyone. Three years later she departed for Essos believing that was the last she’d seen of Kings Landing. She heard of her brother’s scandal only a few short months later, and she couldn’t help the bitterness at the thought that he had not done his part. While she knew she should’ve felt sorrow over the dismantling of her families’ rule over the city, she had always seen it as broken, this was only the chink that dealt the final blow.

Khal Drogo was a man that intimidated her from the start, seven years older than her when she was fifteen that age difference had felt too vast to bridge, she couldn’t imagine what a life with him would look like. Though his age was the slightest of factors considering his reputation even at the age of twenty two was that of a ruthless, merciless killer, at least in their world. To everyone else he was an ambitious and trailblazing young man who has just taken over his father’s legacy, Khalasar Conglomerate a company that generated revenue in the billions providing jobs for hundreds of thousands, with a foothold in nearly every continent. Daenerys had expected someone void of emotion and empathy, much like her own father the one person who truly scared her. Though she learned nearly right away after their marriage that yes he was everything she imagined but so much more. The side of him she saw wasn’t the side the rest of the world got, how could they when power and fear mattered so much to them all.

He was kind to her, gentle even, they took their time to get to know one another before they truly began to life as husband and wife. He had no queries with her desire to go to college and work alongside him to expand Khalasar Conglomerate and their reign over Essos. Two years into their marriage when a woman abandoned a young child at their door, his child from an affair many years ago it truly tested their relationship. Though by that point she’d grown to love and trust her husband, she couldn’t be angry with him for someone he’d been with long before he’d even met her. Having Kovarro around took some getting used to but she bonded with him soon enough. Daenerys was happier than she’d ever imagined she could be in her arranged marriage, and two years later she gave birth to Rhaego, and that happiness multiplied tenfold. By this time she’d established herself as a force to be reckoned with in Essos no less capable that her husband, in fact with her at the helm he decided to step away from K.C to focus on expanding the reach of his influence beyond Essos. Together they spoke of plans to reclaim her families lost prestige, though her perfectly crafted world came crashing down two years later when Khal was killed, poisoned anf there was nothing she could do after exhausting every last avenue but watch him suffer and die a slow and painful death. Nothing but end his pain, taking the last of his breathes with her own hands.

In the wake of her husband’s death, there was no room to crumble or to show any hint of weakness not when the vultures circled in hopes of claiming everything Khal had accomplished, everything they had accomplished together from her. Thus, she was given another blow. Returning home one evening to find her home up in flames along with her child. She heeded no warnings when she grabbed one of the firefighters masks right out of his hands and rushed inside to save her baby. She emerged from the flames unburnt with a charred bundle in her hands, the heat of the flames having already dried her tears. No one would see her tears, she would not allow it. They’d sought to set her world on fire so she would crumble alongside the brick and mortar, never to rise again. However they had forgotten that she was Daenerys Stormborn, the Dragon’s Daughter. Within her she had the same spirit of greatness, and capability to wreak the same devastation as the magnificent creatures her family paid patronage to.

Daenerys allowed herself a few year to carefully plot her return to King’s Landing, as well as to settle her affairs in Essos, those loyal to Khal remained loyal to her for which she was grateful. It meant that not only would she have a financial backing but also the added manpower to take back King’s Landing. Daenerys doesn’t just want to return to the tentative peace they’d had before her brother’s fall from grace, no she wants absolute control, to break the mold and shape it to her liking. Since her return she’s been swift to take power, even if it meant snatching it from her own brother’s grasp, allowing him to be her Lieutenant is more or less to appease any further turmoil. Elia on the other hand she has more fate in, at least in her council. Daenerys had always respected her as much as she did her brother, however, she’s never allowed herself to put her complete trust in Elia and by extension her children simply because she can’t be certain that she’d ever be willing to stand against the Martell’s if needed. If there is anyone whom she does trust blindly in is her family of choice, Kovarro whose never disappointed her, who has his father’s spirit and strength having filled the hole in her heart that Rhaego’s death had left.

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔.

JORAH, DAARIO, MISSANDEI : WCs can be found here.

KOVARRO : Sending in the WC soon.

Platonic

A FRIEND FROM THE PAST : Her closest friend growing up they stayed in touch in the beginning of her move to Essos, though with time that changed. However, since her return to King’s Landing they’ve been able to bridge the distance once again. ( 0 / 1 )

POLITICAL FRIENDSHIP : Friends for the sake of mutual benefit. Could just as easily stab one another in the back, or become true allies. ( 0 / ? )

Romantic

WE WERE JUST KIDS WHEN WE FELL IN LOVE : Someone she knew and secretly dated as a teenager, her first love. They lost contact after her move to Essos, and haven’t cross paths since. ( 0 / 1 )

Antagonistic

A BITTER ENEMY FROM THE START : Someone she didn’t like from the moment she met them, that dislike has persisted and grown since. Now they are a clear hurdle in her path to glory. ( 0 / 1 )

#❛ ･ﾟ✖ ( ᴅᴀᴇɴᴇʀʏs ᴛᴀʀɢᴇʀʏᴇɴ )#❛ ･ﾟ✖ ( development › ᴅᴀᴇɴᴇʀʏs )#vixere:intro #vixere:task

8 notes · View notes

peonypearls-muddled-musings · 4 years

Text

The inciting incident for the creation of the Hierarchy happened with the abupt end of one of Malgam’s favorite forms.

Having seen life from the eyes and different forms of man, woman, and beast for thousands of years, Malgam reverted to the life of another beast when one of his hosts finally passed on. With new strength to create a new form, Malgam warped his body to walk on four legs, with thick padded claws and orange fur with black stripes.

He’d always found himself fond of tigers. He found a new home in the rainforests where they occupied, and he enjoyed the thrill of hunt, the beauty of his surroundings, and the sunshine, which he’d been forced to live without during much of his first life. Soon, he found a clearing, and a village just across a ravine.The village was beautiful, with smells of food and spices and handsome garments of the brightest, most beautiful colors and patterns. Art and music and song wafted through the air like the smells of the fine foods. It piqued his curiosity, but it sent fear through the villagers when they saw him crossing the bridge.

But the elders could tell. The way the tiger looked at them; the way it watched, how it responded when shouted at; this one was different. He was scarred with gentle, attentive eyes. And finally, one of the elders approached him. They offered his hand, and Malgam placed his giant paw into it happily, seeing the smiling faces of his young brethren; some may have very well been descendants of his from centuries gone by. And from then on, Malgam’s presence was welcome.

Malgam was the village guest of honor; their protector. He did not know their language, but he recognized the word they referred to him as the same one children would call their grandfather. Malgam felt peace. He loved it when he would be joined by musicians, playing stringed instruments as he rested his head in their lap, tapping his tail contentedly. He would offer a pleased expression when the artists painted him lounging in the reeds. He showed patience as the children wreathed his head and shoulders with laurels of braided flowers, smooshing his face and laughing as he purred. Many a time he’d escorted a lost child back to the village, letting them hold his tail, or ride on his shoulders as they returned through the forest. For nearly a hundred and fifty years, Malgam was the spirit of the village, seeing generation after generation grow and sprout anew in the grand wheel of life.

And it all came crashing down in an instant; when, as he rested under the stars, sounds of unrest reached his ears. He awoke, and saw a black plume of smoke rising from over the forest canopy.

He ran, shifting his body into the swift cheetah, knowing the way and the obstacles by heart, he rushed to the village. As he reached the ravine, despair filled his heart as his eyes witness the village already burning, crumbling to the ground as screams filled the night air.

He sees the culprits, their silhouettes morphing as they cut down more villagers. Shapeshifters.

His own kind, fighting and killing each other.

This wasn’t the world he chose when he put the humans in their place. They were better than this.

Malgam enters the blazing village, taking back his tiger form as he comes across one of the elders, a woman who’s known his form and eyes since birth. She is broken and bleeding; past saving. She sees Malgam. “Grandfather” she says; and he shifts so she can see his true form. She smiles, having known he wasn’t what he made himself to be. He holds her as he promises to make this right; that she will live forever in his memory, and she will never die.

Malgam, hurt at her passing, sees the pillagers; they face him, seeing the scars on his body, his eerily pale skin illuminated by the pearly moonlight, his shock of auburn hair; they know he’s not of this area.

He snarls; and his teeth sharpen into fangs that erupt into his mouth; his golden eyes gleam in the bright fire, and his skin bursts into ebony-striped fur that mirrors the blaze. He stands on two legs, his hands becoming clawed as he walks towards them. He towers over them, his roars far more deafening than the blaze.

“FILTH!” He screams. “MURDERERS!” He sends another round of claws down a pillager’s back. Knives attempt to pierce his hide, but to no avail. “I GAVE YOU THIS LIFE ON THIS EARTH, AND YOU TAKE IT FROM OTHERS?!”

Grabbing one of the thieve’s ankles, he slams them against the ground, instantly creating a ragdoll that he throws against one of his partners.

“THEN YOUR FATES ARE SEALED.”

By the time the flames are quelled, Malgam is the only living thing left in the charred field. Everything hurts. His heart, his mind, his soul, his body; all wracked with grief as he howls. He failed them.

He wouldn’t fail anyone again.

Seeing his own kind suddenly at odds, he knows he must return to the place he once stood: at the helm of their destinies. Never again would this happen. Peace was the Shifter way; they weren’t humans.

And with a heavy, aching heart, he left the forest. His search for his brethren began. And in ten years’ time, he’d found what was left. Eight out of the twenty who had helped him escape from the human labs nearly a hundred thousand years ago were still alive. And he gathered them, and they brought their wisdom and loyalty to each other and their people.

He found Nadlia, his second in command and general. Koysov, his lawmaker and confidant. Belisia, keeper of the arts and treasury. Boxrom, the eccentric medicine man. Floralis, the historian. Tuvra, the scientist, and Ev’Elle, the diplomat.

Together, these eight ushered in a new golden era of peace and prosperity. Finding love and family within each other. For three thousand years, Malgam witnessed the best years of his life.

Shortly after this union, he returned to the village to pay his respects; only to find a new one had been built-

and the statue of a tiger stood at the gates. Before he could enter, a young woman, marred with burns, stepped out to place a bowl of water in front of the statue, and she bowed.

Malgam knew this girl. She was the granddaughter of the elder he’d made his promise to - she must have escaped during the blaze. He approached her, and as she faced him, the new king, dressed in gold and violet, shift back into the form she’d known him as in girlhood, and the happiness she showed him rejuvenated his heart. He took back his form and knelt in front of the girl. He kissed her hands, and did his best from what he’d learned of her tongue to tell her ‘thank you’, and that he would never again let what happened here ever happen again anywhere else.

And for three thousand years, he succeeded.

#PDatSK #Malgam #The Hierarchy

10 notes · View notes

jakeh0wl · 4 years

Text

Star Wars Short Fiction - Week III - Revenge of the Sith

Fear.

Anger.

Hate.

SUFFERING.

Anakin writhed in it. He screamed as the surgical blades and needles pierced his charred flesh, slashing deep into his nerves. He thrashed on the table, the stumps of his legs and left arm thumping against the reflective surface.

The glowing, unsympathetic eyes of surgery droids clustered him, metallic features merciless as they drilled into his body, changing him, preparing him.

Padme… where’s Padme?

The image of her face was seared into his mind. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, wide and full of terror. They pleaded. Pleaded as the pressure increased on her throat, Anakin choking her, squeezing the life from her with the raw power of the Force.

She betrayed ME!

“Anakin…!” she choked, hands at her neck.

Then Obi-Wan. “Let her go, Anakin!”

Obi-Wan. The source of all his pain, all his suffering. The man who turned Padme against him, the man who wouldn’t let him save him her.

The surgery droids sealed the metallic plates that would form the base of new limbs into his flesh, piercing metal spearing into the stumps of each of his legs and his arm. The room was black and white and grey, surgical spotlights flooding him with light, laying bare his terrible injuries.

In the shadows, Galactic Emperor Palpatine watched with grim fascination as the surgical droids worked tirelessly to remake his apprentice.

Anakin’s new prosthetic limbs were fused into place, the young Jedi-turned-Sith shrieking in pain. He lashed out, knocking aside the surgical blades held by the droid nearest his right arm.

Pain.

Anakin fell into blackness.

“Ani…” A voice whispered.

Blackness.

“Ani,” the voice said again. Padme’s voice. “I love you, Anakin.”

He blinked open his eyes, and she was there. Beautiful as the day he’d first beheld her, the wind tugging at her black hair and white dress softly. They stood in the green fields of Naboo, the sky was blue and had no clouds and the single sun was bright. On the distant hills, herds of Shaak lumbered through the grass, their calls a gentle thrum on the wind.

Anakin smiled and pulled Padme close. “I love you too,” he whispered.

She smiled back, and the light of all the stars in the Galaxy did not compare. She kissed him then, holding it for longer than was necessary.

Anakin felt something tug at his leg. He looked down and there was a small girl, perhaps eight or nine, with Padme’s eyes and Padme’s hair.

And down by the glittering river a boy of the same age danced in the shallows, a stick swishing in his hand, blond hair bright in the sun.

Twins, Anakin realised.

A son… and a daughter. Twins. My children.

And at last the pain was gone, and Anakin Skywalker felt only peace.

“He looks like you.”

He turned to find a woman standing beside him, dark hair and familiar Tatooine features. Shmi Skywalker stood in the grass in a lavish green dress, eyes glistening with tears as she stared at Anakin’s son by the river. “He looks so much like you, Ani,” she said.

Mom…

Shmi gasped, back arching, clutching at her abdomen. She fell to her knees in the grass.

Anakin cried out, and then Padme turned to dust in his arms.

“No, no, NO!”

Black clouds swept over the sun, and the earth lurched beneath him. Anakin stumbled towards his mother, watching in despair as his children screamed, fading into ashes.

Shmi Skywalker writhed on the ground, the grass vanishing away to become dark sand. Anakin sprinted towards his shrieking mother.

I won’t lose you again!

The fear came crashing back.

Shmi rolled onto her back, her green dress thinning into a slave’s ragged attire. Her stomach swelled, the sand beneath her legs soaking red. Somewhere in the black sky, above his mother’s screams, Anakin heard a voice. A hacking, cackling voice that thundered through the clouds.

He reached his mother, falling to the sand and holding her.

Fear.

Then she stopped screaming, and instead she stared up at his eyes, scars lacing her face and body. She was thin, so very thin, and her lips were split and broken. The blackness above was replaced by the bantha hide roof of a Tusken urtya, firelight glimmering in the shadows.

Anakin held his dying mother in his arms.

“Now I am complete,” she whispered, voice ragged. “I love…”

Anakin swallowed. “Stay with me, Mom,” he said, quietly. Pleading. “Everything…”

She tried to speak again; breath strained, her fingers against his cheek. “I… I love…”

Her breath caught, she sighed. Her hand fell away from his face, and her body slumped in his arms.

No… please, Mom… no…

Not again…

Fear bled to anger.

Anakin began to tremble, clutching his mother’s corpse. He gently closed her eyes and stood, stepping free of the urtya and into the Tatooine night. Anakin ignited his lightsaber, a spear of brilliant blue in the dark. The Tusken Raiders began to cry.

The world shifted, the Tusken men, women and children fading, their tents collapsing to dust.

No! NO! They must PAY!

Anger.

Darkness consumed him.

“Don’t listen to him, Anakin!” A violet lightsaber, a Jedi Master.

“Don’t let him kill me!” A weak, dying man, desperate to live.

I need him!

Anakin’s lightsaber was in his hand, cutting through Windu’s wrist.

Crackling blue forks of light rent through the black, sizzling tendrils of lightning.

“POWER!” Palpatine cried. “UNLIMITED POWER!”

The black burned away, glowing orange light meandering across Anakin’s vision. The river of molten rock churned beneath him, the hovering droid’s surface protecting him from the melting heat. Beyond the pulsing lava, a scarp of volcanic rock rose beneath the ash filled Mustafarian night.

Atop the rock, clad in scorched Jedi attire, clutching a blue lightsaber, Obi-Wan Kenobi stood.

Hate surged through Anakin.

“You underestimate my power,” he said.

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t try it.”

Hate.

Anakin leapt, his Force-enhanced jump sending him soaring over Obi-Wan’s head.

Pain.

Impossibly, Obi-Wan followed his leap, his lightsaber cutting through Anakin’s legs and one of his arms. Anakin screamed, tumbling into the ash, rolling towards the lava.

NO!

So. Much. PAIN.

“You were the Chosen One!” Obi-Wan cried. “It was said that you would destroy the Sith not join them! Bring balance to the Force! Not leave it in darkness!”

Anakin writhed. “I HATE YOU!”

“You were my brother, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said. “I loved you.”

Love.

It was gone.

No! You turned her against me!

Anakin stood, limbs returned, black cape billowing in the ash laden winds. He held out his arm, clad in black, and raised his hand towards Obi-Wan. The Jedi Master began to choke, eyes wide. He was lifted from the ground, desperately clutching at his throat.

Yes! You took her from me!

Anakin smiled within his black mask.

Now I am the Master!

He blinked. And Obi-Wan was now Padme, tears running ragged down her cheeks, choking within Anakin’s Force grip. Her eyes glistened, begging him. “Ani… I love…”

No… please. Not Padme.

Anakin looked down to where he now held a blood-red lightsaber in his gloved hand.

He wrenched Padme towards him, just to hold her. To touch her, if only for a moment.

To tell her…

He drove the red lightsaber through her chest, the shimmering blade erupting from her back.

NO!

Anakin jolted back to consciousness on the surgery table. Pain and feeling flooded through him. The surgical droids were almost finished with him. A robotic arm revolved around the table, suspending something over Anakin’s face.

A black mask, red eyes flaring alight. The mask descended, its interior closing in on Anakin’s charred features.

Fear crawled through his mind.

The mask closed over his face, the black, domed helm sliding down to seal Anakin within the suit.

Darth Vader breathed.

The droids scuttled back from the surgery table, the spotlight above beaming as the table rotated, leaning forward. The metal surface Vader was held to tilted into a vertical position, holding him upright, steam swirling. The spotlight reflected off Vader’s black armour as if it were shining on oil.

Slowly, almost hesitant, Galactic Emperor Palpatine edged out of the shadows. “Lord Vader,” he addressed the suited abomination, which was now more machine than man. “Can you hear me?”

Vader replied, “Yes, Master.” The voice was a deep, thrumming thing, no trace of Anakin Skywalker’s remained. “Where is Padme?” Vader asked. “Is she safe? Is she alright?”

The Emperor paused before his reply. “It seems, in your anger, you… killed her.”

“I… I couldn’t have… she was alive, I felt it!”

The room began to tremble, the metal panels of the walls crunching, folding inward. The glass containers and beakers in the arms of the droids shattered. The black-clad Vader ripped himself free of the surgery table, stumbling forward. The very walls began to collapse, metal rippling and bending beneath the Force. The droids themselves began to crumple, their spindly bodies crunching inward. Vader’s power surged through the room.

A smile peeled across the Emperor’s scarred lips.

Darth Vader roared, and his anger, his hate, his suffering echoed across the Galaxy.

22 notes · View notes

rhymingshadows · 4 years

Text

His Raw Materials: Part 1

youtube

Krick couldn’t be certain which was worst: the smell of charring flesh, or the agonized screams of the woman burning in the flames of her pyre. The inferno blazed and the light of those hungry flames reflected in his green eyes as the hungry flames consumed wood and flesh alike as the chained woman within the inferno twisted and writhed against her bonds of iron chains. Krick knew it was too late for her, even as his ears and tail remained motionless. Around him, the crowd swayed, almost hypnotized by the display. Some stood in shocked horror, as if this was a moment of true understanding about what a burning was like. Others, nodded and spat, clearly glad in this woman’s destruction. Their self-righteous joy at the woman’s agony turned his heart hard and vengeful at their mirth. He flattened his ears against his head, no longer wishing to endure the sounds of her horrified suffering. He turned and began shoving his way towards the back of the crowd to leave the gruesome sight behind him. Allena had been a comrade in the shadows; a soul that understood the truth of the world. To see her reduced to this tore at him; reminding him that he would be forever heralded as an abhorrent thing for his actions despite the intentions he and the ‘Thieves of Thal’ held. “They are all blind fools.” Krick muttered to himself as he stepped to the edge of the ring and looked out at the snowy valley before him. The Coerthas Mountains towered around him, leering down in their imposing majesty without a care to the matters of the little mortal insects gathered around the burning woman. These peaks had stood here long before the petty matters or mortals had come to them, and they would endure long after the scurry these mortal rodents had all been annihilated. The male flicked his tail, aware for the first time that a young man was staring at him from his right. Krick turned and fixed the young hyur with an intent stare. The hyur was wearing the heraldry of a very specific free company; the very same icon of those he knew to have set the pyre under the woman; and it made him narrow his normally expressionless eyes. “Can I help you?” K’rick inquired in a flat voice, unable to feign any politeness. “You seem to be unwell.” the brown-haired man said in reply, his blue eyes staring back at the necromancer. “Perhaps I can be of some...” “I don’t think so.” Krick muttered in a low tone, noticing a tall elezen in armor slowly walking up to stand beside the hyur. “I need some fresh air from the smell.” “I think you should come with us.” the elezen said, resting his hands on the hilt of his sheathed sword. The necromancer took a long, slow breath and exhaled, plumes of steam coming from his nostrils as the cold air grew colder. “I am not going anywhere with a fanatic of ‘The Rising Dawn’.” Krick reached up and toyed with one of the raven skulls around his neck. “Besides, your fire needs tending I’m sure. “Could use some more fuel.” the elezen said, their face still obscured by their helm. Krick understood the meaning far too well and ran his tongue over his teeth. “And the soil could use more watering.” Krick glanced at the ground under the crowd that had come from the local towns to see an ‘evil’ witch burned alive by the crusaders of the ‘The Rising Dawn’. “Tell me, do you think there is enough fluid gathered to snuff out your inferno?” Krick glanced back at the pair and saw the genuine concern in the hyur’s eyes for the gathered throng. “You couldn’t….’“ the hyur stared, seemingly trying to convince himself that attacking Krick would be the best course of action. “Only one way to find out.” Krick’s eyes flashed with a sickly green light for just a moment. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure how well a fight against two crusaders would go but he was certainly willing to find out if they desired to fight here and now. “Then perhaps we should settle this in the woods nearby?” the armored crusader growled. Krick licked his lips. Had this been a trap all along? Publicizing his friend’s burning to draw him and his ilk in? Or was this all just bad luck? A foolish move on his part, walking into a den filled with those that might sense his twisted aether just to pay his respects to a now dead friend. The necromancer turned back to the flames and saw a charred ruin lying limp against the chains that had bound her. Even now, the flames tried to lap at her frame and Krick shook his head, his eyes sweeping over the masses throng that had watched her die. “Draw your steel now and everyone here dies.” Krick commented coldly. “After what you have done, I would relish the chance to slaughter these lambs you protect.” The two crusaders exchanged looks. “We’ll be hunting for you.” The hyur said at last. “Your ilk will be purged for your many sins.” “Ironic.” Krick said, turning to leave. “I was just thinking the same.” The necromancer quickly departed and once out of sight, summoned his aether and vanished as he teleported away.

#His Raw Materials #Krick #rp #Balmung #writing #for fun #Final Fantasy

1 note · View note

soulsorcererofoutworld · 4 years

Text

“We have come for you, Sorcerer.” A cultist of the Necromancer’s Brotherhood of Shadows informed, the revenant charred of flesh and veins of hell under the spined harness of infernal armour and helm that grasped scalp and pulled lips like an insidious eagle’s talon. A death’s mask onto itself with calloused hands grasping so familiar to its spiked cudgel.

The aged sorcerer looked at him for a brief moment before tracing slow and amused onto the rest of his visiting retinue; six black wraiths, their gloved hands holding onto serrated sickles - not much unlike that of the remade Bi Han. Cold, ironic mimicry of his own transformation perhaps? Lin Kuei souls stolen and twisted by Quan Chi before his rightful demise...another insult.

“And you are here but,’ Shang Tsung said with a perk of his lips, “Not for a welcoming visit it seems.“

“We know of your unsanctioned appearance into our Emperor’s realm and he commands your long-overdue soul.” The enforcer said. “Hm.” Was the only reply, without even rising Shang Tsung blasted the Revenant straight off his feet with a howling skull fireball. Reacting as quick as the spectres they are, the assassins whisped into each others’ shadows and swooped from oily portals on all sides.

With the flick of his wrist, his bracers sprang curved blades along their length while spinning from his lotus position. Scythes caught by his effortless fluidity of Tai Chi, taking bodies off their vengeful course before the old docile man transformed into a massive Tigrar champion long killed by him.

An earth-quaking roar, two clawed hands caught his assassins by their skulls for a brutal crush fit for ripe melons. Two more catching torsos for a cadaver-crushing slam between each other in the span of heartbeats. One scythe punched into the decorated pauldron of Shao Kahn’s emblem, more than enough for the Tigrar to jerk his shoulder to hurtle the fifth assassin into the iron wall of pectorals and the last caught between the monster’s massive jaws.

The taste of ichor draining into lapping tongue, he stamped once and roared into an exploding tempest of dragon’s fire. Claiming these six into a whirling tempest of shackled souls unbound, Shang Tsung - former Vizier of Shao Kahn’s court, Master of Mortal Kombat, the Eternal Schemer - stepped out with his youth slowly regenerating after playing docile for too long.

The Enforcer crumbling up slowly with the singed hole in his oozing chest, cudgel wavering in his lift.

“Don’t bother.” The sorcerer sneered before grabbing one of these wayward souls and hurled it into a screaming projectile straight through the Revenant. The eldritch energies crackling in the pierced hole, not even satisfaction passed Tsung’s face as he watched the Revenant fall onto his knees and expire.

#FIGHT! drabble #brotherhood of shadow #shang tsung

8 notes · View notes

serenzippity · 5 years

Text

Sea King

Words: 2,958 Member: Wonho/Hoseok Genre: Fluff, Smut, Angst, Alternative Universe Warning(s): Language, violence, death, smut, tortured Hoseok ‘cause Fargo likes to hurt him for some reason

When King Shi-dae split his kingdom into seven, he gave each of his sons a portion to rule over as their own sovereigns. In a self-imposed exile, the king declared that the brother who proved his worth would inherit more upon their father’s death. They would inherit their father’s vast fortune and the right to call themselves ‘High King.’

Of the seven sons, he was the bravest.

King Hoseok was known as the ‘Sea King.’ He was the greatest sailor and navigator in the Seven Kingdoms. The sea and stars opened themselves up for him, and he greeted them like an eager lover. He didn’t desire the title of High King like the rest of his brothers, rather he wanted to spend his days exploring the vast ocean and traveling to new worlds. As a Naval Commander and King, however, he was still tied to the land in an effort to protect the Seven Kingdoms from the threats that could come by sea.

Unlike the rest of the kingdoms, the Bada Kingdom was arguably less developed. His people were sailors, fishermen, and explorers that preferred the vast open ocean over land. With cities hugging the Southwestern coast, they traded in products given to them by the sea. Fish, oil, and other marine life were their primary exports, and they were the hardened men and women who tamed the elements. Grey clothing sheltered tough peoples who spent their days in the water and worshiped drowned deities. Their hair was often streaked with blue dye, symbolizing their loyalty to their king who led them beyond conventional borders. Despite their tough exteriors, his people were arguably the most loyal to their king, something that was beneficial during long nights at sea.

-x-

King Hoseok was reeling as he took in the charred ruins of one of his finest vessels. The blackened hull mocked him and he swore he could hear the screams of his men as they were put down by cannon fire and cutlass.

His grip on the hilt of his sword was tight, and his lieutenant took him in with weary eyes. “My King,” he said respectfully as he tiptoed around his clearly angry superior. “The ship is estimated to be in repair for four to six months, and then she will be commissioned back into the royal fleet.”

“Good,” Hoseok said growling at his friend, more angry at the decision of his older brother rather than at the state of affairs.

King Hoseok wrote to King Hyunwoo about the attack on one of his lead vessels as they began a venture into uncharted territory. They weren’t far from the borders of the kingdom when a ship attacked them. The attackers were flying the colors of a neighboring kingdom, but the survivors claimed that they were a rogue group of pirates rather than sailors from the otherwise allied country.

Licking their wounds back to the capital, Hoseok wanted to take action and hunt down the rogue ship. His brother, however, refused to stand with him until more information was known about the mysterious vessel and its crew. His older brother took the more logical route, but for the king, he was far from logical when it came to the lives and dignity of his people.

He saw this as an act of war against the Bada Kingdom and he’d be damned if he didn’t take action to avenge his fallen sailors.

“Ready my ship,” he growled, never taking his piercing gaze off the once great ship.

“My King?”

“If the ‘Warrior King’ won’t take action, we will find the ship ourselves.” Hoseok spat out his older brother’s nickname as if it was poison, questioning whether he deserved such a powerful title. Turning to his lieutenant, he fixed him with a snarl that had the younger man’s eyes going wide. “We will find it, take it, and kill the men who slaughtered our comrades.”

He walked away in a flurry of gray, his sharp boots punctuating his every stride on the dock. The people parted for him, bowing with respect that he would normally reciprocate. However, at this moment he was only seeing red, taunted by the dying groans of his men and burnt wood.

-x-

The Expedition had been sailing for a week before they made any sort of heading. Coming across the fresh ruins of a merchant ship, the King ordered his men to search for survivors. Their search ended when they found two people floating in the water on a broken door. The young siblings were brought on board to be tended to and questioned by order of the King.

When he came into the small chamber to interrogate you he felt his breath catch. Mermaids, sirens, and wenches alike had tried to make their way into the dark depths of Hoseok’s heart. All had failed, and yet with a single glance Hoseok wanted to drown in you. It confused and alarmed the fearsome explorer. He was brave, but just one look at you made him scared.

The fear that etched your face was palpable as he asked you gentle questions about the events that led you into the water. You told him how the ship you were using for a crossing was attacked by a vessel that was flying strange colors. They didn’t take anything, but they left death and fire in their wake. The tears that slid down your dirty face pattered onto the sheets of the cot, and he reached out to wipe them away. He noticed how your eyes were a dark blue, almost purple color that reminded him of the sea at midnight.

Fixing you with a small smile and a tip of his head, Hoseok promised you protection before taking his leave.

Your brother died two days later and Hoseok held you when you collapsed in his arms in grief. The press of your body against his had him imagining things that were ill-timed. Your warm embrace brought your heaving breasts against his chest, and he had to shift away from you to maintain any sense of propriety.

When you finally cried yourself to sleep, Hoseok pried himself from you and tried to relieve the tightness of his pants as the still night draped over the ship.

He didn’t see you for three days. Refusing to leave your cabin, you took your meals in isolation and mourned over the death of your beloved sibling. On the fourth day, you ventured out onto the deck in need of fresh air and sunlight. Dressed in loose trousers and one of Hoseok’s shirts you took in the beautiful sight of glimmering water, entranced by its sparkling reflections.

When the King spotted you from behind the helm, he lost himself further into your depths. He thought you were like the sea: mysterious and beautiful. He wanted to tame you like the waves, singing you the song of his passion.

After that day he began to call upon you to join him for dinner. You obliged his every request with a small smile and blush, and he soon found himself physically drowning in you.

Giving into both of your wildest fantasies, you and Hoseok danced underneath the moonlight together.

The first time he took you into his bed left you breathless. He learned your body like a naval chart that was completely yielding to him. Every crook and blemish on your skin was tasted by his skilled tongue. He swallowed your moans as he kissed you into oblivion, taking his time to pleasure you in ways that had your back arching. The sounds of mewls and groans of pleasure mixed with the slapping of skin and Hoseok was hooked after he painted you with him.

Afterwards you spent every single night in the King’s cabin with him. Some nights he would make love to you for hours, others you would both lay there talking about every topic under the sun. He could listen to your voice for eternity and he felt himself fall deeper and deeper in love with every crinkle of your eyes. The way you wove tales of your home and the mischief you’d get into as a child were like silk to his ears. Your touches ignited dormant fires within him, and the feel of your body was addicting.

He promised himself that when he returned to the Capitol he was going to tell his brother to piss off. He was going to take you as his queen, not some foreign princess in a scheme that King Kihyun had fashioned up. The thought of anyone else sitting next to him on the throne made him physically ill.

A month into your time on the Expedition Hoseok uttered three little words that had you blossoming. As your walls clenched around him he managed a few sloppy thrusts as they spilled out from his clenched teeth. The sweat on his brow and the snarl on his lips did nothing to hide the affection that was swirling behind his dark eyes. Maintaining eye contact as you both rode out your blissful highs, you and Hoseok spoke those beautiful words.

“I love you.”

-x-

The sky was dark and the stars were twinkling overhead when the distinct sound of cannon fire cut through the silence. A swift slam on the side of the Expedition jolted Hoseok awake and he quickly sprung into action, jolting you from a deep sleep. He threw a silk robe over your naked body and gave you a quick kiss, telling you to stay below. Hoseok threw on clothes and grabbed his sword at breakneck speed before making his way to the deck.

They were under attack by the biggest ship he had ever seen. It almost looked unnatural as it rained down upon him and his crew. His men were fighting off sailors that were clad in black, all of their faces obscured by a black cloth that covered their noses and mouth.

His men were skilled fighters, but these strange men were overpowering them by sheer number. Every time one was incapacitated, two more would pop up.

Jumping quickly into the fray, Hoseok cut down any man that dared to make their way towards him. Stupid men soon met their demise as he and his skilled sword ran them through.

The gurgling sounds of death and the stench of blood were overwhelming. The deck was painted red as grey fought black. In the darkness, it was hard to tell who was who but each side fought under the moonlight in a deadly dance.

The King soon found his lieutenant and they covered each other’s back as a circle of black descended on them. Cutting through the men like they were nothing, the two of them worked their way through the throng. The clanging of their swords and the intermittent sounds of gunfire were nothing compared to the booms of the cannons. His men below were returning fire, trying to break through the hard exterior of the massive ship.

The battle lasted for what felt like hours. The inky black of the sky deepened, signaling the turn of the day as the stars wheeled overhead as spectators to the carnage. Hoseok was getting weary as wave upon wave of attackers fell upon him. Little nicks and a nasty cut on his ribs drained him of blood and energy, the screams of his dying comrades doing little for his sanity.

‘Gods help us,’ he silently prayed into the dark sky, turning to the deities as he blocked a swing at his head. The clash of metal sent a painful jolt through his arm that had him clenching his teeth.

‘When will this end?’

“STOP!” cried a powerful voice. The cry had all of the black attackers ceasing in their tracks. Hoseok took advantage of the momentary pause to run his sword through the ribs of the man engaging him. He didn’t have time to process anything before he withdrew and the assailant crumpled to the ground in a heap.

King Hoseok turned to look at the voice that paused the ship and its invaders. For the first time in his short life, Hoseok was taken by a pure shock that sent a cold bolt down his spine.

Standing there amongst the carnage you were holding your head high with a stern tension to your body. Your eyes had shifted into a bright purple as you glanced around the deck, flitting over the masses of dead bodies and weary sailors. Unfamiliar clothing adorned your body and a glittering sword was strapped around your lean waist. Black kohl lined your eyes and for a moment Hoseok thought you looked like a goddess in the moonlight.

For a moment he thought you were a savior, but when you spoke next the small fleeting hope in his heart disintegrated.

“Go back to the ship,” you said in a clipped tone, and just like that the black men retreated back to the large vessel. Save for a few that came to stand behind you like bodyguards, you were left with what remained of the crew of the Expedition.

Hoseok and his men looked at you with mixes of horror and shock. Here standing before them was the meek woman they pulled from the water a month ago. This was the woman who shied away from them if they tried to come near her. This was the woman who grew in Hoseok’s heart. This was the woman that finally seemed to tame their king.

This was the woman who somehow betrayed them.

It was a lot for them to handle in the blood-fueled moment. “What the hell is this?” cried Hoseok’s Gunsmith. Holding his sword aloft, the man charged at you, and with almost inhuman speed, you pulled yours and quickly cut him down. Adding his body to the growing massacre, you didn’t even flinch when your steel met flesh.

You looked calm as you returned your sword to your sheath and glazed over the scattered seamen. When your gaze met Hoseok’s, your previously impassive look melted into a smirk. The look on his face was full of question and sadness, something that looked beautiful on his perfectly carved features.

Here you were, the greatest pirate in the world holding the heart of the greatest Naval Commander in the world. The sick, satisfying knowledge that you were destroying him was lighting a fire in you. You were feared for a reason, and Hoseok had finally learned why.

“Take them to the ship.” some of the men behind you began to gather the crew. Pushing and shoving them to the planks connecting the ships, they cut down those who resisted and manhandled those who didn’t. “Put the captain in irons. I want him to watch as I send his ship to the depths below.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Your smirk grew into a cruel smile as the men gathered around the king. Walking back to your beloved ship, you didn’t even turn to look at him as he was roughly bound. He tried to resist them, but he was quickly overcome. “Liar!” he cried out through their assault. He kept cursing you into the dark night, damning your name into the heavens and swearing revenge.

Chaining him to the mast, you ordered for them to open fire on the Expedition. The regal vessel took the force and lit up when a well-placed cannonball ignited their gunpowder supplies. The dark wood of the hull fed the flames as the ship sunk into the sea in a mess of fire and timber.

Hoseok was breaking. He felt his heart shatter at your betrayal and the destruction of his craft. The King felt like he was on the wrong side of a lost battle. You, the only woman he had ever opened up to, were in actuality a ruthless pirate who played his love like a fiddle. He was reeling from the fact that he practically welcomed his destruction onto his ship with open arms. Every touch and kiss were lies on your web. All the blushes and kind words were spun into the silk and he was the fly that got trapped.

He was stupid, so stupid. The internal turmoil was intensified as he took in the fires engulfing his ship and the bodies of his fallen crew. With a gaping hole in his chest, Hoseok let the feeling of sadness wash over him for the first time in his life. His wasn’t allowed to be upset or feel remorse, but the dam had been broken as he bled out onto the deck of the pirate ship.

“Don’t worry my love,” you cooed as you took in Hoseok’s angry face. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as he glanced between the destruction of his ship and your once lovely face. “I won’t kill you...” With a smile, you placed a wet kiss on his lips. He tried to flinch away, but when he turned his head you simply began to kiss along the curve of his jaw. Nipping and licking the skin, you made your way up to his ear. “...yet.”

Taking the lobe and earring between your teeth, you nibbled on him in a way that would have had him shuddering a few hours ago. Now it just made disgust settle in the pit of his stomach. Smiling against his ear, you loved the feeling of him trembling underneath you. Begging to be released Hoseok’s body strained against the chains, desperate to reach out and snuff the life out of you.

“Take him below.”

“Aye Captain.”

Struggling, the last thing he saw before a club knocked him unconscious were glowing purple eyes that would haunt him.

A/N: This one is my favorite. I don’t know why I constantly torture him, but it’s kinda what I do. Enjoy and let me know if you like it! Only two more installments and then Kingdom Come is done!

#monsta x #wonho smut #monsta x smut #monsta x fanfic #wonho #hoseok #monsta x wonho #hoseok smut #wonho fanfic #monsta x drabble #monsta x scenarios #mx

78 notes · View notes