Pikmin !!

pikmin !!

When in doubt.

Pairing: TF141 (Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap) X Male reader/ Inferus. (Can be read as platonic)

Word count: 2.1k (about 500 words each (though Gaz's is a bit longer and Soap's shorter))

Content: 141 being carried by Inferus, Readers Callsign is Inferus, no use of y/n, Talk of injuries, kinda angsty in areas, I'm pretty sure there's British slang used though so I'm sorry, this could be read as gender-neutral but Inferus is male in mind.

A/N : Making my CoD Masterlist, is a nightmare but it's happening.

141 meeting Inferus (Dont have to read for it to make sense.)

∥ M.List ∥

⚝ 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 ⚝

In the aftermath of a mission gone awry, Price found himself confined to the med bay, his leg wounded by a gunshot. The medics had sternly ordered him to bed rest until the injury fully healed.

After about an hour of bed rest that felt like an eternity, Price's restlessness won over his better judgment. Fuck it he was gonna walk.

 He hobbled along the corridor, his determination outweighing the pain and the danger of reopening his stitches.

Unbeknownst to him, you were the one who had caught him in the act. At first, you just watched from behind, finding humor in the sight of your captain hobbling so desirably despite the injury. 

It wasn't until his leg gave out, and he found himself leaning against the wall, that you intervened. Approaching with arms crossed. Price's sigh carried a hint of resignation as he looked up at you, “Can ya blame me, Inferus? I need to get to my office.”

You couldn't help but shake your head at his audacity. Before he could protest any further, you scooped him up in a bridal carry. As you moved, you could feel the stickiness of blood on his ankle, confirming your suspicions that he had indeed opened his stitches.

If Price could have died from embarrassment in that moment he would have. 

You bypassed the med bay this time, taking him back to his room to carefully reapply fresh bandages. 

His grumbling was a constant soundtrack, but you remained focused on the task at hand, earning a few more sarcastic comments and begrudging thank you's.

The night passed, and morning brought a new day, as well as another attempted escape by Price. He was about to admit defeat and go back to bed but you quickly picked him up bridal style like you had the night before and carried him to the shared kitchen for breakfast. 

Price would have glared at anyone who sent him a look or laughed, but no one did because it was you carrying him. 

Soap and Gaz think it's hilarious, making jokes about Price being the “Princess” to your “Knight”. Price would probably bark at them, pulling rank and all but it did little to deter them. You’re just happy Price hasn't opened his stitches again. 

Price greatly appreciates your presence, as now he's not fighting tooth and nail and getting himself more hurt just to move about. He appreciates it when you wait about in his office for him to finish his work or bring him food during meals and snacks. 

Price's gratitude was thinly veiled by his gruff exterior, but his consistent "thank you"s and occasional glimpses of genuine warmth betrayed his true feelings. 

He enjoys being taken care of, though he won't admit it. He’s polite though, saying thank you every time you grab something or put him down carefully. 

It eventually develops into a routine, you wake up and see an injured Price in his doorway, you pick him up and the two of you go to breakfast. He doesn't ask you to keep doing it but you know he wants to. 

☠︎︎ 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 “𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭” 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 ☠︎︎

Ghost had, somehow, stepped into a bear trap. He had been running from enemies and so it tore quite a bit of skin and did some damage. Loser boy

Getting back to base (Amit some teasing from Soap) he had been dragged to the med bay and stitched up. He knew it would take some time to heal but felt he needed to be better. He had no idea how he didn't see the bear trap and was frustrated that he even stepped on it. 

He knew he needed to be better and didn't excuse himself from being distracted at that moment.  Despite his injury, he ended up dragging himself to the gym in the dead of night. 

You had heard the soft clang from the gym doors. You walk in and found him working out when he should be resting his injury. He didn't notice you, caught up in the adrenaline and ignoring his pain. 

His motions came to a sudden halt as your footsteps echoed in the room. Trying to play it cool, Ghost brushed off his pain. You watched as he struggled to maintain his facade, trying to dismiss your presence. He hesitated when you offered your help, clearly torn between his pride and the need to take care of himself.

As the adrenaline from his workout subsided, the reality of his injury began to sink in. Ghost's facade crumbled, and he finally nodded, his tough exterior giving way to vulnerability. 

You helped him carefully lower himself onto a nearby bench. As you tended to what had opened in his injury, he winced and clenched his jaw, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench. Yet, through the discomfort, his gaze remained locked on you, silently thanking you for your support.

You end up carrying him back to his quarters via a piggyback, however, as undignified it was to Ghost he was secretly impressed by how effortlessly you lifted him. 

He didn't really complain and was happy for the relief on his ankle, he would just lay his head on your shoulder and go limp against your back.

He ends up asking you to do it again the next day, he had duties to take care of to help Price and was hoping for some alleviation of his pain. So you oblige. 

No one is dumb enough to say anything or even laugh, who would when you could so easily throw Ghost at them? Besides, you two were second highest ranking on base, they could get in some serious trouble, especially making fun of an injured man. 

You end up helping him with his duties, hoping it would get him to go back to his quarters quickly so A) he was less likely to injure his leg and B) you didn't have to keep carrying him around. 

Ghost doesn't like asking you to do things for him, so he veils it as orders only to say thank you afterward. You know he doesn't mean to come off as rude so you dont take it personally. 

The day Ghost can stand and walk on his own with minimal pain, the piggybacks stop. He's appreciative of your help, but he finds it embarrassing having to be carried around and being literally limp on your back (especially the times when you had to put a hand to his ass) 

★ 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐊𝐲𝐥𝐞 “𝐆𝐚𝐳” 𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 ★

Gaz ended up breaking his ankle after jumping from a height he knew he shouldn't have been and landed off. His ankle snapped on the landing and he ended up face-first on the concrete. 

He was quick to radio in the injury, leaving out how he ended up with a broken ankle. Soap had to drag him from where he fell to the extraction point. His ankle had to casted and was put on bedrest or could walk around on crutches. Both felt rather embarrassing for Gaz. 

He thought it was dumb how he had broken his ankle and hadn't stuck the landing. He was glad no one saw it nor knew what happened, all they knew was that Gaz must have been fighting, jumped for safety, and eaten shit, and not that he was avoiding fire and didn't calculate the height of the building in a fight or flight moment. 

He wanted to spend his reverb off base but couldn't due to how far off his actual off-duty was. So he wallowed in his room, only ever leaving for meetings he wasn't excused from or to get food. 

He felt shitty over the injury to the point he wouldn't let Soap or Price write on the cast. He knew he was being an asshole and avoiding them but he was wallowing and just wanted to be in the field again. 

You decided you had enough of his avoiding, the others were worried for him and you hated seeing him so down in the dumps. So you decided to try and lift his spirits. Literally. 

One unsuspecting morning in the communal kitchen crutches leaning on the counter while he lent on it and held his injured foot up. He was waiting for the coffee so he could slink back to his room. 

You approached as quietly as ever, and before he could even register you in his eyeline he was up in the air. 

You had thrown him up and on your shoulder so that he couldn’t reach the ground. 

“What the Fuck, Inferus! What the Hell are you doin’?! Put me down Now!” 

You just stole his pot of coffee and drank it yourself (through a straw of course), you left his crutches and just went about your duties with Gaz on your shoulder. 

He complained a lot at first until he just accepted his fate and went along with it, even though he was annoyed. 

You got some weird looks, of course, but a mere turn of your head in their direction had them freezing up and whimpering off. 

You fed Gaz thought the day, passing back protein bars and full plates of food for him to eat and refusing to sit down to eat so he could slink off. 

The team thought it was hilarious, you were able to hold Gaz’s injured leg so Soap could write on his cast. Price wanted you to be careful with the injured sergeant but let you on your way. Ghost just shook his head when you walked past him, Gaz sending him a pleading look for help. But Ghost only put his hands up, he was not about to mess with you. 

He huffed and puffed but he had to admit it was comfortable up there. He didn't have to strain his legs and arms to get around, and he wasnt just sleeping all day either. It was good to get out without having to worry about being in the way or benign in pain and having to stop every few minutes. 

By the end of the day, he's feeling much better than before when you deliver him back to his room. He'd probably ask you to do it until his injury heals, you oblige. 

🫧 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲 “𝐒𝐨𝐚𝐩” 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐓𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐡 🫧

Soap's encounter with a shrapnel grenade left him with a nasty wound, not just on his body but also on his pride. Despite the pain, he tried to play it off, not wanting to show any vulnerability.

You found Soap sitting in a corner, nursing his wound, a mix of frustration and pain evident on his face. With your assistance, Soap made his way back to the base, leaning on you for support. 

He was frustrated and reduced to bed rest, which didn't settle well with him. Sure he could walk but the feelings of holes in his skin remained. It made him twitch and cringe. 

You quickly took note of his discomfort whenever you saw him hobbling out and about. You hated Seeing Sopa down, and in pain, even if he tried to joke through that discomfort. 

You decided to joke about it, no matter your reserved exterior. So one day, Soap was longingly watching the others train from the sidelines, leaning up against the wall. You casually walked up to him, crouched behind him, and put your head between his legs. 

“Uh, Inferus? You alrigh’ Mate?” 

You dont respond, but you stand, forcing Soap over and back to back with you and his knees on your shoulders. You held him there by his ankles as he tried to fight it. He called out and struggled, which caught the attention of the others training.

They thought it hilarious, but you could tell Soap was getting flustered so you took him out.  You helped him upright so he could sit on your shoulders while you were outside. 

He started to enjoy it more once outside, you could tell he was starting to feel in better spirits because he cracked genuine jokes 

Whether he's feeling down in the dumps or in pain from his injury, he will flop back over so he's hanging upside down and it somehow makes him feel better. He thinks it's funny how you're doing your work with him on your shoulders like a parrot. 

He brags about being taller than the others when sitting on your shoulders, Gaz definitely tried to pull him down but Soap pulled the “Nuh un im injured” card and Gaz backed off, fuming. 

Soap insists on you doing it every day, until you realize his injuries have healed and he's just doing it to bother you. Even after his injury has healed he will sometimes as you to give him a shoulder ride or to hang him upside down. You oblige for the fun of it.

141 boys waking up in the middle of the night and their partner is nowhere to be seen. they get out of bed to look for them, and eventually find them just sitting in the kitchen in silence with the lights turned off, staring into space. when they try to speak they get cut off immediately "would you love me if i was a worm. don't lie to me."

idk how i came up with this don't ask

-🦝

STOPP PLEASE

They’d think something was very very wrong, until you opened your mouth 😭

OBSESSED 😭😭 I NEED TO BE ADDED TKT HE TAGLIST PRETTY PLS

Rotes Mädchen: Chapter 2

(Werewolf! König x Red Riding Hood! Reader)

(Art by the lovely @zwienzixes)

(Masterlist)

Word count: 3.3k Rating: PG-13 Tags: Werewolf! König, Fairytale AU, Monster Hunters TF141, Witch Laswell, Traditional German Fairytale setting, Price x Reader if you squint, F! Reader, Injury, Blood/Injury Warnings: Mentioned gore

The sound of hoofbeats echoes out through the forest as Price urges his steed down the misty trail and into town. The trees spill outwards to reveal the faint lantern light of the village, and as you both approach you see shutters peek open and doors swing wide as your neighbors observe the commotion of your approach.

There's few people in the village square- a small collection of self-appointed guardsmen who startle at the sight of the captain atop his massive, dark mare. One nearly falls backwards, scrambling for his hastily constructed spear even as Price's voice bellows down at them.

"In your homes! NOW!!" He roars, and you're surprised at the speed with which the men comply, quickly dispersing in the direction of their cottages. You see them shout at the villagers who dare to stand in their doorways or at their windows, lantern light illuminating them in the nighttime darkness. They too vanish back into their houses, murmuring and speaking with concerned, rising voices at the tone of Price's booming command.

"Which house is yours?" He asks you then, voice quieter but no less urgent as he tries to control his anxious steed under him.

You point to a house at the end of the way, with ivy crawling up the stone and a red stained door at the front. You try to speak, but words seem to fail you, lips parting and voice choked with clawing fear at the shadow that lurks in your mind.

Massive. A primordial, hulking thing. Yellow eyes glimmering brightly in the darkness, claws glinting in the light of the moon. When it had turned to regard you both it had bristled, the coarse fur standing straight and making the thing look even larger. Even now you imagine yourself caught between its fangs, reaching out an arm in desperation as you're swallowed whole.

Price kicks his horse into a trot, and abruptly stops at the front of your door. He dismounts before you can gather yourself, hands at your waist and lifting you down onto unsteady feet.

"Lock the doors and windows." He tells you, voice gravelly with warning.

You find your voice then, startled and raspy but concerned as his hand guides you at the small of your back to your doorstep.

"W-wait, you're headed back?" You ask him worriedly, even though you already know the answer. "It's dangerous- you'll be in the woods by yourself, what if..."

"I'm a Witcher." Is all Price supplies to you as the heavy lock of your wooden door unlatches and you're guided inside. You spin to face him, eyes wide with a near frantic concern. He fills your doorway, allowing you no space to try and dart outside, the width of his shoulders made wider by the leather pauldrons of his armor.

"B-but-" You try to protest, voice wavering, taking a step towards him.

Price's eyes soften then, just for a moment. it startles you, the sudden warmth of his expression that seems almost like endearment. It's gone before you can feel it touch the confines of your heart, his face settling once more into the steely resolve of a warrior.

"Don't venture out until dawn." He speaks, voice grave with danger, pupils glinting with a darkness that shudders through you. Ominous, deadly.

He reaches for the door and pulls it shut behind him before you can stop him, and even then you dart to the window to see Price pull himself onto his horse and gallop once more into the chasm of forest from which you emerged.

You don't call after him, heart hammering too severely to allow any air to escape from your chest. Instead, you watch the mist curl in his wake, look upwards to the waxing Autumn moon that hangs yellow and heavy in the sky.

The shutters clack shut with a sound of finality.

-----------------

Birdsong.

You blink awake, the dimness of dawn washing over your features as you rouse to the frosted morning. You're wrapped in your blankets, sitting by the hearth that has fizzled into ash during your slumber. The gentle noise of sunrise filters in through the shutters, so different from the chaos of the night before, when Price had thundered into the town square with your form huddled behind his back.

You blink at the memory, trying to pull yourself from sleep and place yourself back into the realm of wakefulness even as the timber of the captain's voice drags you back into the darkness of the night before.

You'd stayed up as long as you could, trying to listen into the woods for any indication of struggle or conflict. Yet the forest had remained eerily silent, offering no answers to your concerned curiosity. Quiet, concealing the secrets within in a way you knew they always would.

When you rise from your chair you realize you'd never changed into your night clothes, your scarlet cape tugged tight around your front as you eventually had lapsed into sleep before the hearth. It flutters to the ground as you stand, and when you pick it up the soft fabric grazes across the pads of your fingers, with you lost in thought.

You hope he's okay.

There's no reason why he shouldn't be, of course. Price told you his battles the night before, of his victories and the tales which Soap and Gaz had boasted of. He's a Witcher. He'll be fine.

Yet then you think of Laswell, of her steely gray stare and her sly but warm smile. Maybe, if Price had gathered his men and rode off into the woods in pursuit- if Laswell had been left all alone in her cottage...

Your hands shake as you hold your cape, and a new anxiety seeps into the cracks of your chest. If...if somehow the monster from last night had eluded the hunters and found Laswell, had somehow hurt her...

Your feet move before you can stop them, and with shaky hands you begin to gather things from your home, creating a bundle with which to bring to Laswell's. A blanket, your journal, a change of clothes. Things you'll need if you're to stay with her as you're determined to. You can't leave her alone in the woods like this, and you think neither can you stand to be alone in your own home with the monster stalking both the woods and your dreams.

You take along provisions too, inside your basket. Bread, honey, apples and the herbs you'd been drying for her. They go in a basket balanced at your hip, and it isn't long before you're ready to venture once more into the forest.

It's light out by the time you part from your cottage- a hand stroking lovingly over the red painted door before you make your way up the path. It's still early, and many of your neighbors have yet to emerge from their houses. Those that do hurry to do their chores and vanish back inside- still startled by the commotion of yesterday. You pass them even as they eye you through the shutters, beyond the fences and doors of their homes. You, the girl with the ruby red cloak, the strange one who spends too much time in the forest listening to the whispers of the trees.

The woods swallow you, the familiar path under your feet quickly fading from the main road and into the less traveled trails that diverge from the realm of civilization. The sounds of the village are quickly silenced by the hills, and soon even the braying of goats is dulled to a subdued, gentle hush that washes over you with aching familiarity. Mist rolls down from the mountains, settling in the valley like a soft shroud, a veil that fogs across your senses.

There's a magic in these woods you are accustomed to. The loneliness the trees offer as they cradle you is strangely sacrosanct, an ancient and almost ethereal atmosphere that settles breathily across your shoulders, whispers a low lullaby in your ears. You've known it all your life, have memorized the gnarled ancient trees which yield the rare, mossy ferns used in poultices. You know the rocky crags from which nettle grows, can smell the damp earth where mushroom caps push up against the soil. The forest offers many treasures to those who dare to look, and those who take only what they need.

There are hunters in these woods as well. You hear them sometimes, the braying of their hounds ever closer until you see them pass in the distance in pursuit of foxes, deer and grouse. They stand in the distance, the hunters, pausing to regard the flash of red that catches against the corner of their gaze before leaving you wordlessly. You are not the prey which they seek.

Now a different hunter stalks this forest, and the mere memory of the monster has you clutch your cloak tighter around your shoulders. Gleaming yellow eyes haunt your thoughts, and it seems not even the cold damp mist can match the frigid horror of your heart. The fog curls around you, and even as you tread the well-worn path under your feet to Kate's cottage, it feels as if these woods are now different, hiding secrets from even you, their beloved child.

The air around you is eerily silent, and not even the calls of owls or birds seems to pierce through the milky haze that swallows up the trail ahead of you. The overcast sky offers little light as you walk forward, footsteps light against the packed earth. Yet Price's words rise unsummoned on your thoughts, his warning of dawn lingering like the smell of his smoky breath.

Again, you wonder if he and the others are alright. You try to assuage your fears with the same words the captain offered you last night, trusting in his skill and experience to navigate the dangers that haunt these woods. Even so, the image of Laswell's cottage- wrecked, ruined, blood seeping across the stone stoop, tempts you with the icy sensation of panic you desperately try to swallow.

So preoccupied are you with your own anxiety that you almost don't notice the strangeness on the trail ahead until your boots scuff against it.

Blood.

You halt dead in your tracks, cold air sucking into your lungs as you gasp loud enough to disturb the silence of the woods around you. Fear instantly claws thick and viscous up your throat, and you force it down in a dry swallow, not moving even as bloodied leaves stain the toe of your boot. Yet it isn't the sight of the blood itself that has terror mount within your chest. It's worse than that.

It's still wet.

Whatever creature, whatever person came through here last missed you only by mere minutes, stumbling off into the mist even as scarlet dripped from their form.

"It's just an animal." You whisper to yourself in a desperate attempt to rid yourself of the idea it could be one of the Witchers, that maybe it's Price, Laswell.

Your eyes trace the smear of the blood, and within several steps you find another ooze of drying red off to the side of the desolate trail, into the trees.

You follow it despite yourself, inhibitions dulled by paranoia. Your boots scuff against the scraggly undergrowth, brittle from the autumn winds. You think to whisper a name, but the silence of the canopy above whispers a warning, a silence you hold close to your chest in a talisman of protection.

There's a smear of blood on the bark of a tree as you pass, as if someone has pressed a scarlet hand there to steady themselves before journeying onwards. You eye it fearfully, and for a moment consider retreating back to the safety of the village. Despite the warnings you continue forwards, picking your way down a slope and towards a rocky outcropping in the distance that murmurs of shelter.

"Hello?" You whisper as you get closer, and there's no response as you hover near the edge of the boulders. A hand balances you as you barely peek around the roundness of the stone, eyes wide and brow furrowed in concern as you raise your voice once more. "Are you hurt?"

There's a noise then, a rustle of movement that nearly has your scrambling up the hill back towards the path. After a moment a voice, muffled and strained, echoes out from the shelter.

"G-go away."

You blink, rising terror now ebbing to a terse confusion that has you hesitate.

It's the grunt of pain that makes you circle around the edge of the outcropping, peer into the mossy hollow in search of whoever has pleaded with you to vanquish yourself.

You can't make sense of the shape at first, broad arms and shoulders obscured by torn, raggedy fabric, bare feet sticking from a jumble of limbs. You trace the figure from the dirty soles of his feet upwards, eyes widening as you realize the pure breadth of the person, the massive stature he has managed to fit into the narrow crevice of shelter.

When your eyes search his face, however, you falter, lips parting as you try to make out his features, only to be met with a dark, draped fabric that obscures all but his wide, panicked eyes.

He stares at you, this stranger, and you see your own panic and confusion mirrored in his gaze, the whites of his eyes revealing his terror.

The hooded man swallows, tries to shuffle himself further into the shadow of the outcrop with a small whimper that doesn't befit his hulking figure.

"Please-" He croaks suddenly, voice strangely boyish for a man his size. "Don't...don't hurt me."

You feel your face fall in dismay at the fear in this stranger's voice- a whimpering terror that instantly has guilt pulse through you for your instinct to flee away from him. When he shifts once more, you note the smear of red against the stone that flows from a jagged, gnarly wound around his leg. Like something had seized him and torn him asunder.

Realization dawns across your features, and at once you recognize the wound for what it must be.

Teeth marks.

The man seems to see your shock and consequent concern, because suddenly his breath hitches and he tries futilely to press himself further away from you.

"Shh, it's alright." You offer softly, extending your hands plaintively. "It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you."

That seems to catch the stranger's attention, for his eyes lock on yours once more, the fabric of his hood rustling with his unsteady breathing. Yet he doesn't speak, not yet, still too afraid to address you. So, you lower yourself, making yourself small and unthreatening like you would to a wild, injured animal.

"You're hurt." You observe, voice gentle. You don't try to touch his wound, not yet. Instead, you try to keep contact with his eyes, wide and terrified.

"Did...the wolf do this to you?" You ask, voice a breathy murmur, and the man stiffens, entire form going rigid at your query. He doesn't answer, not at first, but after several moments he at last offers a small, hesitant nod in assent.

You swallow, eyes flicking back down the bloodied, mauled mess of the man's leg, his hands coated in scarlet. There's gashes there too, as if he was trying to unhinge the jaws of the beast in a frantic, desperate attempt to free himself. How he managed to escape the wolf is beyond you, but it's evident from the pure terror in his eyes that the victory of the feat is soured by his pain and fear.

"Let me help you." You say then, the words tumbling free before you can stop them. "If you stay out here...the blood...it might be able to track you."

The stranger doesn't respond, continuing to eye you warily, his form coiled tight against the rocks.

"Please." You try again. "I-I can get help, I know a healer, and she knows Witchers, I'm sure they can-"

"Witchers?" The man asks suddenly, voice dipping unexpectedly. You blink at the sudden shift, for all at once his terror seems to turn to disgust, anger, an emotion you're unprepared for.

"Yes." You supply softly, still trying not to startle him. Yet the man only stares at you silently from under his strange hood, offering no response.

"You can't stay here." You try again, and when he doesn't speak you begin to feel frustration rise inside you. "I'll go get help, the wi-"

You make to rise, but all at once the man surges forward, and the sudden motion startles you so much you topple backwards, onto your bottom. A hand shoots forward to catch you, preventing you from skidding further down the slope. You blink just as the stranger's form braces almost over you, his eyes gazing with a wild, frantic concern under the darkness of his hood.

They're green. Like the emerald canopy of the forest in the bright days of summer.

"Don't." He says, voice wavering, his bloodied fingers encircling your wrist and coating it crimson. "Please."

You blink, try to make sense of his words even as warmth rises to your face at just how close he suddenly is.

"I-" He tries, stammering, releasing you and sitting back as he realizes that he's startled you. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

It's your turn to be silent now, regarding him cautiously as your eyes dart to the red smear across your wrist. When you look back at him his eyes seem almost sad at the mark, downcast and guilty.

"I can't." He tries again, then lifts a shaky hand to fist in the fabric of his hood, eyes meeting yours once more. "I'm...disfigured. They might see my face and think...that I'm a monster."

You soften then, brow furrowing in sympathy at his explanation, even as he continues.

"I've been hiding in the woods for a while. I can't get close to the village because I might scare people, they might...." He trails off, but the implication is clear. The villagers, should they see a stranger, one with a face disfigured as he says, would no doubt shun him. Worse yet, you can imagine some of them going as far as to injure the stranger purely for his appearance.

"People will always attack that which they can't understand." You offer, straightening to kneel before him. You smooth a hand across your skirt, place your basket beside you and making sure it doesn't fall. "It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you."

You swallow, trying to bury your own fear in the face of your declaration. Despite your trembling grasp, you extend your hands as a request, open palmed and entreating.

"Please, let me see your hands." You tell him, voice clear like the eggshell blue sky on a crisp, fall day.

He doesn't move, not at first, eyeing your hand, a wild creature full of distrust.

"I can help you." You murmur, tone gentle, like trying to coax a fawn from the ferns. It seems to at last pierce the leather hide of him, revealing his loosening shoulders and uncoiling muscles, tender as he extends an oozing hand into yours.

You smile at him then, the first smile you've had since you settled by the warmth of the fire, flanked by Laswell and your newfound friends. It makes his eyes widen, as if he's just seen sunlight stream through an overcast sky.

"What is your name?" You ask, turning his hand over in yours, eyes looking at the broad planes of his palm, where gashes cut sharply across his fate line.

"König." He whispers, voice different now, somehow distant as he observes you.

"My name is König."

Taglist: (If you'd like to be tagged in future updates please REBLOG this post)

@writeforfandoms @zwiiicnziiix @soapskneebrace @tealikestoread @mikrou @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @kiroshang @adorephina @equalstrashflavoredtrash @dog55teeth @seraphimcollections @pettyprocrastination @borderlinecatboybehavior @warenai @moskaisley @nachtcirce @feelingnotmyself @lovenotcomputed @rk1v35 @kikisstrawberrie @emrzennn @montenegroisr @frazie99 @graybraids @ohgraywardens @tangerines-mustache @poohkie90 @arbesa-mind @

If you are on this taglist and would like not to be, please reblog or DM me ❤️

VAL 😭😭

Some Heckin angst-

Reader dies and Valeria finds a small stuffed animal in their shared room. It's one of the few things left of her

-🌌🦴

Death mention, language, canon typical blood & violence, valeria garza needs a hug, but you're dead so who's gonna give it to her?

It happened over a month ago. Over a month ago her entire world had crumbled in less than a day. 'empires fall in just one day'. Valeria had thrown herself into ruining your killers, not just wiping out the organization, but having her Sicarias track down their families, and no, none of them were killed quickly, she refused mercy to be shown to any of them.

She hadn't gone home since it happened, went to any other safe house available, even driving out of her way to catch just a few hours of sleep, the only place she could still hear your voice and see your smile, after all.

When she'd finally come home, it was not to your complaining about how long she'd been, to the smell of something sweet in the oven, to your complaining about her mud covered boots or how you would come and take her weapons from her. She was not able to recline in the couch and catch you up on the day as you cleaned her firearms, she would never have that luxury again.

Her footsteps were light as she walked through the burnt remains of the home you'd built together. Ash was thick in the air, hanging in her nostrils like the stinging feeling of teargas.

The fires and gunfire had left most of the build unaccessible, though she found she could still scale what remained of the stairwell to get to the second floor. She had to be cautious with each step she took, as the wood flooring was weakened from the fires and the weather that had come after to put it out.

The bodies had been cleared, though as she neared the bedroom, she could tell which bullets embedded in remaining walls had been you fighting back, blood smeared the walls where your killers had fallen, though the source of the fire at the end of the hall had burn away most of the remains that had been closest to the ignition sight.

The bedroom door creaked as she opened it, the carpet was still stained with your blood where you'd fallen, bullet casings still scattered the floor, and the bed was still unmade from when she'd left you alone that morning.

"mama always said I would be a widow," She called to the empty room as she walked across it, floor creaking under her. "I told her she was wrong, that there would never be another after Alejandro," Her eyes did not leave the marks of your fall as she shuffled across the carpet. "You changed that, amor,"

" moriste, pero me siento como el fantasma..."

She walked until she could settle herself on the edge of the bed. It had once been so comfortable, when she would lay in it with you. Whether you two were falling into bed together after an exhausted day, too tired to talk, or laughter matched teasing touches and wandering hands, or the filthiest degradation had come from her lips to turn you into malleable liquid under her skilled hands.

It wasn't comfortable anymore, it wasn't home... Nothing ever would be again, you took that with you when you died.

Her elbows rested on her knees as she doubled over, face twisting as grief overwhelmed her. Still, she shed no tears, there were none left to cry after all.

From her position doubled over under the bed, she caught the sight of a brown fabric, stuffed far under the bed. Kneeling beside the bed and reaching, she came away with the slightly damp figure of a small brown bear.

You'd mentioned it once, a long time ago. "Sergeant Beary! He was my first friend," You had said so enthusiastically when you'd moved in together and pulled it from the moving box. The fires had left him untouched, though moisture from the storms had given him a mildewy scent.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here," She grumbled to the small bear. Lifeless eyes stared up at her as her thumb smoothed across the fur between its eyes. "I will make them pay, each and every one," She promised to the silence as she squeezed the bear. It still smelled like you, behind the wet smell of old rainwater. She also knew of a safe house that you'd kept your laundry detergent at, giving her the hope of restoring the small bear to its former glory.

moriste, pero me siento como el fantasma. - you died, but I'm the one who feels like a ghost