The writing where reader died, what happens if they were revived as a wraith like Ghost? There's probs going to have a lot of fluff and a small angst here and there. But I mostly wanna read your writings!! It's cus' I can't get enough, and kept rereading it all the time
Cw: pain, death, turning, cannibalism, implied torture, implied blood and gore, angst, fluff, hunger, tell me if I missed any.
We’re going to forget how you previously died, cuz @bluegiragi gave us more info about wraiths and I just love where the comic is going.
What a cruel joke, irony hitting him in the face the same way his abrupt shift hurt him, an apathetic slap to the face that left him bloody and in shock the way he left Roba on his dying breath. Simon didn’t know what was crueler, the knowledge that you were tortured and buried alive, left to die alone for the sins of his own making and the wrath of another, or that you were left to die a slow and excruciating death after being beaten half to death, expected to lose your resolve solely on the fact that you were a medic, and turned into the monster he was.
Neither your captor nor death had been merciful, much less the reaper, a collector of wandering souls and lost ghosts, waiting their turn to cross the river with a small token for the afterlife. Be it Hermes, the messenger and the carrier of souls, Thanatos the reaper and collector, Anubis - or Inpu, however people called him - the guide, Ankou the shadow, Sgàthach the warrior, or Freyja and Fólkvangr; you weren’t granted the soft embrace of a calm death, but the cruel rejection of it, forced back into life and abandoned by sweet sleep.
He remembered his own, the painful pull of his back, the crazed smoke that filled his mind with a thirst for blood and revenge, the crack and ugly break of his bode, reshaping his body and organs dyed dark, dying and pained. He remembered well the pain of it like it was yesterday, having to crawl out of the shallow grave on his own and discover the carnage he left behind, stained in his and Price’s blood. He was reborn.
And so were you, crying and sobbing, your skin scarred beyond thinking and mind in shambles of broken faith and abandoned affection. He knew first hand how it felt, the burn and agony of it, the hunger and ache that plagued you like an undying pestilence, darker than the one that ripped through Europe in the fourteenth century and more devastating than the Justinian’s. He’d been too late, too slow to help you through the first ripple of shock and fear once you’d quenched your thirst, staunching it like you would a wound. He let you fester in your sorrow and hunger, left you without a guide or caretaker until you ravaged the area, leaving only blood and rubble in your devastation.
But he’s here now, picking you up from the mess you found yourself in, a storm of smoke and thick black that you hid yourself in, to hide the monster you had become. He might not be proud of who he’s become - much like you - but he grew into it, lived his life as one, and he would be here to help you through the process of it. Where he wished he had a helping hand, you would have his. He would help you with your hunger, the famine that grew the more you left it alone, filling your being with bodies he’d gather up for you to absorb. He would teach you how to control the smoke - the sinews of your being, the consistence of it forming your figure - and build from it, stopping yourself from phasing to and from it, staying as a physical manifestation of it rather than darkness itself.
Where he felt lost and confused, alone and wishing for a swift end, you wouldn’t, he made sure to stay, to be the pillar of support for you whenever you crashed, his body covering yours to stop you from vanishing in a fit of tears. Where he spent time hating himself, demeaning the cannibalism he became, you wouldn’t, he’d rather send himself to hell than let you think you were the lowest of the low, a human eating another. And where he was cruel to himself when death had renounced him, you wouldn’t, he’d whisper the sweetest words, praises, compliments, affection and guidance, he would make sure you wouldn’t drown alone like he did years ago. He loved you too much to let that happen.
I was wondering if we could get another story with wraith reader with the rest of the 141 and Horangi and Konig if that is okay?
Cw: cannibalism, blood and gore?, protective Simon, tell me if I missed any.
Feeding was an essential thing despite it being a difficult affair. The taste of warm and soft flesh, the tang and smell of iron-rich blood, and the savoury feeling of being full and satiated. Feeding was a bloody and violent thing, but a necessity that kept him alive. And now you, another of his kind, one rare and unaccounted for unlike other kinds. If hunger had been an issue for him for so long, he couldn’t fathom how you felt, one turned much younger than him and more frequently than him.
One - he - could imagine the fright and panic, the anger and the sorrow, the dread and the crisis, just as he felt, if not more so for your seemingly younger - now that he had learned that wraiths, much like vampires, stop aging after being turned and forgotten by Death itself - appearance than him at his point of transformation. It was a difficult thing, but one he had help with, a shoulder to lean on, an ear to cry to, a hand to hold onto and a heart to seek comfort from.
Even now, the annoying pang of hunger pulsed through him, the sudden lack of sustenance from the base had left him hungry and stewing with mounting irritation. So, Ghost couldn’t imagine how you felt, being starved from both the lack of meat and the lack of missions they were sent on. Be it a nagging headache, a painfully empty stomach or the same amount of irritation he felt at the simplest things.
But it seemed their streak of bad luck and hunger was over the moment they were deployed, stalking through an Albanian forest at night with or without NVGs, plotting an ambush on the enemies who’d called the cabin their temporary safehouse. Though it was a high stake mission, Kate and Price had figured to send you along with him and two others, one - as much as him - starving König and a concerned Gaz.
Your interactions were limited to rare calls and signs, Gaz making quiet calls to relay information to you when your eyes weren’t enough to locate the danger or sharing signals between you three whenever the moment made it possible. And when Ghost had finally reached their so-called safehouse, it was a frenzy the second the first spill of blood, the sweet, sweet smell of blood flooding all three of you with a thick haze of hunger.
Ghost had watched König separate himself from him just as you had, melting away in a thick cloud of darkness. He watched - admired - you from the corner of his eyes, your dark mass rushing towards the feet of a few men, dissolving them from the feet up. Bodies consumed, muscles deconstructed, fat melted, mind killed. You ate and ate and ate, like a frenzied beast as starved as you were crazed. You were a marvel to look at, deathly and hauntingly beautiful, danger culminated in a single being.
Ghost will have to talk to you after this feast, his grumbling stomach calling him back to his body’s needs.
