@ex-mercenary / ex-mercenary.tumblr.com
“ I ain’t saying I’m the best, but I should be in the top ten;
give me a list of names, I’ma top them
I’M JUST PLAYIN WITH YA ; I DON’T CARE WHERE THE TOP IS! ”
THE HATED BOSS. / PO’S LAW / MAIN. written by shaggy. art cred.
Commission for @ex-mercenary !! So happy to draw Guts for you again bro, you have such good prompts! Thank you for commissioning me!
As often was the case of Guts’ sad tale, luck was not on his side this day.
“Ohhh,” Feigned surprise mocked the swordsman from above where he lay face first in the dirt, “so you do need my help. Very well.” Shoes grinding the dry earth filled the mercenary’s left ear as the glimpse of a knee tucking in next to his shoulder. A few strands of flaxen blonde hair daring to slip and dangle next to his grimy cheek when he’d suddenly feel a a cold hand close firmly around the back of the cursed armor’s lapel; knuckles brushing against the nape of his ever so vulnerable neck.
With a swift heave, the dirt, trees and bits of the sky whipped past Guts’ vision in a blur. Suddenly, he’d find himself gaping up at the heavens smeared with patches of fluffy clouds. The sun, bright and warm this midday, gleamed down on them as a familiar sly grin appeared far too closely next to the mercenary’s face.
“Think you can walk, princess?” Somehow, in that blur of movement, the serpent had taken Guts and literally swept him off his unsteady feet. Any mortal man would have broken his back attempting to carry Guts in all his armor, but the leviathan bared the weight effortlessly. And he hardly seemed deterred by the smell that clung to his “catch” as he walked them over towards where Dragon Slayer laid in wait.
Yeah, yeah, he had better eat this moment up before the struggler regains enough strength to run the Dragon Slayer through his smug jaw. It might not amount to much--Jeremiah could shrug off the blast of a goddamned cannonball--but it’s the satisfaction of the act that counts.
A bitterly defeated scowl refuses to leave Guts’ face as the serpent looks down on him as though he were a noble and Guts a trodden-on peasant. He’s betting Jeremiah’s gonna pull something funny, but much to his surprise--other than a telling swipe of the neck--he’s safe.
“I don’t know, sweetheart; wouldn’t wanna ruin this moment between us.” Even in jest, the words are a bad taste, and make Guts want to puke. A few seconds is more than enough to feel his ego bruising while he’s being carried like this. Isn’t much longer before Guts begins to struggle and writhe, until he wrestles free and smacks the ground hard again with a grunt. Unlike last time, however, the Dragon Slayer lays within his reach. It’s like his second wind, for the moment he takes hold he finds enough strength to help himself to his feet. By the hilt, the blade is his crutch. Guts looks to his old pal, offering a smile and a nod of thanks.
And then he lurches just one little step, launching the tip of the Dragon Slayer for that spot right between Jeremiah’s eyes. It’s a feint---the point stops a mere inch from the bulls-eye.
“That would’ve been for callin’ me princess,” he spits.
“Without any warning given, she begins to scratch that favourite spot of his, just below the ears. While many foes failed in their feat to make the Black Swordsman surrender, Casca had the answer. And this knowledge made her Guts' most dangerous enemy.” - @bladeofthehawk
She knows Guts is mad at her. Casca gives too much attention to that stupid pet fish of hers---attention that should be his. She knows he’s mad, but she also sees through a ruse only a child could ever naively think might work. He’s been sitting in the same sun-beaten spot for most of the afternoon, his occasional glare her only contact from him since breakfast. It’s second nature of Casca to just ignore his stubborn pouting whenever it concerned Fillet but Casca wasn’t seeing any fun in playing dumb this time, and her smiling can’t be stopped.
Guts knows she’s planning something when she draws near, but is too busy pretending to be grumpy to call her out on it. When she finally strikes, however . . . it feels good. It’s an itch Guts didn't know needed scratching. He’s in trouble. He’s sure it’s her influence, making his eye slowly close and his head lean back on her for a just a little bit more. It’s her influence that brings a low rumble to his chest, confessing to her it’s what he’s wanted all along. Damn her.
“I missed you today.” Apparently, he’s finally deemed her worthy of his words.
“And whose fault is that, Guts?” she rose a teasing brow.
“The fish.”
Casca groans. “You’re such a dork.”
She can’t help enjoying these little tantrums, and keeps him tamed with another affectionate scratch beneath the ears. Resting his head back on her lap, Guts grins up at her. Damn him.
“He can just barely growl. Bound so tightly with tension and anger, he approaches the state of rigor mortis.“ – David Lynch, The Angriest Dog in the World | 5/31
@ex-mercenary
Ah, so it spoke. Grimmjow wasn’t impressed. But what was this shit about ‘hunting grounds’? And if he has the time to make sense of it, will he care? There were more than enough souls to chow down on here, and he’s pretty sure his claim was staked first.
He could speak back, but…no, he’ll just let his tail flick back and forth. His spiritual pressure inches out slowly, bit by bit. He’ll stay, actually.
A lack of response tells the Beast that perhaps it didn’t amount to much after all, and this is nought but some feral creature. That is all the better, for what use is there in wasting breath?
Until it gets a scent of that rising pressure---as if it’s being taunted. In response to this, drool thickens and gleams from the tongue that spills from the Beast’s teeth. It ceases circling. The spiked chains embedded within the skeletal bumps of its rib cage rattle with anticipation, and waste no time unfurling to rush forth like bloodthirsty tendrils toward Grimmjow’s every limb.
The Beast is eager to crush this little kitty’s body in its grip.
fucking tired: fake “monster girls” that are basically uwu kyoot feisty animay gurls with barely monstrous features like horns or a tail big tits and skimpy underwear zzz gross boring as hell
fucking wired: monster girls that don’t even look like women or human at all. big teeth and sharp tongues and claws and tentacles and pure muscle, no tits or curvy hips, will absolutely fucking shred you to pieces before they ever think of flirting with you, just an abominable creature that wasn’t designed with the typical conventional idea of what’s SeCkSY in mind
I think I’m forever Tumblr cursed. Whenever I think of tryna write here a new video game comes out and demands all my free time. Mary’s jus popped out to pick me up the new Devil May Cry ( wow love her ) and though I’m tryna write some shit right now I just know DMC is about to steal my ass away once again. THE CYCLE NEVER ENDS YO SEND HELP
Karliene - Become the Beast
Full offense but your writing style is for you and nobody else. Use the words you want to use; play with language, experiment, use said, use adverbs, use “unrealistic” writing patterns, slap words you don’t even know are words on the page. Language is a sandbox and you, as the author, are at liberty to shape it however you wish. Build castles. Build a hovel. Build a mountain on a mountain or make a tiny cottage on a hill. Whatever it is you want to do. Write.
Guts: I’m dead inside Schierke: don’t you mean dad inside Guts: Guts: fuck
@ex-mercenary // Continued from [X]
“Hmph, I’ll get right on that.” Wry was the chuckle that breezed out of him, the shadows at his back shuddering in slight as if to join in in a hushed cackling.
Without effort, the leviathan plucked the downed apostle’s corpse from where it lay nearly crushing Gut’s forlorn form. Causing a small cascade of cold blood to drool over the mercenary before he chucked the corpse a good several yards away. Near where the head of the devil that Guts had managed to free from their shoulders.
“Think you can stand or do I have to carry you too?” The thought to refer to the mortal as “princess” indeed crossed the serpent’s mind, but he thought better of it. No need to have that sword swinging for his own neck should Guts have even an ounce of fury left to muster.s
Guts was half-tempted to tell the serpent he doesn’t need to, for Jeremiah himself seemed like Death in this moment---coming to mock him while standing so tall. What a pain in the ass.
“Think I’d rather stay and rot here than ask help from the likes of you.”
Much like their greeting was full of contempt, that might be the struggler’s way of saying thanks despite the fresh coat of blood. As if to prove a point, Guts pushes against the ground and begins to leverage himself. Had he the Dragon Slayer, he’s certain he would be able to make it himself, but it lays some distance away, just a little too far for his reach. Without that added support, it isn’t long before Guts is left eating dirt again just as he was his words.
“ . . . Alright, maybe I might need a hand,” he mumbles under his breath, pointlessly wishing he may be lucky enough that Jeremiah didn’t hear him. Yeah, a true pain in the ass.
Thursday had been timid since the moment he had arrived to skellig with his sister. And in those months that passed, with the help of his new family, he was working on breaking out of his shell. There came a point in time where he couldn't help himself in how he saw Guts and Casca.. like another set of parents for him and his sister. He approached quietly one day, taking his seat besides the old dog, and gently tugged at his cloak. "Mr..Guts? Could.. would you mind if I called you papa..?"
Among the island inhabitants—both native and otherwise—it isn’t exactly a secret that Guts and Casca have started to become like surrogates to many. Some human, but most not.
Guts had originally come up here to spend some time alone, but a half-pint’s company couldn’t be so bad. Thursday’s a rather timid kid anyway, so perhaps he too seeks some time away. That kind of thinking is what takes Guts by surprise all the more when unlike the others, Thursday asks him outright. It takes a moment for the swordsman’s silent stare to break away from the boy. The name papa is still quite a heavy burden for him to adopt, but it isn’t exactly wrong at this point, is it? A minute passes, and the blank slate of Guts’ features relaxes into a half-smile beneath the collar of his cloak. Ah, whatever. Anything is better than Mr. Guts.
Indeed, this island has softened him more than he likes to admit.
“Well, if you did, I guess I could let it slide once or twice.” It rolled off the tongue nicely. A massive hand reaches out to cover the top of the boy’s scruffy head in an affectionate pat.
“Keep it between us for now though, eh?”
Grimaces were made, and faces pulled, every time his single eye grazed Casca.
Yes, she was imitating the Black Swordsman all over again. And she thought she did a pretty good job at it, too.
The man could crack a smile or two, he’d be far less scary this way.
It really ain’t easy to focus on polishing up his sword for as long as Casca keeps mocking him like that whenever he looks up. It leaves Guts conscious to his own natural scowl, and every time he catches her out, reflex forces him to try relaxing his puckered brows. Guts can practically hear the words in Casca’s voice --- “Keep making that face and it’ll stay that way!”
It’s a little too late to be telling him that; he’s already frowning once again.
“Oi. Oi. Cut that out,” he pouts, a gentle flick given to the tip of her nose as if he were scolding a misbehaving dog. There’s no mistaking this woman is getting sassier by the day.
❝ you go lookin' for hot water, don't act shocked when you get . . . burned a little. ❞
“ . . . Is that a threat?”
The Beast is not alone. Although much smaller than the average hollow, or the demonic canine itself, the bite in the white panther has been underestimated before. And that rumbling from between bared teeth sent the clear message it was ready to use them again.
That message is swallowed up and spat out as wrinkles upon seething wrinkles line the length of its muzzle. Its lips are pulling back, revealing gums of teeth upon teeth upon teeth. Every bend and crease that makes this threat is far from a natural creature of this world.
Like yin and yang, the dual predatory beasts circle each other and size each other. Spittle splays from the dark one’s maw at the sheer force of the snarl it is all too eager to return to the panther, bringing with it a furious warning that the Beast’s lips need not move to speak.
“THESE ARE MY HUNTING GROUNDS,” it barks. “DOES A TINY AND INSIGNIFICANT CREATURE LIKE YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?” Insignificant, yet . . . the Beast is not blind. There is a scent of something unnatural in this one as well. How curious indeed.
