#“Put Imprisoning War on AO3”

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Man the crazy, silly intrusive thoughts are going bananas today

[avonne-writes]

How about [SHARE] for clegan ? ❤️

Thank you for the prompt! 😊❤️ I decided to explore this idea of Gale struggling post-war.

On AO3

[ SHARE ] sender, seeing that receiver is cold, wraps their jacket around them.

Bucky whistles an idle tune to himself as he finishes patching up the roof where a late summer storm tore into it. He hopes it was the last one to wash over the land this year - it's starting to feel like his favourite blue skies are playing a joke on him, making him climb up the ladder week after week. But, for now, he’s done. The sweat rolling down the dirt on his arms in tickling lines feels like satisfaction, and the ache in his muscles makes him feel alive. He enjoys the sunshine pinching his cheeks pink and the cooler breeze that combs through his curls. It helps put the war out of a man’s mind.

On most days, anyway.

With a deep, tired sigh, Bucky steps off the ladder and gathers his tools to put them away. As he circles around the house, he can hear the muffled buzz of the radio through the kitchen window, an upbeat song playing. For a moment, it fills him with hope. Perhaps, Gale found it in himself to get out of bed and cook. It wouldn’t be the first time that he turned his day around. Hooked onto that spark that held them all up through war and cold and imprisonment. He knows it's still there on Gale’s bad days too.

It's with this hope swelling in his chest that Bucky rounds the corner, but his steps falter when he spots Gale in an old chair he must have dragged down from the porch to the driveway, where the setting sun still warms the ground. His messy, too-long hair looks golden in the light. There’s a book on his lap, but he’s not reading it. His head is tilted down and turned to the side, as if he's listening to a noise only he hears.

From the way things have been lately, he probably is.

He seems unaware of the world around him. Like a ghost, he’s stuck between realms, but the teeth of his trap are the present and the past. It has been like this since they came home three years ago. Every now and then, Gale forgets that he’s still among the living. He stares into nothing the way he used to stare in those quiet moments of despair when there was nothing to do in the stalag, and when Bucky touches him, he shivers.

Nowadays, Gale can tell when he's going to have a day like this and he doesn’t even get up from their bed. Bucky can’t make him - he's just as stubborn about it as he used to be about taking the left seat in the cockpit. It’s the shame, Bucky figures, because he knows it himself, the shame of being too weak to fight those shadowy memories. The shame of not being whole. He's surprised that Gale is trying to push himself out of it today.

“Finished the roof.” He raises his voice as he approaches.

No reaction, but he expected that. He’s used to filling Gale's silences. Enjoys it, even, unless that silence is born out of pain. He puts his toolbox down on the porch steps and grabs the jacket he draped over the railing when the sun crept high enough in the morning for him to be in his shirtsleeves. For a moment, he lets himself thumb at its soft lining and remembers his white sheepskin, the one Gale hated so much. Nostalgia lingers bittersweet in his mouth. They aren't the same men they were back then, and they never will be. That jacket wouldn’t fit Bucky the way it used to anymore.

He shakes the thought out of his head and crosses the patchy lawn to Gale.

“All my fingers made it this time.” He chuckles, referring to the nasty cut he gave himself with a wrong move a few weeks ago.

Gale is so far gone in his head that he doesn’t seem to have heard Bucky's voice at all. His arms are trembling. Just faintly, but Bucky can tell. He wonders which part of Germany it is this time, which month. The first winter? The march into walls of ice and snow? The run Gale made without him, through cold mud, blood and fear?

It doesn't matter. The war is long gone, and if Gale needs it, Bucky can pile all their warm clothes on him until his body remembers that it's still summer. He has the means to give that to him now.

With his tired, work-roughened hands, he drapes his jacket over Gale’s chest and arms. He makes sure it covers Gale where his skin is bare, where his body might mistake the breeze for a knife. As he pulls back, he lets the back of his right hand caress Gale's scarred cheek and the stubble dusting his jawline.

Gale's sad eyes blink, then turn away from the barren ground to look up at the sky. Blue reflected in blue, and golden light.

When his gaze finds Bucky's face, Gale smiles.

[hd-tarot]

🔮 [FIC] Rusty Cage (E, 20.5k words) by Anonymous 🃏

Harry Potter is not okay. Someone else who’s not okay? Draco Malfoy, but he's doing time in Azkaban for his heinous crimes.

But what if Draco isn't as guilty as he's been made out to be? Everyone knows that Harry is a sucker for righting injustice, including Hermione, who is more than prepared to meddle in order to help her best friend.

Or, when Harry visits Draco in prison and things don't go quite as expected.

Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue, Post-Second Wizarding War, Draco Malfoy in Azkaban, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Draco Malfoy is Not Okay, POV Harry Potter, Harry Potter is Not Okay, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Harry Potter Needs Therapy, Draco Malfoy Needs Therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Agoraphobia, Eating Disorders, Anxiety, Panic Attacks, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Neglect, Smut, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Rimming, Happy Ending, Inspired by Tarot, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Sentient Magical Houses, Sentient Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Cooking, Wrongful Imprisonment

Tarot Card(s): Eight of Swords

Notes: Eight of Swords Upright: imprisonment, entrapment, self-victimization Reversed: self acceptance, new perspective, freedom Thank you so much to the fest mods for organising this fest. I knew exactly which card I wanted for my prompt, the story was just there waiting for me! Thank you P for stepping in and beta reading for me, particularly for cracking down on my cavalier use of commas. Sorry to Draco and Harry, I put you through it in this fic but you know I ❤️ you both! 'I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run' - Soundgarden

✧ Read HERE on AO3 ✧

[middlingmay]

WOTA Halloween Event 2024 Fic

Long Kiss Goodnight (8K)

Bucky isn't the only one losing himself inside Stalag Luft III. When Gale realises Bucky has resolved to die there if it's the only way to make their imprisonment end, it feels like relief. Because it means he can, too. But he doesn't want to wait and see Bucky suffer for longer than he has to. So he tries to give him the push he needs, so they can finally escape the camp the only way he knew how and be together.

Read on AO3, or read below.

Content warnings: suicidal ideation, alcohol poisoning and vomiting, battery. Potential character death. Themes of murder-suicide.

John had been drifting.

Further than he'd ever gone from Gale over any seas or above any clouds.

The elation he'd felt when John had staggered into their Stalag had withered and died after a few short weeks. Right about the time John realised they were there to stay, and their time in the war was over. They were stuck. Captured and contained. Utterly impotent.

Gale wanted to choke him. To grab his face until the skin purpled under his fingers and bloodied under his nails. He wanted to squeeze that thick neck hard until the veins stood out. He wanted to scream and spit in John's face for coming back—for daring to give him the hope that they were still in this together—when he was just going to leave him here anyway.

Because John drifted. He watched the guards with too sharp an eye. It made the goons nudge each other and look back with narrow eyes. As soon as John's distinctive size and gait loped outside, day or night, they watched him. It worried the boys so much that Brady and Crank took it upon themselves to break that stalemate whenever they saw it happen.

John liked to flirt with the fence line, too. Had figured out, quicker than any of them, where the line was. That point between the bark of a guard and the crack of a gun. And he liked to press up on it real close. Like pushing on a bruise.

Gale was the only one who could pull him back from that line. But sometimes, more and more often, Gale just watched him.

He watched the bright light of the 100th, Major John C Egan, dim and darken. The cheek-splitting happy grin sharpened to a sneer. The glint of mirth in his eyes spoiled to bitterness and desperation.

But never defeat.

Because Gale knew John better than anyone else in the world. Let the others think John was cracked, losing it, most of them putting it down to whatever had landed him on their doorstep black-blue and a few others colours besides, bones cracked and blood crusted and a meaner streak than he had ever possessed in America and England.

But not Gale. He knew when John was plotting something. And he knew what he was plotting, besides.

His Plan B. Or C or D or whatever they were on. If all else failed—continued to fail.

Maybe, in another life, Gale would have been afraid. Frantic to save his best friend's life. But in this one, where he was so dog-tired trying to keep the 100th going all by himself; where the thought of home tasted like ash if it meant going there alone; where he found himself pleading to a God he didn't believe in to just let this end: in this life, John's plotting was a relief.

Only two pilots left in the sky.

We're gonna get through this. I need you to keep believing that.

John wasn't a liar, even to his detriment. He was right: they were getting out of this together. And if John was plotting the quickest way for release if liberation and escape failed, that meant Gale finally could, too.

Because John would have to go first. Gale wouldn't ever leave him behind. He'd see John off, then he'd jump straight into that void after him.

John couldn't know, of course. He'd take it all wrong. He'd take it as Gale trying to get rid of him. Even worse, he'd take it as Gale trying to make things easier on himself with one less person to worry about, one less threat to his happy reunion with the lovely Marge.

He was self-deprecating like that. He wouldn't see it for what it was: Gale trying to keep the promises they'd made to each other and get out of this together. Even if it was a little unconventional.

So, as much as he didn't want to cause John any more suffering, he'd have to give him that little push to tip him, so Gale could follow. Right on his six.

He started by making it clear there were no viable options for escape, cutting Bucky's dwindling hope down even more swiftly. The Brits helped in that regard. Gale resented the fifty souls that got out before him and Bucky, but it served the purpose of sobering any discussion about escape.

Gale caught John's eye in the fading light of a candle as they, together with Ham, Crank, Brady, Benny and Murph, contemplated what this meant for their future at the camp.

"It means," Gale said low and clear and commanding. Like the Major he had been, once. "That escape is off the table. You want out so bad, you may as well walk right up to that fence and ask a Kraut to shoot you."

The boys muttered and filed off to bed, defeated and angry. But John? He sat and started at Gale, and those midnight eyes glittered with fury.

Gale thought it was a beautiful burn. He'd always been in awe of how much and how readily Bucky felt things. How he embraced those feelings so easily, good or bad. Next to him, Gale felt like a moth, butting into the light and the warmth even though it was scalding.

Glowering darkly, John left him there. Despite the pull that had tethered them together all these years, Gale didn't climb into his bunk after him. He didn't want to take John's stewing off the heat.

Bright and early, when the sky was still grey with a coming morning, Gale was woken by the creak of thin wood and the rattle of a door opening and closing.

It was time.

He dressed, thick socks and boots and his overcoat over the clothes he slept in. A quick glance out of the window confirmed it: John was up and prowling already, heading straight for the fence.

"Buck?" Brady's voice, scratchy and thick with sleep called out behind him. Brady: John's devoted co-pilot, like Benny was his. Their perfect balance. Their counter in the cockpit. He'd seen Huglin blanch once when someone said he and John should pilot the same fort together, and he understood it. They fed and nurtured each other's worst impulses. And whilst neither of them would endanger their men, that was about the only line they wouldn't cross.

They needed men like Brady and Benny to keep them level.

But that wouldn't do at all, today.

"Go back to sleep, Brady," he said softly. "Just couldn't sleep is all."

Brady might have listened, if he hadn't cast a habitual glance over to Bucky's bunk and found it rumpled and empty, the covers thrown back like he hadn't been able to bear staying in bed one more second.

Brady's eyes got round and worried and he grabbed a fistfull of his own ratty blanket, ready to launch himself out of the door and track down his errant Major.

"Brady." Gale clipped the order. "I said go back to sleep." He nodded to the window. "I've got him. He's doing fine."

Brady slumped back onto his cot. If he had it in him, if Gale had anything in him anymore, he might have felt guilty about the lie. But it wasn't really a lie. John had strode a whole half-foot over the invisible line separating him from a look from a guard and a beating. He was doing real good. So close to where Gale wanted him to be.

Gale meandered out of the hut. Wouldn't do for Brady to wake up again and get any bright ideas.

The guards were shouting at John, gesturing with flat, gloved hands, jabbing their guns in his direction without touching him. Yet. The few others who were up this early didn't know John well enough to intervene. But just in case, Gale slowly started to drag his feet in Bucky's direction. Even outside of the 100th in this camp the Buckies came as a package deal; it would look strange if Gale didn't throw himself into any scene of John's making. Besides, it was down to Gale to perform the encore.

He didn't think it would be hard. Getting them to shoot him after John. He didn't think he'd have to act like he was out of his mind with grief. It would be real.

But the guards, or one of them in particular who'd been frothing to go toe-to-toe with John for a while, was still and silent and staring. He didn't curl his finger around the trigger of his gun. Instead, he flipped it, the thick butt a gleaming stripe in the bleak landscape.

A flash, and he'd smashed it into John's face.

John didn't go down, and Gale picked up his pace.

The guard lifted his gun again and cracked it on the fleshy rounded tip of John's nose. Gale could see the blood. He heard John laugh, high and cracking. Gale started to jog.

The guard lifted a leather boot and planted it into John's ribs, finally getting him grounded. Between the butt of his gun and the stamp and swing of his foot, he rained hell down on John Egan.

Gale was all out sprinting now. This isn't what he wanted. He wanted it quick and clean, not like this. John had been beaten down enough; Gale couldn't tolerate seeing any more of it. Christ, that was the whole point of this whole thing.

"Hey! Hey!" Gale bellowed and it rang out into the quiet morning, and the guard stopped his boot on the upswing. The look he gave Gale was vicious and displeased.

"Stoppen. Mischen Sie sich nicht ein."

Gale ignored him, ignored the other guards starting to come closer, and threw himself over John when he finally reached him.

"He didn't do anything! He was just standing there!"

The guard spat on the ground. Flecks hit Gale's face on the way down.

"Nimm ihn. Und sag ihm, er soll es nicht noch einmal versuchen. Oder das nächste Mal werde ich nicht so sanft sein." He jerked his gun in the vague direction of the huts, and Gale pulled John out of the dirt and the mud and slung his arm over his shoulder.

"Buck," John trilled in his ear. "Fancy seeing you here. You interrupted my date. Kinda friend does that?"

Gale steered him back towards the hut. "Don't think your date was going all that well, Bucky. Come on, let's get you fixed up."

Most of the boys were some kind of awake when Gale dragged them both through the door. Sitting up in their bunks, or standing with coats on over the long johns as they stamped their feet and shuffled around and tried to get a meagre heat into them to start the day. When they saw John, bloodied up and dirty, they all sprang to attention.

"Jesus, what happened?"

"I thought you said you had him?"

"Where's the med kit?"

"How did you let this hap—"

With his spare hand Gale grabbed Brady by one collar, and shut him up. "Help Crank find the kit. Now."

Brady loitered for a moment, stared at him like a stranger, but took up his duty and helped Crank search through their pitiful supplies to help his Major and his co-pilot.

Gale dropped John into a chair, and pulled another in front of him. A tiny cup of water was offered up—Hambone—and Gale took a mental note to give him his own rations later.

A thin little square of a rag was pressed into Gale's hand, and each and every one of the boys clustered around them in an arc of fluffed up hens.

John waved a hand at them, frowning. "Alright, nothing to see here. Just a friendly chat with a goon. Scram why don'tcha. Breakfast will be waitin' for ya any minute."

They obeyed, reluctantly and without urgency.

"I'll get yours for you, Bucky," Brady said on his way out.

"Yeah, you too Buck." Benny pushed him over the threshold.

Silence followed. Gale broke it only with the tinkling of water squeezed back into the cup. Bucky huffed out puffs of breath as Gale dabbed at the scrapes and cut on the side of his face. Gale had to make sure were clean. Infection and fever was as nasty a way to go as a beating.

Bucky watched him the whole time. His eyes had always been dark for being so blue. And sometimes when they stormed up Gale had found them difficult to look at. But he'd always forced himself to weather it, and he forced himself now.

Bucky who knew him better than anyone. Could he read Gale's plan on his face? In the slight shake of his hand? Were his eyes shining the truth of his guilt into Bucky's soul?

"Not going to tell me not to do it again?"

No. Do it better. Do it worse. Get shot through the head good and clean instead of beaten, you complete fool.

"I'm done telling you to do anything," Gale said instead, flat and unkind. They couldn't afford for him to coddle John, now. In the end it would be worth it. It would be worth it. He'd make up for it, in whatever awaited them beyond. "You ain't listened to me a day since you turned up here, and you're not going to listen to me now."

John hummed and cleared his throat. "Finally got sick of dragging me outta my own messes, huh?"

John's eyes were more open than Gale had seen them in a while. Like Gale's answer was worth being present for. And Gale was so desperately tired of the both of them being pushed down and down in this place, was so desperate to find some peace for the two of them together, that he couldn't tell Bucky the truth. The less he had to hold on to, the quicker their ever after could come.

He pushed back the chair with a scrape. "Yeah. Something like that, John."

He stumbled when he heard the plaintive, painful wisp of sound in Bucky's throat, cut off as the hut door slammed open and the boys returned with their chow.

Starving to death was too slow, too stressful on the rest of the boys, or Gale would have tried it months ago.

John steered clear of the fence for a while.

Gale had been careful to put distance between then, to stop being the pillar for John to lean on and the force pulling him back down to earth, all whilst trying not to be obvious about it. Just enough for John to notice and to wonder if it was all in his head. To give him scraps of what they used to be without any kind of their old foundations.

Each night Gale went to sleep with cramps in his stomach. He wanted to curl up next to John, to hold him through the night and be the first thing he saw in the morning. He wanted to see a way out, a light ahead that meant they could keep breathing each others air, but there was none. Instead there were tree stumps and calculus and fake baseball games and Gale's heart broke every time he was faced with what this place had reduced his Bucky to. What this place had forced him to do because there was no. way. out.

But even so, John was giving the fence a far wider berth than normal.

Which left them both miserable and stagnant.

Gale would have to give John another push.

The idea came to him on mail day. John usually made himself scarce as names were being called out and envelopes pushed into greedy hands. He already knew he wasn't getting one. He'd told Gale once, in an awful moment of clarity, that no one at home cared to write him a letter, and he wasn't about to stick around for the reminder.

Gale had been meaning to ask Marge if she'd write John, too, but it was a moot point, now. He'd written her a letter, explaining everything. He didn't want her thinking he was some victim of this place. He wanted her to know it was his choice. That with John getting further and further away from him, giving up on any possibility of their freedom, Gale refused to do any of this without him. He had to hold on to him the only way he knew.

She'd never forgive him, but that was a problem for the living. They were only half that, Gale and John.

So the next time letters were being handed out, Gale accepted his slip from Marge and hustled after John as he slipped out the door.

He didn't even have to call out. Bucky turned to walk backwards, giving Gale a queer look.

"What you doing out here? Marge finally give the pen a rest?"

Gale brandished the perfumed envelope with as big a smile as he could manage. Something shuttered behind John's eyes and he grinned sharp and wolfish back.

"Then get. Read your letter, Buck, and leave me out of it."

"We could read it together," Gale announced, generous and jovial and hoping Bucky couldn't see the strain at the sides of his eyes.

"No fuckin' thank you."

John turned on his heel and Gale had to jog to catch up.

"Come on," he pushed. "A little slice of home for you."

John scoffed and sneered at him nasty. "Like I need the reminder that I've got nothin' waiting for me outside of this goddamn camp. Gotta say, Buck, it's not like you to rub something like that in a guy's face. It's almost cruel." That darker side of John sounded almost pleased, like it was proud of him, and Gale's throat jumped to think John saw more of him than he let on.

Their good sides were bonded souls. Made sense their bad sides were, too.

Gale pretended offence. "Don't get snippy with me just because you got nobody."

John drew his lips in a thin line and looked away. Sure signs Gale's hit had landed. A bombsight couldn't have helped him land it better.

"Nobody."

Gale shrugged. Inside, that impulse to grab John and make him look Gale in the eye, to tell him he had him, they had each other and that was all that mattered, reared up screaming. But Gale beat it down.

"You were the one that decided none of the dames in Texas, and none of the girls in England were good enough. Any one of them would have been happy to wait for you. No one to blame but yourself, Bucky. So quit feeling sorry for yourself."

And John gifted him with a face he reserved for Colonels: a blank veneer with only the slightest ambiguous uptick at the corner of his mouth. The one he put up when he knew spilling what he really felt or thought was only going to lead to something bad.

Good. I can't take this much more John. Seeing you hurt. God, end it. End it for both of us.

"Fuck off, Gale. Read your damn letter. Jerk off to Marge baking pies or gossiping to the neighbours or whatever mundane, domestic, pathetic shit she writes to you about. Cry whilst you do it, even. You seem the type. Just fuck off."

John marched off without a word, and Gale swallowed the yell of his name he wanted to chase him down with.

Let him feel it. Let him feel alone. He won't be, when it's all over. You'll be together, out of here at last.

John didn't return after the letters had been read and then read again. He didn't return to taunt the men during their shifts on the stump puller. He didn't return to choke down shitty rations with them. And he didn't return when night fell and curfew was almost upon them.

Gale felt the fear of the boys. But all he could feel was anticipation. Waiting for the knock at the door, when a goon would break the news that Bucky had gotten into trouble after lockdown and they'd shot him to make an example. Gale watched it play out in his mind: he'd finally let himself feel something honest and let his heartbreak feed his anger and attack the guard, and they'd put a bullet in him too. They'd toss their bodies in the same hole. Gale could lie in the cradle of John's legs, over the expanse of his chest, forever.

The knock never came. The door was booted in, instead.

John was limp between two men, unconscious. Brady and Crank leapt forward to take him, and Ham and Murph grabbed the fellas by their patchy, dirty jackets before they could retreat.

"The fuck did you do to him?" Ham growled and the fella in his grasp balked at his nasty scar and gleaming teeth.

"Nothing! He's fine—just drunk!"

Brady and Crank lowered John onto his bunk, and Gale could smell the bitter smell of alcohol all the way from his own.

The men were British, and the one Murph pressed against the wall had the gall to sneer at John. "Arsehole came in a wiped out our stash playing cards. Don't know how he's not dead. Stuff would burn the stomach lining right off you."

With a jerk of Gale's head, Ham and Murph tossed the Brits out on their ass.

John didn't move. Gale stared at him. Disappointment tried to swallow him up. He thought, he really thought this would be it, but John had found a way to extend their misery yet again. Gale pressed a hand to his forehead. He was clammy and cold. His breaths were irregular, too shallow more than not. His pulse was slow and sluggish.

Not just drunk. Dead drunk.

Crank shook his head. "Trust Bucky to find a way to get smashed in a prisoner of war camp, Jesus."

Brady stood at Gale's shoulder. "Someone will need to watch him. Make sure he doesn't choke."

Hope sparked up in him again.

"I will. Rest of you get to bed."

Protest rose up in the puff of Brady's chest.

"That's an order, Captain."

Gale watched John as the others got ready for bed, and his resentment grew with each staggering breath Bucky tried to take.

He waited until the bunk was full of the sounds of snuffling and snores until he let himself drop next to Bucky's side. His eyes roved over the pronounced curve of John's nose, the wide arch of his cheeks, the square of his jaw. That bony structure thrust into sharper relief from hunger.

But Gale still thought John was beautiful. He was beautiful when he was bloated and uncomfortable with alcohol. He was beautiful when he was dripping with sweat and stank to high heaven in their early PT days. He was beautiful when he was all but barking at their commanding officers and egging Gale to indulge his wilder impulses. And he was beautiful now, probably poisoned from potent, raw booze brewed deep in bleakest Sagan.

Gale swept back curls lank with grease and dirt and sweat.

"What are you dragging this out for, hm?" he murmured it into Bucky's ear. In case one of the boys woke up, or wasn't as asleep as Gale thought he was.

"Aren't you tired? Don't you wanna rest, sweetheart? Because I do."

He plucked up John's hand and held it.

"We made each other a promise, you and I. That one way or another, we'd get out of this thing together. And thing is—" He swallowed past the lump and the cracking in his throat. "Thing is I think you're right. I don't think we're being rescued, and I don't think we're escaping any time soon. God, I don't even know if we're gonna win this war. What kind of Major does that make me? What kind of man to lead the boys? I don't want to. I don't want to. I'm so damn tired, John. I'm so tired of being the one the boys look up to. I'm tired of bearing the weight. I'm tired of seeing you hurting over and over, dying here right in front of me. I'm tired of pretending there's a life waiting for me out of here that isn't with you."

He pressed a kiss to each and every knuckle. "So, you can stop fighting now, alright? You go, and I'll go with you. I'm just waiting for you, gorgeous. Let Brady or Benny or Crank lead the boys. They're much more fit for it. Let's you and I get out of here, get some rest finally."

Gale cast a slow, careful look around. Not that there was much light to see by, but silhouettes could be just and damning, and that wasn't how he wanted either of them to go. There was an honourable, clean execution, and there were Krauts murdering the queers. But no one was looking, and Gale pushed forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Bucky's lax mouth. Let just the tip of his tongue dart forward and taste the zing of strong booze that could knock out a man of Bucky's tolerance.

Then he slipped back into his bunk, and watched.

He woke to a wretched coughing.

John. He was jerking and twitching and kicking and—

Choking.

And he still wouldn't wake up.

Gale was out of his bunk and had hands full of John before his sleep-deprived mind could catch up. Bucky's dead weight was nothing to sniff at, even with the weight he'd shed since coming to Stalag Luft III. Gale yanked and pulled, but couldn't get Bucky on his side. His heart hammered in his chest, the only though in his mind running round like a carousel.

Turnoverturnoverturnover. You son of a bitch turn over.

He braced a foot against the board of Bucky's bunk and threw all his wait into trying to get Bucky on his side.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it and the panic and fear overrode everything. Weak, pathetic sounds fell from his mouth that later he wouldn't remember. He couldn't hear anything over the wet gargling from Bucky.

"Come on, Bucky!"

Gale gave one last desperate heave, and hands wrapped around his waist and his shoulders and others grabbed onto John, too. And finally John was hauled over, and the bitter frothy poison tumbled from his mouth onto his bed, the floor, Gale's pants and boots.

And still he didn't wake.

When he was empty, spitting up nothing but tiny white bubbles, Gale left John in the hands of whoever had come to help. Gale hadn't so much as looked up to see who it all was. He simply got up and shoved through the door, curfew be damned.

He got as far as the corner of the hut and bent double and vomited.

He could have let John die. He should have let John die. That was the plan. Then Gale could have gotten himself killed in the morning and that would have been that.

But it hadn't been a thought, in the moment. He'd seen John thrashing and kicking and had nothing in his body or his mind but the need to make it fucking stop.

He was so damn sick of himself. Of his weakness. Of letting John down time and time again.

A hand gently thumped on his back.

"Ay, get it up, Buck. That's it."

Benny. Faithful Benny. Best damn co-pilot in the 100th.

Buck came up gasping. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Benny grabbed onto his shoulders. "He's got it out his system now. He'll be alright. Hell of a head in the morning, but that won't stop us putting that bastard on stump duty for scaring us all half way to hell. Son of a bitch."

Gale shook his head. He couldn't blink. His eyes blurred and stang and he couldn't blink. "I can't…he can't stay here, Benny. It's killing him, I—I have to get him out of here."

Benny's mouth twisted in a pitying line and Gale wanted to throw up again. "S'killing all of us, Buck. Just some slower than others, is all. But us? We can stay one step ahead of that big goodnight with you at our backs, hm?"

Yeah. They could. Because Gale was gonna give that reaper two souls; keep it fed for a while longer and see if he and Bucky can buy their boys some time.

Gently, he pushed Benny's hands off him. "I'm alright. Let's get…let's get to bed."

Benny made Buck go first. The door closed behind them with a tiny thump, and when Gale took his place on his bunk, he saw John was still on his side, but with one knee curled up and a hand placed under his head.

Gale didn't sleep until the sky outside turned grey.

Like storming seas, things crashed and ebbed at the same moment.

After that day, the afternoon really when Bucky had finally awoken with no apparent memory of the night before, the distance between them stretched as far as it could go without snapping. John's low profile, like a belly-crawling dog been kicked around too much, didn't last long. It wasn't in his nature to be so remorseful. John's itching and his wildness and his restlessness, that far off and empty look in his eyes that only ever really sharpened into the present when a Kraut with a gun got close enough, ramped up. And up. And up.

But never seemed to go nowhere.

Gale wanted to crawl out of his skin. He wanted to throw himself at John's feet and beg him to get it over with. He wanted to drag him and drop him at a goon's boots himself and kneel there until it was his turn to eat a bullet.

His prayers to Bucky sick with drink had gone unanswered, and he was afraid he was going to have to watch John waste away here and die slowly, agonisingly far from the man he was at his core.

Gale had failed him so badly, unable to let him go. Two chances they'd had so far, but Gale was so set on a good quick death for his Bucky, he'd had to step in at the last minute, and keep Bucky stuck here with him. Trapped and rotting.

Good thing they weren't getting out of here alive. Bucky would never forgive him for keeping him going for so long. Gale was never going to forgive himself.

He wasn't an overly religious man, and less so now than ever, but he wondered if that was a penance he'd carry with him in death. But it would be okay, so long as he could look at Bucky whilst he bore it. Youthful and vibrant and more alive than he was right now floating around the earthly realm.

"Come on. Skins versus Bones. What do you say? Skins can be the, uh-the away team. Actually, no. No, we’re all away. Pfft. We’re both the away teams!"

Skin and bones. Away, away. Hurry up and climb down into the dirt, Johnny. It's waiting for you and so am I.

He shoved Bucky down, and there John laid back looking more peaceful in the mud than he did curled up in his pitiful bunk. Like it was a suite at the Ritz. He looked up at Gale, like a lover waiting for him to descend down to his level and join him.

King Cleven.

King and God in heaven: that's how John used to look at him. Now he looked at him like a sinner awaiting judgement, desperate to begin their eternity.

Me too, baby. Just a bit longer.

And because he knew John better than he knew himself, Gale knew he couldn't accept a hand up right now. Wouldn't let himself accept the kindness and fraternity of his brothers in the 100th. Wouldn't let himself accept Gale's touch without snapping at his hand.

So Gale offered it. Gave John the perfect opportunity to bite and hate himself a little more in the hopes that this would be it: this would John's final thread and all of this could end.

"Come on. Get up, you loony. Come on, get up. Get up, you loony."

John had always danced so perfectly to Gale's music, and unlike Gale he didn't let his other half down now. A kick and a thrash and a smack and a tumble and John sent Gale sprawling down into the dirt with him.

Gale was so proud of him. It hurt that he couldn't tell him before the end, lest he accidentally stay John's execution at the last moment. Then his rib cracked under John's boot, and John's nose bloodied under Gale's fist, and Gale finally felt it.

Felt something move. Shift. Break. And start to drift away. He felt his eyes sting with the joy and relief of it.

Then clipped, abrupt German erupted over the camp tannoys, and everything Gale had been holding to was upended in the worst way.

"They landed, didn’t they? We're in Western Europe. It finally happened."

That thing that had felt more than improbable but impossible: liberation and freedom. It was marching on them . For them. And Gale wanted to rage and weep.

They were so close. So close to it being over. So close to being together in the dark and the quiet even if they never made it back to America. And now the Allies had gone and ruined it, yanked it all away by starting a slow campaign into enemy territory that threatened to undo all the painstaking, heartbreaking, torturous work he'd done so far so push John over the edge he loved to flirt with so much. Both of them were hanging on by their fingertips and Gale wanted so badly to just let go and freefall. He'd look at John the whole way down, untilt he met the black and the void.

But then John woke up.

He'd found that last morsel of his will to keep going and used it to gain a foothold, to haul himself back up over the edge, even if it was by an inch. And that son of a bitch tried to drag Gale up with him.

That night in the hut, in as private a moment as they could get by their bunks when mostly everyone else was following a high-spirited card game, John found him. Clear-eyed John extended a gentle hand to brush against Gale's cracked rib and whispered,

"I'm sorry, Buck. I'm so sorry. I hurt you, I—"

Gale flinched and bared his teeth. His eyes shone with frustration and sorrow. How could John do this now? How could he approach with with softness and regret and that awful, sickening goddamn clarity when Gale had been scooping out the best parts of himself just to secure their future together, their rest?

And John saw it, and misread it. "Hey, come on. Come on."

He pulled Buck outside the hut. It wasn't lights out, yet, so the goons didn't usually mind a few men loitering at the door of their huts so long as they went no further.

In the dark, in their privacy against the thin wood that made their shelter, Bucky stood up taller than Gale had seen since England and said, "Hit me. Again. I deserve it."

Oh, this old chestnut.

"Fuck you, Bucky."

John grinned to hear it. And for once it was entirely without edge. It reached his eyes and carved well-worn dimples back into his cheeks. Gale couldn't do this. He couldn't have John back in all his glory for a few fleeting moments on the high of the news of the Allied invasion, only to lose him and be back at square one when he realised how goddamn long that would take. They'd still be stuck here for months. And Gale didn't think he had that left in him when John inevitably drifted away again.

They were barely visible in the dark and John took the cover to lean in close. "Not-so Saint Cleven. I missed ya."

Gale shook. He didn't know if it was even anger anymore.

John's hands came to rest on his hips. He ducked his head like he used to do after one of Gale's more harrowing flights.

"You were right, and I was wrong, Buck. We are getting out of here. M'sorry you were left keeping that belief burning on your own. But for what's it's worth and I know I'm not worth much but I'm here now."

For now—

"—and I'm not going anywhere. We're getting out of here you and me. Alive. Like we promised."

Gale was trembling. Head to toe he trembled and it shook some of the water loose around his eyes. It shook sounds from his throat and gasps from his lungs, and John whisked him even further into the dark around the corner of the hut and Gale gripped John's greatcoat so tight he heard a stitch or two pop.

"Fuck you," he hissed wetly. "Fuck you, fuck you, John. I could have—why didn't you come back earlier? Why didn't…I could have—"

He'd thought John was gone. Dead already, but his body didn't know it yet. And Gale was weary from carrying both their corpses. But John had lied to him this whole time. Had been alive and dormant and that Gale could have killed him, could have put them to sleep in the dirt when something in John still wanted to live.

John gathered him close, or tried to, but Gale thrashed back and only let John get close enough to press their foreheads together, and only then because he felt his skin stretch and bruise with how hard John pushed against him.

"Woah, woah, Buck. It's alright. It's alright. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—"

"I could have killed you, John." His voice shook and his throat and nose clogged, and to Gale's horror and humiliation, the tears only gained a pace and he found himself sobbing like a frightened child into John's chest. "You could have died. I could have killed you," he heaved into the coarse wool of John's coat.

"I know, I've been an asshole."

Gale clenched his fist and aimed for John's kidney and got him good before John trapped his hand. But he had another and sucker punched John's stomach and reigned hell down on his back, but John still wouldn't let him go and Gale still couldn't stop sobbing, furious and shattered in equal measure.

"Shut up. Shut up. You left me here. You left me and I couldn't fucking take it. You and me: we were supposed to be in this together and you left. I wanted us dead John. I wanted us dead. I thought you were dead and I wasn't about to let you leave me behind I—"

John squeezed him so tight he crushed all the air out of Gale's lungs. His breaths came shallow when he could drag them in between his cries which he finally let himself bury into the crook of John's shoulder. John didn't let him up for air. Didn't let him put so much as a half inch between them. Didn't let them separate.

"I'm not dead. I'm not dead," John repeated it in his ear. "And you're not dead, either. We're alive, Buck. We're alive and we're getting out of here."

Gale clutched the back of John's neck until he felt the skin get stuck under his fingernails and John hissed and jerked under him but still didn't let go.

"I don't want to be," he said thickly. "I'm so tired, John. Can't we just—I just want to lay down and die, already. I've been waiting and I can't..."

John scruffed him and shook until his teeth rattled. "Not a fuckin' choice, Major."

Gale moaned and felt thick trickles of snot drop from his nose. "It's not fair—"

"I don't give a shit. You didn't want me to leave you behind? Well you don't get to abandon me, now. You wanna die so bad? You wanna give in? I'll shoot you my damn self, then put one in my head right after. You wanna make me do that? I don't wanna die here, Buck. Too many people have tried to bury me between here and Germany and if I die here, they win. You gonna make me do it? 'Cause I will. You and me. Here or home. What's it gonna be?"

Gale had cried himself beyond wails or sobs and curses. He hiccupped his sorrow in pathetic bursts all over John.

"I hate you," he vowed into sodden, filthy wool. "I can't. I hate you."

John kissed his crown and Gale jerked his head enough to butt against John's teeth. He hoped they left a mark. "Yeah. I hate me, too. But that's not an answer."

John shoved Gale back, and he felt the cold on the smeared mess on his face. John stared him down unflinching. "Where we dyin', Buck? Here? Or back where we're supposed to be? Behind a yoke or in our beds like we fuckin' deserve?"

Gale used the sleeve of his coat to wipe away the slime and sniffed down a throatful of mucus and snot and other pathetic wetness that hadn't made it out. A glimmer of Major Cleven was able to peek back out. Gale rolled back his shoulders and set his jaw that sharp and stubborn way that made the new recruits shift in place like errant children.

And he stared right back at Bucky. His Bucky. Finally back from being AWOL.

"Don't you leave me here again. Do you hear me? Because if you do, if you go back to that, I won't watch it. I'll tell them we're spies. I'll goddamn tell them we're queer if I have to, but I'll make sure we both bite it here, Bucky. I can't do it without you anymore, so don't you fuckin' make me."

John grabbed a fistful of his hair and kissed him bruising and biting and hard. Gale's skin was still sticky. His lips cut against his teeth and Gale made sure to cut John up to match.

When they pulled back, the inside of John's lip was tinged with red. A shining streak of one of Gale's bodily fluids was infused to the strands of John's mustache. "Deal."

It had taken John getting the closest he'd ever gotten to being killed, for them to finally take the plunge.

The P-51s had fired on them, their own countrymen and allies. Only Alex Jefferson's warning had kept their losses low. But John had seen red, like he used to do at a shitty call from a higher up, or when a rookie had made a mistake that could have cost a fort and ten good men. He was all teeth and snarling froth and the Germans were unholstering their pistols, rifles already aimed and pinned on John's chest. Right at the heart.

It took four of them to pull him back.

"Look at me. Look at me! I'm in. We go tonight. Just calm down before they put a bullet in your head."

John sucked in his lips and didn't take his eyes from Gale even as he pushed off his hands. A self-enforced silence before he did something he couldn't undo.

Just a little longer, Gale pleaded with him silently. Just keep it together a little longer, darlin'.

In the night, passing through the sorry carcass of some village or old work buildings or something, George and Billy ran unseen between two buildings and cleared the wall between their column of POWs and the dark protection of the woods.

"Go on," Bucky said before Gale could. "I'll be right behind you."

You goddamn better be, he wanted to say, threaten, and make Bucky promise. But they didn't have time, and the longer he lingered, the more danger he was putting Bucky in.

So with a final look, he ran.

He couldn't hear anything, his heart hammered so loud. Was Bucky behind him? Was that footsteps he could hear?

The wall was so close, now. A few more feet and Gale could hold his arm out and touch it.

"Hey, no! Stop! Stop!"

Gale's feet, his whole damn body, lurched to a stop. Like Bucky had commanded him. He whirled around and there he was, wrestling with a German guard, drawing more and more attention, trying to get the Kraut's own gun off him.

Men had been killed for much, much less. They'd seen it.

"Go, Buck! Get out of here!"

It was the second time John lied to him.

Gale picked up his feet again, but the wall got further away. John was no slight man, even after their time in the Stalag and marching through the dead of night in the cold European winter. But the guards were better fed, better rested, and armed to boot.

And John was losing.

As the guard made to tip John over on his back and turned his gun on him, Gale barreled into him, knocking him clean off John and socking him in his sorry mouth. Hands grasped at him but they were quickly torn away, and he heard John grunting. It wasn't until his fists were bloody from breaking up the goon's teeth that Gale was finally hauled off him and thrown down into the cold dirt.

John was already there waiting for him.

Panting they drew themselves up to their knees. The Germans were screaming at them, and John looked at him with eyes that burned with betrayal.

"Why didn't you go? Buck why didn't you go?"

"You're a son of a bitch, John Egan. You and me, you said. You promised. I didn't take you for no liar, and that's twice."

John's eyes fluttered shut, just for a moment, but when he opened them they were full of the steely resolved he'd carried for weeks now.

They started this together, they'd end this together. However that came.

They sat high on their knees, eyes and chins up.

"What are you doing?!" The Colonel stared at them kneeling at the mercy of the Germans. "General! Release these men this instant!"

It got the attention of their boys from the 100th. Benny. Brady. Crank. Murph. Glenn. Even Alex and Macon and Daniels. They all raised their voices over the barking and the yelling. They pushed against the line of guards holding them back. They snarled and they screamed.

The Colonel called over it all. "You'll have a damn riot on your hands if you kill these men!"

But Gale and John, they knew what was coming. They'd been caught trying to escape. They'd fought with the guards.

They couldn't be allowed to live if their captors wanted to keep control of the line as they marched deeper into enemy territory.

The Geneva Convention didn't mean shit out here.

John reached out and took Gale's hand. Entwined their fingers and held on. Unburdened. Unashamed. Free.

Gale ran his his thumb over the callouses of John's skin. And decided he didn't want his last sight to be the arrogant sneer of an SS lackey.

He looked at John. He was already looking back.

"Here?" Gale asked him.

John shrugged and smiled that closed-lipped smile he reserved for Buck. For when he was being true. "So long as we're together."

Despite all the clamour, they heard the click of several guns being readied, and then the barrells stared them down.

Gale and John stared at each other.

The night rang out with the scream of what remained of the 100th of Stalag Luft III.

[dracopias-bloodbag]

Bewitched By Bloodlust | Dracopia x F! Reader | IV

Chapter IV: The Scars Inside You

The day after your bloodstained tarot reading, you wake having to face the reality of your situation– of your future and your fate. The realization that no one is coming for you sets in and sends you spiraling with no one around to help pick up the pieces... or so you think.

chapter content: 3.8k words. 18+, enemies to lovers, slow(ish) burn, eventual smut, kidnapping, imprisonment, brief passive suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, mental breakdowns, toxic family dynamics, trauma, hurt/comfort, canon divergent (see masterlist for details)

Recommended Listening:

Cirice – Ghost

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After you lose consciousness, Copia is left staring at the bloodied card in his hand.

He’s warring with himself, a part of him is tempted to toss it aside, leave you there and forget about the reading. He’s bound to live a lonely, immortal, life. And though it had taken him some three hundred years to accept it, he had made his peace with his fate. He doesn’t need a deck of cards to tell him his fate.

But being centuries old he has come across witches and psychic readers before. He knows how revered the tarot is to people all over the world, and he knows that when done by the right person, these readings can be terrifyingly accurate.

He looks down at your limp form in his arms, his eyes scanning over your face. What he said was true. Prior to the night in the forest, there had been whispers amongst the ministry’s advisors of a coven of witches that was planning on trying to kill their beloved Papa. They had rushed to inform Sister Imperator that there was a witch amongst their ranks being trained for the task. 

When the news had reached Copia, his interest was immediately piqued. Any time he hunted for blood, he usually ventured into a local town in search of yet another creep who was testing someone’s boundaries, but it attracted too much attention for The Clergy’s liking. In the more recent years he had stuck to feeding from volunteers in the ministry, but he had grown bored. The thought of hunting someone who was hunting him made a shiver run up his spine. It fucking thrilled him.

Copia spent the summer months observing you, having found your coven easily in the middle of the forest. He had expected you to be older, wiser, more experienced– the last thing he was expecting was someone as young as you.

He watched from the shadows for months as you trained with the other witches. They put you through the motions, making you train in the summer heat, testing your endurance, testing your ability to hold your own. And yet despite everything they threw at you, you were determined. Your body moved with ease when you sparred with the other witches; you learned to dodge various types of attacks and how to use your opponent’s strength against them. You were quick, he gave you that, and that would make you interesting prey. 

He had chuckled at the notion; sure you would have made a formidable foe to a human man, but the coven underestimated his strength.

Sometimes late at night he would find you sitting on the porch of the cottage you shared with your covenmates; pouring over the ancient tomes you had been provided to study. You usually had your grimoire in hand, scribbling away as you wrote quickly, taking notes under the light of a single candle.

Other times he found you at a nearby stream, tucked away from your coven sitting on a rock with your tools spread out around you. Concocting potions and spells, burning herbs and candles anointed in oil as you muttered incantations under your breath. 

Most times he watched you, you were away from the rest of them. He couldn’t blame you, he didn’t miss the dirty looks they’d flash you, the whispered words amongst themselves. Unless you were doing spellwork they asked you to do for them, you mostly isolated yourself from them. Your loneliness was almost palpable, but you were resilient, he could see that much. You took your craft seriously, and he respected that about you. So much so that the thought of killing you after you had worked so hard to prepare had almost made him feel guilty.

Almost.

But you were a threat to the ministry and he had a duty to protect what he and his family had built, which is exactly what had led you both to this very moment.

Copia looks down at you again and in the low candlelight of the dungeon, your face looks peaceful. You are a true witch, both by blood and by practice. He can hear your heart beating steadily in your chest, your ancestors’ blood coursing through your veins and thrumming with their ancient power.

He moves you so that your legs aren't bent uncomfortably under you before pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket. He uses it to carefully wipe the blood from your chest, before wiping down the card and stacking it with the rest of the deck.

His mind wanders as he considers the reading, finding himself wishing he had spent at least a small fraction of his inhuman life branching out and learning more about the tarot. But the final card was self-explanatory enough. 

Copia sits and watches your chest rise and fall for what feels like hours as you lay unconscious in his arms, and he can’t escape the thought that enters his mind for a split second as he looks upon you. 

You were beautiful.

He freezes, shaking his head as if trying to physically shake the thought from his mind.

What is happening to him?

He clenches his jaw, an almost pained look in his eyes as he lays you down on the cot before carefully placing your deck of cards next to it. His eyes linger on your face before he turns and leaves your cell.

The first thing you hear when you wake is the sound of the birds chirping outside. You sit up, your eyes slowly adjusting to the sunlight that shines in through the tiny window.

There’s a platter of food at the cell door, and you stand on shaky legs trying not to lose your balance. The only thing on your iron-deficient mind is getting some kind of sustenance, and you spend a few minutes in blissful ignorance of the events of the night before. But as your body slowly regains its strength you begin to come to your senses, and the memories of the night before begin flooding back.

He had fed off of you again– you knew that much. Your hand trails up to your chest as you remember the feeling of your blood dripping down it, but there’s nothing there.

Your eyes land on your tarot deck stacked neatly next to the foot of your cot, and you can feel the anxiety rising in your chest as the memories come flooding back.

Eight of Swords, The Tower…. The Lovers. Sheer panic shoots through you, like a white-hot iron being shoved through your system.

You had hallucinated it. 

There was no way he had actually done that, there was no way you had actually done a fucking tarot reading while he fed off of you.

You were going mad, surely that had to be the answer… 

But deep in your gut you knew– it was all real.

Shaking your head, you reach for your cards.

They had been wrong before. Readings weren’t always accurate, the future is never set in stone.

Surely you were off your game, you didn’t choose with your intuition. It was in the heat of the moment, he was drinking your blood for Lucifer’s sake, surely that had something to do with it. Something was off. The cards had to be wrong.

You make quick work of preparing the cards, knocking on the back of them, and shuffling them the way you always do. Your hands are sweating, but you take a deep breath, trying to ground yourself.

Focus. 

You trust your instincts and stop shuffling the cards when the time feels right. You carefully cut the deck into three equal stacks, laying them out carefully in front of you.

Focus.

You stare at the stacks in front of you for a long moment, before trusting your instincts and choosing the one that seems to be calling out to you.

You carefully take a card from the top of the stack focusing only on your future, shutting your eyes as you draw the card, gently laying it out, before cracking one eye open.

No.

The card is laid out in front of you like it’s taunting you. The Lovers… again. You stare back at it, your mouth agape as you try to wrap your head around what the hell is happening. It was unmistakable, the young naked couple on the card seemed to be smirking up at you, and you felt your heart sink.

You shake your head, grasping the cards in your hand roughly as you begin to shuffle them once more. Preparing yourself to do the reading again…

This time you spread them out, laying them out in front of you in a fan shape. You trace your fingers over the cards, before stopping when you feel it’s right. You draw the card and…

The Lovers. Again.

You grunt, angrily grabbing the cards and shuffling them again, making sure to be as thorough as you can. This time, when you’re done shuffling, you grab the first card that’s on the top of the deck.

What the fuck?!

You shuffle the cards again.

And again.

And again.

Every single time without fail, you pull the same card.

You throw the cards across the room from you, and the sound of them scattering across the stone is the only thing you can hear aside from your labored breaths. You’re angry that you failed, you hate that goddamn Satanic pope that’s holding you here, and you hate that your dagger is gone. Because if you had it right now and he walked through the door, you’re certain you’d be able to kill him this time.

Fisting your fingers in your hair, you slump against the wall, tugging on the strands as you shut your eyes.

You hate him.

You hate him…

But if you hate him so much, then why were you left breathless anytime he touched you? Why did you wake up after every encounter with your mind flooded with thoughts of only him?

Again– you were going mad.

You want to kill him just for the effect he has on you.

But in this moment all you can think about is how he would pin you to the wall, his body against yours, his gloved hands holding you in place as he drank from you. Your mind swims with the memory of the feeling of his breath on your skin, and the way his gaze always bore into yours– his mismatched eyes seeming to look directly into your soul. His grip on you was always firm, but held a gentleness to it at the same time as if he was holding himself back from crushing you.

You shut your eyes, trying to push away the thoughts as you wonder why he has such an effect on you, but as you inhale, you swear you can still smell his cologne on you, and you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes you.

Oh.

Oh.

You were going to fucking die.

You need to get out of here, away from this godforsaken abbey, away from whatever path the universe seems to have put you on.

You needed to find a way out, but you were out of options, with no visitors showing themselves aside from Copia himself and the occasional ghoul. And the chances of escaping either of them were little to none. A part of you was still holding out hope that someone from your coven would come looking for you– it would be your only chance at escape.

The more time passes the more you feel that hope slowly beginning to slip away. You had spent months training for this, and yet you still had failed. You thought back to when your High Priestess had called upon you to inform you of your sacred task. She had assured you that you were the strongest witch for the task. You remembered how excited you were to finally be recognized for your talents, rather than used for them and pushed around by the other witches.

Yet thinking back on it you realize how ill-prepared you truly were. How no one had even considered that the fucker would be wearing gloves. How they trained you to use his strength against him despite the fact that he was stronger than any human could possibly hope to be. How you were told there would likely only be a couple of Ghouls patrolling the area, not eight of them.

Maybe their lack of a plan would have been understandable if they truly believed you would be successful, or if you had died trying. But you had failed at both.

But they had failed you by sending you here without a rescue plan. Memories of hushed whispers between coven members as they watched you prepare to leave flashed across your mind. You had caught the way they laughed amongst themselves, eyeing you like you meant nothing to them. Like they were praying for your demise.

They had never expected you to return, in fact, they were probably counting on it.

Tears well up in your eyes at the thought. 

You are completely alone, and you have always been alone…

You can’t help the tiny sob that escapes you as the realization washes over you, and you sink down to your knees as you finally let yourself feel all of your emotions. There’s a weight on your chest that you can’t shake off, and you feel like you’re being suffocated as your breaths become ragged and uneven in between sobs. Your hands find the cold stone floor as you bow your head, your hair falling around your face as your tears fall to the floor.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts, that you don’t even hear the door down the hall opening. You don’t even realize that Copia is watching you from the darkness.

He had noticed it as soon as he entered, the scent of your saltwater tears hung heavy in the air, the sound of your sobs and rapid breaths filling his ears. By the time he’s in front of your cell you’re damn near hyperventilating.

He freezes, not sure what to do. He was so used to keeping up the cruel facade, to being the one who made you shudder underneath him and made your heart race.

So why did it bother him to see you like this?

He doesn’t think twice, and his body moves almost as if on instinct as he unlocks the door.

You don’t know he’s there until his hands are on you. You practically jump out of your skin, trying to shuffle away from him as a scream threatens to worm its way out of your throat. He cups his hand over your mouth and holds you gently in place with his other hand.

“Shhhh…” Copia whispers. His eyes scan your face carefully. Your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are red and puffy from crying. He releases his hold on your mouth before bringing his gloved fingers to cup your chin. His grip is firm but there is something gentle about the way he holds it. Your knees are now pulled up to your chest in a fetal position, and for some reason he feels his heart wrench at how helpless you look.

“Breathe…” He murmurs. “Deep breaths strega, don’t pass out on me again.”

Your head is fuzzy as you try to make sense of his words, of what he’s doing. You can’t fathom why he’s being so kind to you but you’re so deprived of oxygen at this point that you listen, taking a deep, slow inhale before exhaling.

“That’s it, just like that…” He pauses, his eyes lingering on the tears streaking on your cheeks. “Non piangere...” 

The words are foreign to your ears, but the way he says them, it’s almost gentle. If you didn’t know any better you’d think he was worried.

“I don’t– what the hell are you doing?” You snap as you try to wrench yourself free of his grasp. But his grip remains firm and he holds you in place.

“Tranquilla...” He murmurs, as his hand slowly trails up your cheek.

Copia isn’t even sure why he’s doing this, he doesn’t fully understand it but something in him is screaming at him to comfort you. 

You want to shove him away, you want to scream at him and tell him to leave you alone to rot in this cell for the rest of time. But the pit in your stomach is gnawing at you, and you feel another sob rising in your chest. The feeling of his hand on your cheek is the only thing keeping you from completely spiraling.

“Please, just kill me.” You whisper into the darkness.

His grip on your face tightens slightly, his jaw clenching.

“No one has ever wanted me around, I’m a failure. You should just take my life and be done with it, then I won’t be a burden to anyone anymore.”

His heart breaks at your words. It was one thing for him to want to kill you out of instinct, and his duty to protect The Ministry, but to hear you wish those things about yourself made his stomach churn. No one deserves that.

He rubs his thumb over your cheekbone and wipes away your tears. It’s odd, he’s different, you can tell something has changed by the way he’s touching you. You realize then that your captor is showing you more kindness than your entire coven ever did, and that thought alone makes your chest feel tighter.

“Why are you crying?” His voice is soft, almost as if he’s afraid of scaring you away.

“Why do you care?” You try to snap at him, but your voice falters and cracks as you look at him with your glassy eyes.

He hesitates at your question, unsure of what to say, he opens his mouth to answer but you cut him off with a sigh, too mentally exhausted to fight anymore.

“I just– I keep wondering if my coven will send for me, or if they’re even looking for me. But I know they’re not. I’ve lived with them as long as I can remember, and yet I’m realizing I’ve somehow still been alone all my life.”

He watches you carefully waiting for you to continue, and when your eyes meet his you realize that he’s actually listening to you. The fact that he seems to care, or is at least pretending to is strangely comforting.

“You were right, you know? They may have raised me, yet they never treated me as anything more than a servant. They forced me to do the most taxing spells, I would practice the darkest magic for them until my energy was drained and I had to sleep for days to regain it; and I did it all without questioning them.”

Copia looks at you for a long moment, before slowly reaching out and taking your hand in his, and you swear you stop breathing at the contact. 

“They used you.”

“Yes, I suppose they did. I kept telling myself they were just testing me, and that one day they’d treat me as one of their equals.” You take a shaky breath. “I was actually excited when they sent me on this quest. I figured this was it. If I succeeded, they would finally see my worth. I kept thinking that maybe then they would treat me with respect.  But it’s like they knew I would fail, it was just a way for them to get rid of me for good.”

He’s silent for a moment, his eyes focused on the way your hand fits in his– how your soft skin is a sharp contrast to the rough leather of his gloves.

“Mi dispiace– eh, I’m sorry, strega.” His apology is fully unexpected, and you stare up at him in shock in the dim light.

“Are you seriously apologizing for…  not letting me kill you?” 

“I suppose I am,” The corners of his lips twitch, and for the first time you think you see the beginnings of a smile on his face. 

He releases your hand from his grasp and gently cups your cheek. 

“I truly am sorry, cara. They used you for your talents, for your wisdom, and you did not deserve that.” He strokes your cheek with his thumb. “The world is cruel and unfair, and there will always be individuals who will try to take advantage of that.”

You can’t help but narrow your eyes at that

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Copia is taken aback by your words, his hand dropping from its place on your cheek as an unfamiliar feeling washes over him, gnawing at the pit of his stomach. It takes a second before he realizes that it’s guilt.

“I’m sorry, Goddess help me, I need to learn to shut up.” You mutter under your breath, trying to backtrack before you piss him off again.

Only he’s not mad, instead he just looks at you with a combination of guilt and shame in his eyes.

“No, you are right, strega. I’m no better than them.” 

He surprises you when he stands up, and your eyes widen slightly as you watch him cross the room to the cell door and unlock it, before stepping back. 

“You are free to go.”

Your eyes flicker between him, the door, then back at him.

“You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “I, eh, wouldn’t joke about this kind of thing, it would be cruel, no?”

Your eyes remain fixed on him as you slowly stand and walk towards him, your steps cautious, as if you’re waiting for him to lunge at you, but he never does.

“When you get down the hall one of my most trusted ghouls will escort you out of the abbey and back to the forest. So long as you swear to leave us be, we won’t follow you”

You hear his words but your feet won’t move, but you feel like there’s something holding you back, and for some reason, the thought of leaving makes your stomach churn. Where would you even go? 

Copia senses your hesitation. “What’s wrong, cara?”

“I don’t want to go back to my coven, and if I don’t go back to them I have no one.” 

Copia ponders for a second, his eyes wandering over your form as he feels that unfamiliar feeling in his chest again. His mind wanders back to the tarot reading, to the taste of your blood on his tongue, the way your body felt when it was pressed up against his, how your heart raced anytime he had his hands on you, to the way you had curled into his arms while you cried, almost as if it was second nature. He knew exactly what was happening to him; whether it scared him or excited him, he wasn’t sure. But he was sure of one thing;

He wanted you– needed you. His eyes seem to darken as he steps towards you, holding his hand out to you; the words leaving his lips before he can stop them or second guess himself.

“Then stay with me.”

Thank you as always for reading, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it! All I can say about this one is.... oh boy we're really in it now...

Comments, kudos, and reblogs are always appreciated! ‪‪❤︎

Translations:

strega/streghetta –witch

non piangere – don't cry

traquilla – calm down

mi dispiace – I'm sorry

cara – darling

[faroreskiss]

The Power of Understanding / Pilot (Part 1 v2)

Rewritten to v2 on: 2023/09/10

Cheat Sheet

Read of Ao3

Chapters: Pilot, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

Summary: You have been with the Chain for a while now, as their "scholar" and translator. You know everything about them, because you are from our world. But do *they *know the truth about how you can understand everyone?

A little introduction and world building concept for the Translator!Reader and her adventures. Check notes below for more info!

Non-linear fic.

AU fic, prior to TotK (instead of TotK, chain events happen).

Loosely based on the same reader in my NSFW fic, which is a very loose prequel to this one, and a work in progress.

More background info to come, if I feel like it :D

Warnings: None, maybe some cussing, but nothing is censored. SFW content.

Points of interest: This is your thing if you are into the mystery of chain being able to talk to each other. I am an actual trained linguist IRL, hence this HAD to be written!

You were daydreaming in the middle of the day about him again, amidst the smell of horse shit around you, when you're supposed to be finishing the work you have until the end of the day. Or until a new portal pops up to swallow you all to Goddess knows which Hyrule this time. Damned black-blooded monsters. At least, this gave you some break.

You, coming from our own era, have been acting as the scholar of the Chain for the last couple of years, while hopping from world to world with them. Knowing this, Malon put you to work on the books of the ranch, instead of letting you deal with the cows or the horses, even though you really didn’t have anything specific to do with maths. You thought she was being kind to you, not letting you deal with dirty ranch work, you guessed? She was a sweetheart either way.

You wanted to hang out with Twilight at the same time, so instead of using the little study Malon offered, you took the books and went down to the stables. You continued with your own stuff, while he was taking care of the horses.

There was also this little thing: you were the only one who understood every single one of them, (almost) very clearly, comparatively speaking. Sure they could communicate without you just as well, but due to a bunch of coincidences, you were the closest thing to the “translation magic”, if you can call it that. Maybe it was your Hoshi Sato gene*. Maybe it was the fact that you actually stayed with Link & Zelda in the post-Calamity world, around two years prior meeting the Chain**, maybe a bit of magic was also involved. Hylia works in mysterious ways! Did it almost cost you your brain? Yes. Was it worth it? Absolutely. 

Some Links, of course, understood each other better than the others, especially when their eras were, linguistically speaking, not that far. Time and Twilight were just fine. Legend and Hyrule were already able to understand each other, even a little bit better than Time and Twilight. Sky was a bit further away and had a “funny way of saying things” (according to the Sailor), almost gibberish, but when you listened and when he spoke slowly enough, you could at least get the gist of what he was trying to say. Wind, Time, and Warriors already knew each other from other “incidents” before the Chain, so they already had a way of communicating. 

These worlds also did not have many invasions and wars by “outsiders”, if you don’t count things like the Triforce War, Imprisoning War, Sealing War, and of course, anything that had to do with Demise, Ganon & co. and their horrible reincarnations. This meant, not a lot of language change.

In the end, what happened was that over the two years you have been together with the group, you helped them understand each other better. They adjusted their accents, and somehow warped the Hylian they speak in a way that the group would understand (and especially you), when the dialogue was still within the group. Of course, the Old Man would speak more “naturally” with Malon and vice versa, and some of the chain would adjust better (e.g. Twilight or Smithy) to the language of the era they are in. After some point, communication was not that much of a problem. You learnt it all in the end. 

Writing? 

Funny enough, Wild, Sky, and Twilight had similar scripts. Time and Wind had more similar writing systems. Wild, Wars, Legend, Time, and Rulie were also better at understanding the scripts of their respective eras. Overall, other than a couple of hiccups, most understood the others’ script to an extent. 

And then there was Wild. Also known as “The Cook” nowadays. The rest of the chain didn’t know you called them the Chain in your mind, and had your little nicknames for them. The nicknames most likely revealed a bit too much, and even though most of the secrets were out nowadays… You knew better than to risk more. You have caused enough damage, you would think sometimes. Even though you just couldn’t resist the urge. 

Anyway… Wild, his case and communication issues… were complicated.

According to the rest of the chain when you guys first met, whatever he was saying (and vice versa) was almost complete gibberish at first. Some terms and special names like “deku,” “korok,” “Hylia,” “Hyrule,” “rupee,” and such were still there, albeit with a different accent, and they helped, but it was not enough. You only found out later that it was kind of… your fault. 

In the end, he was also able to communicate with them just fine. Each Link had their own… language variation and accents, so to say. Some of them did not even have the difference enough to call it a “dialect” comparatively. As you thought, language change is a slow enough process, and with the lack of ‘conflicts’ (for lack of a better word) compared to your world, no wonder they were still somehow able to understand each other. . 

The Goddesses work in mysterious ways indeed.

How did it work for you, though? There was this little secret that… First time around, when you first dropped into Wild's Hyrule, “Hylian” was basically a weird mesh-up of English and Japanese to your ears, after the enchantment from the Great Fairies you have received. It was “so you could slowly understand and grasp and communicate”, you were told. 

Oh boy, it really felt like a genie granting you a wish, but in its own twisted way. You found that out later though. 

Second time around when you first met the rest of Links, though? The first enchantment… kind of messed everything up. Second time around, you actually ended up learning real Hylian. At least, the Hylian that was used as a lingua franca between you guys. 

Of course, some learning skill enchantment was definitely not out of the deal this time as well, thanks to Rulie & Time and their fairy friends, and of course the Smithy. But what a disaster it had been! Well, it wasn’t your fault that the first time the enchantment was made, nobody calculated that you would meet the Links from other eras.

You also naturally know the reason behind why Links in kind of irrelevant eras could decipher each other's texts, even when they didn’t understand the words all the time. Some were based on the Latin alphabet, and some were on Japanese kana. No way you could clearly explain it to them.

“Oh, by the way, you are made by a game company called Nintendo, and this guy is called Miyamoto…”

Yeah, no. That didn’t go well last time. Nobody even understood what you meant. 

That was a battle to fight for another day… Now, you need to focus on the budget of the Lon Lon Ranch. And not be distracted by Twilight’s statue.

________________

Notes:

Fanciest and most OP translator you will ever know. Star Trek Universe. 

"You” already spent three years with Link and Zelda in Wild’s world and were enchanted by the Great Fairies (with Zelda’s involvement) for the improvement of learning abilities.

[stargazing-sapphire2]

The Devil's Gambit - 1/?

Summary:

When Anya Orlova turns her back on everything she fought for, her treason is swiftly met with imprisonment, left and forgotten by those she once called brothers. Trapped in the gulag and with no way out, Anya finds herself with a cellmate in the form of John Price, both sharing an equally nasty history with Vladimir Makarov.

With no other choice, the two are forced to rely on one another in order to survive the brutal and harsh environment they were forced into, surrounded by those who would see them dead, and a world slowly crumbling into war.

Cross-posted from my AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58033795

*************************

The stone wore down hours ago.

Or was it days? Weeks?

Perhaps it had even been months.  Time never seemed to pass in this dingy cell she had become accustomed to. The only way she could track it was marking tallies into the wall with a loose stone she had come across not long after being tossed in there.

Anya stared at the tiny speck which could not even be constituted for a pebble in her hand. Her eyes flickered up, her gaze turning disdainful as she stared at the crudely drawn lines. She tried her best to count every single tally she had scraped into the stone walls, but the more she looked at it, the more the anger, frustration, and sadness boiled up inside her.

She threw the pebble away, the small rock bouncing off the left side of the wall pathetically. She walked back over to the bed that lay tucked in the corner, slowly sinking onto it as she buried her head into her hands.

Although Anya had long accepted the fact that she was going to die here, rotting in this God forsaken cell…it could not lessen the pain of being forgotten, that she was nothing more than a prisoner.

That thought alone caused a sob to escape her, although she did her best to clamp down on it.

No amount of tears will change a damn thing. Get over yourself, she scolded herself.

She sniffled, lifting her head to rub at her face with her sleeve; although, the smell that assaulted her nose immediately made her grimace and she quickly put her arm down.

When the last time she had been allowed to bathe?

Anya was embarrassed as the thought crossed her mind.

Her daily routine was always the same thing; wake up while shivering her ass off, walk around the cell while the guards exchanged shifts outside, and while they never usually acknowledged her, there were some that would sneer and taunt her; calling her a traitor, a whore, and all sorts of unfavorable things that would bear no repeating.

Part of her wondered what would she be given to eat today, or if it would be the same stale bread and cold soup. Starving would be preferrable to that, although Anya suspected that was what they were trying to do.

A spark of defiance would force her to swallow it down, despite how painful and disgusting it was; but she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

How long would it last, though?

It was something Anya had always dwelled on ever since she was dragged here. Either Vladimir had simply forgotten about her and left her to her fate, only concerned with his own goals.

Or perhaps he was only prolonging her suffering, being the sick and twisted bastard he was. After all, he had promised her that she would know horrors beyond her comprehension when she had spurned him.

She betrayed him…she had betrayed all of them.

And now, she was paying the price for it.

How could I have been so stupid?

Anya was unsure of when that little heel-face-turn had happened. Perhaps the seeds of doubt had been planted when Zakhaev had eaten a bullet three years ago, or when Vladimir had risen up and taken over, declaring that he would avenge his predecessor and usher in a new age of strife for all of Russia.

Or maybe the masks had simply fallen off, revealing the monsters that Anya had been too naïve to see.

But worst of all, she thought of Yuri. Was he still out there, wondering if she was still alive?

He had not been present when Vladimir had played judge, jury, and executioner with her on deciding her fate, but Anya had no doubt he had informed Yuri of what she had done, how she betrayed them and the cause they fought for. No doubt he had said she got exactly what she deserved.

Such was the price for filth like her, she supposes.

A commotion from outside the cell drew her attention, pulling her out of her miserable stupor. She glanced up, turning her head to stare at the door. There was yelling on the other side, and she could make out a jumble of Russian and English, but what was being said she was unsure, as the voices were muffled behind the thick, concrete walls.

The door was opened with a loud screech, and Anya could only watch as two heavily armored soldiers made their way in, dragging another person inside.

“Rise and shine, Orlova.” One of them threw a sneer in her direction, as they carelessly dumped the poor bastard on the ground. “Got a little cellmate for you; make you play nice.”

The two snickered as he said this, before they left the cell, sealing the door shut behind them with a loud thud.

Unsure of what to make of the situation, Anya could only sit there, staring in bewilderment as the man (her new cellmate, she supposes) scrambled to his feet. A string of curses escaped him, and he stormed over to the now locked door, slamming his hand against it.

Anya watched as he seemed to test the door, looking for any weakness in the structure, for some way out. It almost made her snort, but she held back. Seconds passed by, before she grew tired of the futile attempt at escaping.

“There’s no way out, you know.”

The man whirled around to look at her, and the first thing Anya noticed was a pair of startingly blue eyes.

Gray eyes skimmed over once she got a good look at him. The man seemed to be ten years her senior, with brown hair that was starting to gray around his temples, and a ruffled, thin beard covering the lower half of his face. She took note of the bloodstains in his clothing, although the implication of what had happened, she had no need to ask.

There was a heavy silence in the air, and the two stood there awkwardly, staring each other in the face and waiting for the other to speak. When the man did not reply, Anya took the incentive to continue.

“You won’t be able to open that door, and even if you do, well…” She clicked her tongue. “Good luck getting passed the armed guards outside.”

The man’s eyes narrowed.

“Is that right?” He rumbled out, and Anya picked up on the British accent that rolled off his tongue.

“And just what,” he continued, his voice deadpanning, “are you in here for? Did they get tired of you and threw you in this forsaken shithole of a room?”

Anya was unsure of how to answer that, as she did not want to be strangled to death by some possible madman, without any means to defend herself.

She shrugged, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

“They don’t like me anymore than they don’t like you,” she answered.

His eyes narrowed again, and he stared coldly at her. His face seemed to indicate that he contemplating asking for more details, but Anya was relieved when she watched him huff in return.

“Fair enough,” he conceded.

Silence fell over them again, as the man leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He hand a hand through his hair, grimacing and opening his eyes to look back at her again.

“You got a name?” He questioned. “Or do I start calling you Nameless?”

A small snort escaped Anya.

So you Brits do have a sense of humor, she thought amusedly. Dry as it may be.

“Anya,” she told him. “Anya Orlova. And you?”

The man hesitated, and for a moment he stayed silent. His eyes glanced at the wall, arms folding over his chest.

Anya raised a brow as she watched him. Is he just the strong silent type, or is he just shy?

“Well?” She prodded. “Do you have one? Or should I call you Nameless?”

The man scoffed, shaking his head.

“It’s nothing,” he grunted out.

“Then what is it?” She questioned. “If we have to share this cell, then we should at least be on a first name-basis with one another.”

A humorless chuckle escaped him, and finally he turned back around to full face her.

“John,” he responded. “John Price.”

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Don’t Go Blindly Into The Dark

Summary:

To hide that he can't read, Jan Van Eck has been forcing his son to pretend he's blind since he was eight years old. Wylan is now attending Ketterdam University, and meeting Jesper Fahey may very well be about to change his life. But is he safe to tell Jesper the truth? And what will Jesper say if he does?

Jesper is struggling to weigh up his life in the Barrel and his life at the University of Ketterdam, and there's a good chance that his growing debt is about to make the decision for him. He hasn't attended class consecutively for months, but maybe that will change when his newest project includes partnering up with Wylan Van Eck. But can he really leave the Barrel behind him? And how long can he keep up the pretence of who he thinks Wylan wants him to be?

Meanwhile there is a darkness growing in Ketterdam, and it seems a killer may be stalking the streets of West Stave. An unknown evil is closing its jaws over the city, and it’s starting to feel like nowhere is safe.

Tags: @justalunaticfangirl @lunarthecorvus @i-need-help-this-is-my-obsession @devoted-people-hater

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know :)

Content warnings for this chapter: ptsd, violence, dehumanisation, kidnapping references, imprisonment references, trafficking references, implies sa references, blood and wounds, drowning/fear of drowning, death references, murder references, threats, spiders (a nightmare that involves a venomous one)

AO3 links

Chapter 53 - Nina

It was almost dawn by the time Nina reached the White Rose, and all she really wanted was a long bath to scrub this entire night off her. It seemed she was going to have to settle for sleeping first, however, and bathing later because the only bathroom in the place with an actual tub was occupied when she returned. There were two indoor bathrooms at the White Rose; the other had a shower that Nina wasn’t a fan of anyway, far less so because the building had no running water. She wouldn’t complain about sleeping, though, not a chance of that; as soon as she’d made contact with her settee she was drifting straight into slumber - and straight into unwelcome dreams. 

She was back on the ship, all those endless, terrible nights travelling from the Wandering Isle to Fjerda. Nina wasn’t even supposed to be there, not really, she was too young for such missions. But the Ravkan Second Army had been almost decimated by the Civil War; they needed soldiers, and, oh, how Nina had begged to be one of them. She’d travelled to the Wandering Isle with a small group, the only one she knew beyond in passing being Zoya Nazyelensky, in hopes of rescuing and recruiting more Grisha to join their cause. Nina had been alone when she stumbled headfirst into that Drüskelle camp, and out of any identifying uniform. She did not scream, she pleaded with them in Kaelish instead of Ravkan, not once did she cry out for help. She was terrified, yes, but she was more scared still to expose her team and their mission, of putting Zoya and all the rest of them in danger. She was bound captive on a boat headed to Fjerda, to the impenetrable fortress of the Ice Court where she knew she would be put on trial and then quickly afterwards put to death. Simply for existing. The boat had been horrendous, cages full of terrified men and women, beaten and bloodied beyond recognition, going days at a time without food or water, no way of washing and nowhere to relieve themselves, hands bound so tightly that Nina was left with horrible wounds on her wrists that she’d had to use her Grisha power to repair, and yet there was a strange, small part of her across the entire journey that had not wanted it to end. Because she knew that whatever lay on the other side of these weeks was going to be infinitely worse. 

They’d almost reached Fjerda when the storm hit, and Matthias accidentally saved Nina’s life. 

The dreamworld’s version of the ship was warped and changed before her eyes, but she knew instinctively to be in the same place. She was on the floor, her hands bound, the tall bars of an iron cage extending high above her head - impossibly high; elongated by the dream. There were no other captives here, so different from the cramped reality, but Nina was not alone. She was staring at a pair of boots, and before she’d even lifted her head she knew that it was Matthias who stood over her. He looked the same. He looked impossibly changed. 

“Nina Zenik,” his voice was cold. 

What did he intend to do? Apologise, demand apologies from her? Offer forgiveness, or pass sentence and carry it out? Did he intend to be her judge, jury, and executioner? She would never know. He moved as though to kneel before her and the scene melted in time with his step, changed its course to something new; the bars stood between them now, Nina was on her feet and even though he was left invisible by shadows she knew that Matthias was somewhere ahead of her. Was he the prisoner now, or her again? It was impossible to tell; each of them were surrounded by nothing but grey walls of stone, the bars stark and cold before their faces. 

She tried to tentatively call his name, but when she parted her lips a spider, almost as big as her own nose, crawled off her tongue and began to climb its way out of her mouth and up her face. Nina screamed, trying to brush the thing away as its thin, spindly legs found purchase in her flesh, and it was thrown by her hand straight through the bars in front of her. Breaths careened through her chest like runaway horses unmatched too soon from their carts as she stumbled backwards and tried to rebalance her footing. 

A hand stretched from the darkness and landed heavily on one of the bars, gripping it so tightly the metal might have warped beneath the fingers, and after a moment longer Matthias pulled himself forwards and into view. Nina gasped, rushing forward to him; their hands met between the iron, their fingers intertwined, their foreheads could almost touch. 

“Matthias…” she whispered, too many emotions to list imbued upon her tongue. 

“Nina,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across the skin of her hand almost rhythmically, soft and comforting, “Röedfetler,”

Little red bird.

“I’m here,” she nodded, pressing her thumb into his palm, “We’re… I’m here,”

She closed her eyes, tears that she both could and could not explain pouring onto her cheeks, an impossible weight collapsing into air inside her chest as though it had never existed in the first place. But then his grip was tightening, panic seized Nina as her eyes flew open and she saw the spider upon the bare skin of Matthias’ neck. It had bitten him; his flesh swelled in an instant, red and pulsating with hot anger. His grip had moved to her wrists now, tighter than she could stand, pinning her in place. She could imagine the bones snapping beneath his fingers with relative ease. 

“Matthias-”

The redness of the bite was spreading; his entire form was overcome by the furious fire. 

“What have you done?” he snarled, speaking Fjerdan, “What did you do to me?”

The swelling in his neck flared and his hold on her dropped away as he greyed into the hazy edges of the dream, keeling over and vanishing into nothingness. She screamed his name, scrabbled against the ground before the bars, tried to reach through them to find where surely he must be lying in the darkness, he had to be, he had to be, he had to be. Water began to rise from the floor, the room rocked and swayed. It was getting higher by the second, thrown this way and that by the rocking of what had transformed around her from a prison cell to the lower decks of a boat, threatening to rise above Nina’s neck. But she could not stop, could not move, could not stand; she continued to reach madly through the emptiness in front of her, where the bars had been was now empty but for the flood but still she could not find him. The pressure grew against her chest. The boat jolted; Nina was thrown across the space to careen into a wall and now the water was almost at her nose - when had it gotten so high. As she slipped beneath the surface, thrashing madly to try to move, try to swim, try to find a place that she could breathe, bonds began to weave themselves slowly around her wrists. No, no, no. Nina kicked her feet as best she could but now there was something tightening around her ankles as well. The boat jolted once more, the water sloshed, and Nina felt any distant dream of air, of Matthias, of breathing, to be a very childish fantasy. 

Matthias was gone. And Nina was drowning. 

Shipwreck.

She was thrown from the dream with a harsh crack, almost falling off her settee, a pounding in her head so loud it felt the walls were shaking. Wait, no… no, there was something banging here, in the world as well as inside Nina’s mind. She steadied herself, trying to shake her brain back into attention, and realised that someone was knocking on the door. 

“Nina?”

“I- yeah, come in!”

The door creaked slightly as Siobhan pushed it open, a long dressing gown draped over her and tied tightly at her waist, her red hair wet and straggling over one shoulder. She looked at Nina for a moment, a small furrow forming between her brows. 

“Are you okay?”

Nina tried to smile, pulling the scattered pieces of herself back into a shivering, temperamental whole that was sure to shatter in the next firm breeze that shook it as she stood to properly greet Siobhan. 

“I’m fine,” she managed, though by the look on the other girl’s face not very convincingly, “Thank you,” 

Siobhan nodded slowly, a little uncertain, a hand drifting up towards the damp locks of her hair. There was a small towel thrown over shoulder to keep the wet off her white, flighty gown and she began to fidget distractedly with its embroidered edge. Both the towel and the dressing gown were lightly imbued with a swirling pattern of roses along their edges. 

“Right,” she nodded, clearly not entirely believing her, “Well, I just came to let you know I was finished in the bathroom. You can go straight in, Petra brought in plenty of water; she said she’d start heating some more,”

Nina managed to smile and murmur her thanks, turning to the little wardrobe to find her own towels. She was only slightly surprised when she turned to see that Siobhan was still standing there; she was expecting her to be there in that she hadn’t heard he leave, but she wasn’t sure what she was waiting for. 

“Did you-?” she broke off, then tired again with: “I mean… that girl that they’re looking for, the one who broke her contract with the Willow Switch…”

Nina felt herself tense involuntarily, and hoped it hadn’t been noticeable. 

“It was her, wasn’t it, that you asked me about?”

“Asked you about?” Nina frowned. 

“A little before the arrest warrant came out,” Siobhan had now moved on to fidgeting with her sleeve, her neatly manicured fingers almost digging straight through the weave of the fabric, “you asked me if I knew of a girl at the Willow Switch and I’ve been thinking about it  and I’m sure… I’m sure you said Jeluna Kir-Mai,”

Nina opened her mouth, closed it again. Shit. What was she supposed to say now?

“You did, didn’t you?” Siobhan’s eyes scanned over her, studying her intently for every non-verbal response Nina was trying so hard to restrain, “I didn’t misremember? It was her?”

“Siobhan-”

Nina tried to step forwards and Siobhan took a frightened pace away from her. 

“Is she like the others?” she whispered, backing gradually towards the half-open door, “Like the Leopard? Amethyst?”

“No - well, no Siobhan, look - I can explain-”

“Oh Saints,” she’d found the door handle behind her, was trying to slowly manoeuvre her way into the hallway without taking her eyes off Nina, “Oh, Saints, Nina, it’s not true? Please say it’s not true. You didn’t… you didn’t…”

“No, Siobhan, I swear I didn’t do anything, I-”

“You knew,” she shook her head, still trying to find her way out of Nina’s room without turning, “You knew that she would… She didn’t run, did she? Did you tell them something? She… They… What did you do?”

Nina stepped forwards, arm raised in hopes of closing the door before Siobhan’s voice got any louder, and the girl released a strained yelp as she stumbled away from her. 

“Siobhan - I’m sorry - please, just listen-”

She turned and ran. 

In retrospect, chasing Siobhan through the White Rose into her own room and slamming the door shut behind her was probably not the best call, but in the moment Nina couldn’t think of anything else to do short of knocking her unconscious. 

Siobhan backed away into the farthest corner of the room, bumping up against her vanity, staring at Nina like a lost rabbit facing down the barrel of a hunter’s gun. She looked like she was very much regretting asking the question. 

“Nina, please-”

“You tell no-one this,” she hissed, which again in retrospect may not have been the most sensible thing to say, “You hear me? Not a single word,”

Siobhan nodded, over and over, so quickly it looked like her head was going to drop right off her shoulders. Nina watched her, walking slowly farther into the room as she ran her hand along the wall that ran alongside the corridor. She was looking for the peepholes. She knew there must be at least one; she needed to stopper it.

“Someone took her, okay? I had nothing to do with her first going missing, and I had nothing to do with Tara or Amethyst, alright? I promise you that. I don't know who it was, I don’t know what they did, but someone kidnapped Jeluna before that arrest warrant went out and they messed with her head. She doesn’t even remember anything. I found her in the Barrel a few days before the warrant went out, and I tried to keep her safe. I swear to you, I am just trying to keep her safe,”

“How… how did you know that she was gone? Before the warrant?”

Nina took a very slow breath. At least she was talking to her, at least she wasn’t running to find Feliks. She stood up a little straighter, no longer half collapsed against her little vanity, but her eyes were still wary. 

“You know I work for Brekker?”

Siobhan nodded. 

“After what happened to Tara - the Leopard - and Amethyst, I was worried. I asked him to keep tabs on things, and he told me that something was going on at the Willow Switch so I went to try and find out what was going on,” a slight stretch of the truth, but just barely, and a believable one, “One of the girls there, Kheja, told me that Jeluna was in danger,”

Nina had since been back to the Willow Switch twice, very briefly, with a note up her sleeve in search of Kheja, but she was yet to find her. Yet to pass on the very simple message, written on a curled up scrap of paper in mostly neat Shu characters: 

“I found her”

She needed Kheja to know that Jeluna was alive, that she was about as safe as Nina could get her, but after two unsuccessful visits had begun to feel concern sparking inside her for Kheja as well. She was just busy. She must have been. She’ll be back in the foyer eventually. 

But right now she had a more immediate problem at hand. Siobhan still looked nervous, and not entirely convinced. Would she go to Feliks, if she suspected Nina was involved with or maybe working for whoever orchestrated these kidnappings? Would she try to send word to the stadwatch? And in that case, had Nina royally fucked up by bringing Kaz and the Dregs into things? 

“And Dirtyhands just did you a favour?” she asked, incredulous, “Am I supposed to believe he’s keeping her safe somewhere as well?”

“I paid him,”

There was a brief pause. 

“I don’t not believe you…” Siobhan managed, her voice trailing and rising and drifting away like it was on a hike through a rocky mountain range, “You know you shouldn’t have gone to him, though? You shouldn’t get people like him messed up with girls like her. He won’t keep her unless he finds a use for her,”

Nina had nothing to say in response. Had those not been her exact concerns? Was that not the very reason she’d offered to add Jeluna’s debt onto her own? Kaz still hadn’t spoken to her about arranging that. 

“Do you think it was the same person? Who took Tara and Amethyst as well?”

“Yes,”

There were no two ways about that. Siobhan deserved the truth, anyway, or at least the closest approximation of it that Nina was able to give. 

“Is that why they’ve stopped? Because she ran?”

Nina hesitated. 

“I don’t know if they’ve stopped completely,” she said slowly, “and I don’t know how Jeluna got away. But it’s possible that they’re waiting until they hear about Jeluna, to find out if she’s told anyone what happened to her. I don’t… I don’t think that the threat’s over,”

Siobhan snorted a laugh, taking Nina by surprise, and flopped down onto her mattress as she said: 

“The threat’s never over, Nina. It just takes different forms,”

A moment passed as Nina tried to figure out what to say. Siobhan kicked off her slippers and pulled her feet up onto the bed, tucking them beneath her and picking up a throw pillow to clutch over her lap. 

“You’re not lying to me are you?”

Nina shook her head. 

“You swear it?”

“On my life. I have only tried to keep Jeluna safe,”

“Has… has Brekker told you about anything going on anywhere else?”

Nina swallowed. She stepped forwards and gestured questioningly towards the space next to Siobhan on the side of the mattress, who gave a casual wave of permission for Nina to sit down.

The room looked much like Nina’s, a square space with the same white walls, the same eaves, the same flowers on the table, but where the table was at the centre in Nina’s room Siobhan’s was pushed towards the near wall, displaying a tea tray surely to gaudy to actually be useable and only one slender white stool instead of proper chairs. At the centre of the room was the bed, its headboard pressed against the back wall, its white sheets arranged pristinely, usually with a rose-shaped throw cushion lying neatly in between the pillows but that was now sitting on Siobhan’s lap. The smell of the rose perfume was stronger here than in Nina’s room, and she noted the flowers studding the vanity and wardrobe. She also knew that, when in costume, Siobhan often wore the white roses in her hair. 

“There was a girl who went missing before Tara did,” she said, trying to keep her voice gentle, “who he told me about when I brought this up to him. I don’t know if it’s connected, but it might be. She vanished from one of the smaller houses, farther South, and was found dead not long after,” 

Siobhan nodded very slowly, not looking up to meet Nina’s eye. 

“I haven’t heard of anyone going missing since Jeluna,” she said, “When I asked you about her I only suspected something had happened, and was wondering if you might recognise her name. I was also having a shit day and I didn’t put a lot of thought into it, but-”

“Van Eck,” said Siobhan, as though she’d found sudden understanding. 

Nina frowned. That was exactly it. She’d had an awful time in court and then had Jesper walk her to and from the Geldstraat in wonderful timing for her to see just how much of a skiv Jan Van Eck was first hand. 

“I - sorry?”

“It was when you went to see Councilman Van Eck,” she said, “It put you in an awful mood; you had a go at Feliks,”

Nina nodded. 

“You know that put him in an awful mood?” Siobhan watched her for a moment, like she was trying to read something written in between Nina’s eyes in a tiny script, before she said, “I heard Van Eck asked you to go back,”

“Yeah, tonight…” Nina frowned, “I didn’t go,”

Siobhan started to say something that might have been “good” but then caught herself, and instead: 

“There’s rumours, you know? About the Councilmen,”

“Van Eck?”

Siobhan nodded. 

“And a few others; I heard the name Hoede, from someone who works for him,”

“What…?” Nina swallowed, “What are the rumours?”

“Well, maybe they’re just nonsense but…” Siobhan shrugged, “they’re saying there’s this drug,”

[moonybemine]

WHO WANNA BE BESTIES‼️ i need someone to giggle over hp with. you HAVE to be a jkr hater tho bc i hate terfs and am agender(im just vibin tho all gendered terms i use by vibe alone)

MINORS DNI

i have some Opinions on a lot of things about hp and i have some fluctuating emotions on certain characters. i genuinely treat every hp character like barbies that i play with and put into Shenanigans and Situations.

i will reading bashing fics especially albus ones i hate the things he did but i on occasion have been known to enjoy a good albus fic including ones where he's less "we have to kill voldy!!" and more "you (platonically or romantically)Love someone, dont you Tom?" like that spongebob meme. i do not like sirius or remus bashing, it's always overly harsh and vilifies a man locked away in the harshest prison who's mental faculties have been horribly abused, and while The Prank was an incredibly stupid attempt of a prank due to the danger it put severus in and also remus i ultimately believe it would've never happened in the first place if albus and minerva properly chastised the marauders earlier for their treatment of snape. we also don't know when this happened in the timeline of the marauders, was it before or after snape and lily's falling out. in remus' case he's a man who's been treated as a monster his whole life who was allowed into hogwarts by albus who then used this BOY'S gratitude to make him go into enemy territory and spy on and try to recruit people to the other side of the war. not to mention that albus groomed them all to fight the boy he FAILED(ive got so many opinions on tom and albus) and then when remus who support network was either dead or imprisoned he was told he couldn't raise harry and was told to not contact him. albus did all he fucking could to make harry miserable and pliable so that he'd sacrifice himself to end a war like a pig to slaughter. ur telling me Great Albus Dumbledore defeater of grindelwald couldnt find a solution to the horcrux besides having him walk to his death not to mention that he could've probably figured out horcruxes decades earlier and tried collecting them and probably would've succeeded! also i hate that the whole marauders generation is completely wiped out jkr u nasty bitch!

my ultimate fav ships are nottpott and wolfstar. ive BEEN a wolfstar lover since i was literally a child. nottpott entered my life last year and proceeded to ruin me on drarry(and pretty much every other ship involving harry and someone else or theo and someone else) i used to hate dramione bc i was apart of a toxic forum back in the day but i have grown to enjoy it bc it usually goes hand in hand with nottpott. i am forever a fremione and a pansmione gurlie tho. i love a lot of marauders ships as well jegulus/jily/jegulily/wolfstar/marylily/dorlene/pandalily/rosekiller/etc

i will mention i have dipped my toe into tomarry. i have enjoyed quite a few fics with this pairing and while i have enjoyed mostly ones where they are both teens, i do not like or support ones where its oldie voldie and literal child harry. its a grey area with somethings with them because of a multitude of factors and it shifts from a fic to fic basis. im not one to judge overly harsh over liking ships but i will judge in cases of straight up pedophilia but it will mostly result in a block because im not a child that starts fights on the internet anymore. i also do not support bestiality or incest and i'm specifying these things in particular due to a intimate relationship with the harry potter ao3 tag i know what freaks and weirdos exist there. literally the only fuckin fandom thats got a UNIQUE BESTIALITY tag

anyways msg me if ur interested <3

[pluralsword]

Months Later, Earthspark...

So... we didn't forget about Earthspark.

How could we? We've said we think it's the overall best Transformers show so far in 2023 CE, we were very excited at how it tackled how gender and alt-mode can relate to each other (except the Jawbreaker episode was a disappointment what with how masculinity problems were basically substituted for dinosaurs and mixed up with what should have been a PTSD narrative for Grimlock separate from Jawbreaker's aesthetic journey, and on the subject of rage that came here you would sure think the warrior teacher gal Robbie's asks if she'd show her "beserker rage" would have had some advise), the prison abolition stuff is cool, Arcee was fantastic and so very clearly drawing on her IDW iterations to the point we were hoping she'd talk about gender stuff onscreen and it would unfortunately seem that is not likely to happen... So we were enthused, but also frustrated, with how the Terran and Cybertronian aspects of life are almost always only seen through the lens of anatomy, vague history, or the oppression they go through under an ICE allegory, and qualms that have been touched on how the Terrans are basically raised without connection or celebration of transformer societal practices along with false equivalencies of the Transformers to human immigrants to the USA and uh well... ...there were some things that squicked us about some of the threats the characters faced that reminded us of childhood traumas from media and socialization growing up and we don't feel like getting into it directly too much.

We wanted to write something that honored the parts we liked while navigating how we think the bots in-universe would feel about the stuff the show didn't cover or the traumas they were put through, and how they may have tackled that offscreen, if only because we feel the deep want to. So... several months ago, after writing part of the first chapter but not being in the emotional headspace to actually finish it what with other things in life going on, we got back to it in November:

All Souls' Reforging is Neverending, which you can read on Ao3, here's the summary:

After the events of Season 1 Episode 19 "A Stygi Situation", Grimlock and Jawbreaker are in the forest when Grim gets a call from his close friend and old revolutionary war pal, Arcee, who's checking on him and offering to hang out beyond the notice of GHOST to help with his healing process, as Grimlock had done for her twice in the past. Grimlock happily agrees, and Jawbreaker goes along as well. In the Autobot's hideaway, Arcee and Grimlock detail to Jawbreaker some of the depths of peaceful transformer history and society that overlap and differ from humanity, the hierarchy that disrupted that legacy, and the Autobot rise after. Arcee also gives him some tools to embrace his strength to be gentle. As a neurodiverse trans system with some gal gender stuff & a second generation immigrant background who navigated anger and rage and pain over otherness and alienation, it was a bit saddening to see how awkward the guy-gal dynamic was in "A Stygi Situation" and that Arcee wasn't present with her own insight on rage as a tool with reason and ethos. So we wrote this, Chapter 2 and 3 will be about Arcee, Nova Storm, & Skywarp navigating traumas from episodes after, and how they seek closure.

For people who are okay with chapter spoilers, you can find the chapter 2 summary below. we dunno when we're gonna write chapter 3, rather busy:

Nova Storm and Skywarp have been through a lot. Veterans of the war against Functionism, they fell from the ethos of solidarity then by helping fight for the Decepticon Empire. In the aftermath of that war, they ended up on the run from GHOST on an unfriendly world, had to turn to the cruel and hateful Dr. Mandroid for sustenance and vengeance, endured imprisonment, faced off against the terrifying and repulsively invasive Dweller of the Depths, and finally became part of the reckoning that brings down GHOST. Trauma hits differently for everyone, and for Nova Storm, her encounter with the Dweller has left her unable to enjoy embraces and kisses from her partner Skywarp, and she still struggles with anger and sadness over how helpless she felt. So, when the dust settles after the Season 1 finale, Nova Storm turns for help from one of her old combat unit friends among the Autobots, Arcee… and she and Skywarp realize almost immediately that the violation of autonomy by mind control that Arcee experienced from GHOST likely left her in need of help as well, so mutual healing and reconciliation is sought… along with resolve to make joy and mourn for all that has come to pass.

So uh, yeah, this chapter also deals with how icky the Dweller in the Depths episode was (particularly but certainly not limited to the way the Dweller held Nova Storm reminded us of sexual(ized) violence. to be honest) in a way that we think the characters might in retrospect.

Again, you can read All Souls' Reforging is Neverending, which you can read on Ao3. Also, please feel free to reach out to us about this writing or comment, we know it covers sensitive topics even if with a g-rated framework.

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

Chat writes the plot! Time for more 👑🐲🐟 KotD!

Want to be on the tag list? Have an idea for next chapter? Clicked the wrong option? Reblog or Comment! New? Check the very bottom for the Ao3 link. Latest chapter is down below the cut!🔥

~King of the Dragonfish: Chapter 5~

It hurts.

Obi-Wan curls in on himself where he kneels by the back wall, deeply regretting taking his tunics off to dry. They might've protected him from the creature's tentacles. Instead, one of it's long, sucker-lined arms has lashed across the skin of his back.

Breath stealing pain is blooming over the marks, around his shoulders and half way up his neck on the other side. He can feel the circles from the octopus’s suckers like they're on him even now, a brand of fire-and-ice.

“Breathe,” demands the sith who has imprisoned him here.

Obi-Wan tries, truly he does, but his efforts to inhale are choppy at best. The hurt is so profound he can barely think.

“Breathe!” Maul orders him.

“Huu- hu-... rtss…” he manages, vision going dark near the edges.

Without warning, it lifts.

Suddenly the pain is more than halved, something like a four of ten, rather than a nine. More than enough relief for him to finally gasp, dragging in fresh air like it was all he could ever ask for.

It takes Obi-Wan a moment to reorient himself, after the suddenness of it all. He had gone from a light doze, to waking up under attack, to fighting for his life, to being in incandescent pain, and then relieved of it. All within a span measured in minutes.

When he's refocused enough to get outside of his own head, the jedi master discovers he's half on top of the bloody -literally and figuratively- sith. He cries out, feeling scales under his hands as he throws himself away-

The pain returns like a lightning strike, like an electro-whip across his shoulders. It's so sudden and intense that Obi-Wan can't help but scream, losing all his air and finding himself unable to get it back. He hits the floor, hard, but past that he can't make sense of the world.

It hurts it hurts it hurts-

It lessens.

Obi-Wan drags in lungfuls of air, shaking in place as he tries to just be.

“Witless jedi! Be still,” Maul hisses at him.

He does, but only because he can do nothing else. Minutes turn over, and Obi-Wan regathers himself again. He is still in pain, significant pain, but not enough to blind him. The left side of his chest… hurts.

‘That is a very bad sign,’ the jedi thinks wearily to himself.

When he can see straight once more, Obi-Wan dares to assess where he is and what's happening before moving this time. The results are just as uncomfortable. Actually, no, they're worse. Where he had last been laid over the sith's scaled lap, now he was up against a muscular chest, that long tail fin running between his legs.

The jedi thanks the force, twice, that he hadn't decided to put his legging out to dry as well as his tunics.

“What-” he tries to speak, coughing before he can continue, “What's happening to me?”

The creature's touch… had done something to him.

Obi-Wan suddenly realizes that Maul, that Darth kriffing Maul, is cuddling him. One hand holds the back of his neck, pinning the jedi to his breast. The other clawed hand is… petting him, is the only way Obi-Wan can describe it. Gently, rhythmically, petting him.

He legitimately wonders if he's hallucinating.

“The gorogoro is venomous, and it stung no small section of your pathetically delicate flesh,” the sith underneath him explains scornfully.

“It… hurts. It hurt more before but…” Obi-Wan trails off, thinking sluggish, “... you're doing something?”

Maul makes a disgruntled noise. “If by something you mean reinacting an ancient sith rite of pain sharing to keep you alive? Then yes.”

The jedi makes three different faces trying to acclimate to that reality. “I'm. We're. What.”

"Connected. Sharing."

Obi-Wan fails to produce words, and has to breathe for a moment and just, parse everything. Then, he tries again, “That octopus stung me… with it's suckers…”

“Yes,” Maul confirms, “the pain is meant to make you seize, unable to breathe, then you die.”

“... kark,” he decides quietly. The sith scoffs, his claws slowly gliding back and forth across Obi-Wan's upper back.

Oh. He can feel it now. Where the sith's hand passes, the pain… much of it lifts from him. But where does it go? Wait…

“You said, this is a pain sharing ritual?” He asks to clarify, immediately feeling stupid. Maul had already said so, twice, and yet it answered very little.

“Ahhh,” the other man confirms, “Sharing of pain is sacred. Surviving pain makes you stronger. Passion overcomes weakness, proof that peace is a lie.”

Maul speaks like a true believer. Obi-Wan just thinks that all sounds like cultish hogwash, but sure. Not dying of indescribable pain is… good.

"And... you're not effected by the sting?"

"Mmno, zabrak are resistant to most toxins," he replies.

Obi-Wan glances at his ear-fins pointedly. "You're not exactly a zabrak anymore..."

Maul chuckles, and it's half way to being a threat. "I am half of one, as yet. I wonder who I have to blame for that."

The sith is, of course, complicit enough in his own choices to be equally, if not more, responsible for the results.

... but that isn't a fight he wants to pick right now. “You're feeling the pain you're lifting from me?”

“Mnnnn,” Maul hums, and oh, ye gods, he does not sound unhappy about it.

“You're enjoying this!” Obi-Wan accuses him.

The sith laughs like wind whistling through rusty pipes. “Yesssss.”

The jedi closes his eyes and just… checks out for a moment. Now he knows what that bulge underneath him is. He's not going to look at it, he's not going to think about it-

Wait, if Maul is half fish now, does that mean he has a-

No. no.

He is not going to think about it, he is going to focus, and- and-

Step one is figuring out if he absolutely needs to be draped over the other man in order to have his pain lessened. Yes, he's going to ignore what's happening in favor of being… clinical.

“Is this much contact really necessary for the… rite?”

“Hmmm?” the sith asks, like he's half high on the pain, no meds required.

Obi-Wan tries again, asking what he really wants to know more directly. “Can I be on the floor while you do this?”

“Mnh,” Maul replies, “I suppose.”

The dragonfish sith rolls them over, and it is ridiculous how graceful he is about it. Obi-Wan's left leg is nudged up and over, then he is rolled face first onto the cold ground.

Loops of tail coil over him, pinning his legs to the ground. Forearms brace on his midback, and a suspicious bulge nestles between his thighs. Obi-Wan draws his arms forward, and hides his face in them. This is... not even slightly better. Worse, actually.

“Is it completely necessary for you to be laying on me while we do this?” he spits.

Fingers slide into Obi-Wan's hair, grabbing it and wrenching his head back.

“Ungrateful!” the sith hisses, “Every word out of your filthy mouth should be gratitude that I would share such a gift with you.”

This is a horrible time for Obi-Wan to be reminded that he has a hair pulling… thing.

“S-sorry, sorry. My. My apologies,” he gasps.

The tension on his scalp is released, and the jedi buries his head in his arms again, just about coming up on being too emotionally overwhelmed to be sensible. The sith leans over him, covering him, claws still gliding over the slowly bruising sucker marks.

“Thank me for sharing your pain, Kenobi,” Maul whispers in his ear, threatening.

He just… doesn't have it in him to snark back like he wants to, and deal with the repercussions, not right now. “...Thank you.”

“Good,” the sith croons, and-

Surprisingly, the weight on his legs rolls away. Maul lays on his side next to him, petting his back slow and steady.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says again, softer.

“Mnnn.”

“... how long will this last?” he asks, subdued.

“... I do not know. I have never seen anything survive it.”

Obi-Wan emerges from the shelter of his arms to give the sith a horrified look.

Luminous yellow-green eyes meet his gaze, and the man snorts. “Most things stung die in minutes Kenobi. There is no reason for it to be long lasting, and even if it goes much longer, you will be fine. I will endure with you.”

“Oh… okay.”

“Say it back to me,” the dragonfish sith demands airily.

“... say what back to you?” he prevaricates.

Maul gives him a look.

Obi-Wan sighs, really not interested in actually engaging in a creepy sith ritual, but, well, the man was active life support at the moment, and doing it the hard way.

Er… the… the… something besides hard. Not the figurative hard way at all, actually, the other man was clearly enjoying it enough that he…

Obi-Wan is not going to look.

The jedi masters his curiosity by gluing his chin to the forearm beneath it. “I will endure with you?” he tries, uncertain.

The sith makes a pleased hum. Then, he whispers, “So attractive…”

Alarmed, Obi-Wan side eyes the sith, “Excuse me?”

Maul is leaning in, inspecting the circular bruising that stripes his back in the same way a jeweler would appraise a new shipment of precious stones.

“Your skin purples, and- and yellows…” The sith inhales, enraptured, “it is lovely. Like a painting of the damage.”

“Er… thank… you?” What the kriff is he supposed to say to that?

Maul lays his cheek down on the bruising he so favors, and the pain in that area fades to basically nothing. They both sigh in response, for very different reasons.

Hours pass like this, with sporadic conversation and pain sharing. By the two hour mark, Obi-Wan feels fine. A bit hungry. In want of a softer place to lay, as well, but fine enough. He begins to suspect that after a certain point, Maul started taking all of the pain. The jedi isn't going to complain about it though.

He does fall asleep, however, lulled to rest by the radiant heat of the lava orb, and gentle claws that stroke his back, even still.

-Tag list- (Comment if you want added!)

@obimaulartfire @savageopressbignaturals @icequeen8043

New? Start from Chapter 1! 👇🏽

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[dhr-ao3]

The Gallows

The Gallows https://ift.tt/P7U8dCv by gillianeliza Five years after the Battle of Hogwarts the Ministry of Magic has one more wizard to bring to trial: Draco Malfoy. However, it's not a trial they're after, it's a spectacle to celebrate the end of the Death Eater regime with the execution of their final prisoner. When Hermione realizes their plan, she halts the trial and invokes The Gallows Law — an ancient law that pardons any pureblood male without an heir if a witch will marry him. What Hermione isn't ready for is the reality of bonding a broken, shell of a wizard and her new life as she moves into Malfoy Manor as the new Lady Malfoy. Words: 2449, Chapters: 2/23, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini Additional Tags: Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, references to execution, Traumatized Draco Malfoy, Broken Draco Malfoy, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy in Azkaban, Hermione is trying her best, marriage law, Slytherins adopt Hermone, Good Slytherins, Trauma, Unresolved Trauma, Agoraphobia, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Discussions of Suicide, Illusions to starvation, discussions of torture, Aftermath of Torture, Imprisonment, Discussions of death, Psychological Trauma, Grief, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Discussions of grief, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, This one is gonna hurt, No Pregnancy, Explicit Sexual Content, like... eventually, Post-War Trauma, Slow Burn, Pansy Parkinson is a menace, Pretty much everyone is queer, Sassy Theo Nott, Maybe book an appointment with your therapist after this one, Eventual HEA, But you're going to work for it, DO NOT PUT ON GOODREADS via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/5UrRz3X May 23, 2024 at 07:18PM

[houxe]

Free Palestine

Listen, I understand that I am just a silly little fanfic creator and my work is often used as an escape for rl problems, but I am also someone who's made my stance on dehumanization and abuse of minorities (even in fictional works) extremely clear and what is currently happening, and has been happening for almost a century, to Palestinians is unacceptable. If there is anyone who follows me, or is in my little community on discord, AO3, whatever, that supports the state of Israel? Lose my account.

This is not a debate. This is not a discussion to be had. I will not be arguing with you in comments.

If you support the state and government of Israel and the war crimes, genocide, ethnic cleansing, and the imprisonment they're committing on the people of Palestine and Gaza, get away from my works, my art, and whatever small community I have made.

These are people. Living, breathing people who had hopes and dreams and futures they wanted to live. Palestinians deserve to live, they've done nothing to warrant the murder and ethnic cleansing of their people.

And the only reason they're facing this is because people think they're inferior. As something not human.

They're human. They're human.

I am not going to explain to you why imprisoning and killing thousands of innocent civilians (mainly children) is bad. Especially when the Israeli government has quite literally been spreading provenly false stories about things like murdered Israeli babies, human shields, and attacks to make themselves seem justified, along with propaganda portraying Palestinians as literal bugs. Calling them animals and dogs and rodents to be 'exterminated', and has been putting them in an open-air prison for years and then turned it into death camp.

It's disgusting, it's evil, is is quite literally a known practice for suppressors to do against their victims as an excuse to murder them.

I should not also have to say that me being pro-Palestine and anti-Zionism does not mean I am anti-Semitic nor do I support Hamas.

That is also propaganda.

I am not anti-Semitic nor do I wish or encourage any harm on Jewish or innocent people, and I do not support Hamas.

Palestinian people are also considered a Semitic people which means some of them are Jewish. Jewish people as a whole are not the Israeli government or state and should not be treated as such. It is blatantly wrong to say being anti-Israel (the state and government of Israel) and anti-Zionism is to be anti-Semitic.

Additionally, not all Jewish people are Zionists and not all Zionists are Jewish people. It's not a religion, it is a political ideology. Many, many Jewish people have spoken up against this and have been protesting against the state of Israel for their genocide of the Palestinian people in Gaza and for the colonization of their land.

What I am is anti-genocide, Zionism, dehumanization, apartheid states, colonization, literal war crimes, death camps, and ethnic cleansing. Just to name a few.

Again, if you support Israel, lose my account. Stay away from my community and any of my works.

If you'd like to learn more about what is happening in Gaza, the people of Palestine, and ways you can help, your best option is to go to TikTok and find these creators who speak and share videos of what is directly happening in Palestine.

vivafalastinleen

arabicmclovin

edwardmliger

thanaa89

clios_world

jamesgetspolitical

naleybynature

aljazeeraenglish

genzforchange

fakegyllenhalal

artlust

devotedly.yours (this link keeps getting removed)

palestine_mwm

rahimehramezany

rynnstar

5149jamesli

wonderlandnews

mxnonme

hippiearab

redauxdefective

brainsballsncigarettes4

super_soniq_m

simkern

dianalomani (this link keeps getting removed)

jamesissmiling

eyes.on.palestine (this link keeps getting removed)

More will likely be added to this list.

Places you can donate:

baitulmaal.org

map.org.uk

irusa.org

mecaforpeace.org

unrwa.org

Lastly, I will leave off with a few videos that should be seen.

Where you can learn specifics on the history and current events of Palestine.

And one specifically for writers of fantasy and sci-fi like me.

Edits: Added more CCs to the list, added a list of places to donate, added more videos, and clarified my wording more. I did take down the comparison just in case, but I'm leaving it to Jewish creators (Redauxdefective) to speak on it. Note, some links to CCs keep getting removed and I'm not sure why.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Chapter 1

Summary: After the attack on Piccadilly Circus, Sgt. Rory Sinclair hopes to get back in the fight, seeking justice for what happened in London at the hands of Al-Qatala. An OC POV on the events of the first COD: MW reboot game

Warnings: Minors DNI - canon typical violence, referenced terrorism, swearing, military inaccuracies

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV) *they are in a secret relationship as she is an enlisted soldier, not an officer*

Word count: 1.4 k

A/N: A continuation of Rory's story, highly suggest reading "All Along the Watchtower" first to understand her character. Follows the canon events of the game, but told from Rory's POV as she gets dragged into things. The first few chapters follow her emotional turmoil after the attack on Piccadilly Circus.

[AO3]

October 25, 2019 - SRR HQ, Stirling Lines, Credenhill, Herefordshire UK

Chaos.

Sheer and unbridled.

Total calamity. 

Phones rang non-stop like sirens and alarm bells wailing, information passed along like a piss poor game of tag. Nothing solid. Fragments. Bits and pieces scrounged together as more radio calls came in from ground zero. 

Piccadilly Circus. London. 

Home . 

Bodies rushed around the pool of cubicles, raised voices barking. They had run drills regarding this sort of circumstance, but it could never truly prepare them for the real thing – a terrorist attack on home ground. They were meant to be safe, complacency having set in, all to keep the image of protected borders at the forefront of everyone’s minds. These types of things didn’t happen here, certainly not in England, attacks like this happened on foreign soil and the war machine could keep running, chugging forward to flatten its enemies and make someone, anyone pay for what happened. But not now, not today. All sense of control had been utterly thrown out the window. 

Rory’s breath froze, held in her chest and burning her lungs, that same imprisoned breath she would take before firing her weapon, held hostage but with no sign of the exhale coming any time soon. In a situation like this she couldn’t step away from her desk and catch it, getting fresh air and a cigarette. Time was of the essence. She had to grit her teeth and carry on, pushing her way through it, forcing the emotions that wanted to rise to the surface into the background, even as her brain tried to drift into a total fog. She had to separate her own personal anxieties from the work at hand, collecting and navigating the intel, sorting out what was conjecture and what was fact – the only thing that held absolute was that this was the work of Al-Qatala. 

Filtering the radio chatter from the police on site, reports of men screaming about ‘The Wolf’ made her stomach twist. Stabbed by a dozen stinging blades, the flaming hot heat of a bullet cutting through the body and the blood that would bloom forth from the seeping wound. Searing . She saw this coming, knew an act of aggression like this was a certainty. A shot fired to start a war for so-called independence , revenge for a nation that had been ravaged by “civil war” for twenty years, an attack on one of the foreign powers that had stepped foot into Urzikstan years ago as an ally. She had put in the work to prevent it from happening. Two years . Two years of her life focused on AQ and it had mattered for naught. 

CCTV footage played on the monitors in front of her, drones sent in to track enemy movements – but it was too late. It was all too late . Sitting there from the safety of her desk, Rory was forced to watch images of terrified people freeze or drop to the ground, while others ran, all of them forced to take part in the evolutionary reaction to fear at the first sight of a suicide bomber stepping out of a van, strapped into his vest. It should have been a normal Friday night, people traveling home from work, the bustling streets full of pedestrians, the lights and sounds of the West End. Alive . Instead, it was a war zone, blood and bodies. Her heart squeezed, crawling up into her throat in a lump as she reviewed the feed of the first moments of the attack, working with facial recognition software. Witnessing the faces of men, women and children caught in their final moments – the looks of desperation, fear, regret – lives both long and short flashing before their eyes. Civilians trapped in the middle of it all – the casualties in such a populated area would be immense.

Casualties . Such a dehumanizing word. A term she had come to both loathe and make a constant in her lexicon. Numbers and names added to a list, made into statistics rather than face the real cost of war: the families left behind, the suffering they would face in the aftermath. Mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, children – some of them wouldn’t be coming home that night. Despite having learned to cut the emotion out of things as a soldier, a death toll like this, having to watch the footage and see the faces of those actually affected, seeing their names and information appear on her screen from the database, the detachment simply wasn’t possible. She knew better than to make this a personal responsibility, to carry the burden of lost lives, her mind could only take so much, and yet that need to find justice coursed through her. Justice , or was it closer to vengeance? The lines were blurring now, especially as she found herself checking the footage subconsciously for one person she knew was likely caught in the middle of it all. 

Dad – her father might have been counted amongst those numbers; he still took the time to walk from the office to the Tube each day. A flurry of images flashed across her mind’s eye, the worst horrors she could picture until she knew otherwise. Things that made her blood run cold. There would be no word as to whether he was alive or dead until the fighting was over and the threat dealt with. 

Even a soldier in her position got left in the dark.

Her thumb tapped against her desk, her leg jittering underneath it, her nerves firing at a mile a minute. She couldn’t think straight even if she wanted to, no amount of training helped to prepare her for this. Diving headfirst into a fire fight was less nerve wracking than the fear of the unknown. Not knowing whether – as of ten minutes ago and that first bomb going off – she was an orphan or not. 

She wouldn’t make it another minute without knowing. 

Slipping the mobile from her fatigue pants, she scrolled past the five missed call notifications from John and swiped through her directory to reach her father. Raking her hand through her hair as she rested her elbows on her desk, she squeezed her eyes shut in silent prayer to who-knew-what considering she had never once been religious in her life. The phone held to her ear rang, each one feeling like an eternity in between. Once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail .

Fuck. 

Biting at the sore hangnails that hung on the side of her fingers, red and raw. She had been on high alert since the message was passed through SRR HQ by MI6 about the Russian gas that had gotten into terrorist hands a day prior, leaking the info to Price the moment she heard. It was all she could think to do on such short notice, and it still wasn’t enough. It hadn’t stopped a damn thing. She’d been left to flounder while everyone else in command seemed to have their heads shoved up their arse about the threat – they couldn’t bury themselves any longer. 

Her mobile dinged, and a text popped up in her notifications: Know ur busy with shit hitting fan. Heading in. 

Rubbing her hands down her face, her chest tightened further. She knew Price could handle himself, he had entered the fray often in the two years they had been together and yet, every time, it still caused a cold sweat to overtake her. A part of her wished she could be there with him. More complications added into the mix, more fear of the unknown settling in like a bony, clawed hand sending chills down her spine. There was something to be said for soldier’s superstitions however, he had never skipped texting her before heading into an op, he also never added a note about loving her, and as far as they were both concerned that was enough to make sure he kept coming back home. The sentiment was always implied anyhow in the simple fact that he had sent the message to her in the first place – thinking of her as he faced constant danger. 

That didn’t stop her from texting back with her heart on her sleeve, however. Come back home to me in one piece, love. That, or call her in for the fight. Having to sit at her desk, unable to serve the way she knew she could best – it made her anger swell like a venom coursing through her constricted veins. 

Wolves were territorial beasts and her home, her family, had been threatened.

tagging @efingart

[bard-llama]

ATLA WiP List

Yeah, it's not Wednesday. Sue me - Wednesdays have actually become a really bad day for me to write/share works in progress. So idk I'm just gonna do it whenever, I guess?

Anyway, every once in a while, I like to make lists of all my too-many WiPs, so that's what this is. Under a cut, because the list is gonna be super long.

So for context, I have 3 categories my WiP docs (fic series, long fic, and fic collection) and within those, have a mix of shippy and gen fics. So I'll break this list out by type and then gen vs Zukaang vs other.

Also, apparently tumblr won't let you do nested bullets anymore??????? wtf tumblr. Everyday, you get less and less usable.

Fic Series

All have at least one story in the series published on AO3.

Gen (2)

Balance (current fic: Earth and Air)

Accidental Shaman Zuko (current fic(s): An Equal and Opposite Reaction, Two Avatars on a Road Trip)

Zukaang (4)

Two Lovers, Forbidden from One Another (current fic: As the Breeze Shapes the Dunes)

Seduction of the Innocent (current fic(s): Book 1: Seduction of the Innocent, Book 2: Fables and Reflections, Book 3: untitled fic where worlds collide)

Ba Sing Se Boyfriends (current fic(s): Facing the Dragon (of the West), Chillin' in Ba Sing Se, untitled fic where they investigate the Dai Li)

Justice, Served Cold with a Side of Vengenace (current fic: The Unlearning of Fear (And the Acceptance of Love))

Long Fics

These fics got long enough to graduate to their own document, but are (probably) not a series.

Gen (4)

Zuko's Odyssey (pre-canon, mostly planning, few words - intended to be a mishmash of atla with The Odyssey)

Helping Hands (chronic pain fic where Zuko gets his hands stomped on by Zhao at Pohuai and has to work with Aang to escape)

A Second Chance at Family (time travel fic where Azula's lightning 'kills' Zuko and sends him back to mid-s1)

Thrice Cursed, Once Broken (post-canon au sorta - Zuko becomes Fire Lord after being imprisoned on the Day of Black Sun)

Zukaang (6)

Once Upon a Dream (soulmate dreamsharing au where Zuko has always dreamed of the cold and dark of Aang's iceberg)

Damned by a Look (s1 soulmate au where the Fire Lord authorizes the arrest of the Avatar's soulmate. Zuko ends up in Zhao's brig during the Northern Invasion when the Ocean possesses Aang and forces him to kill the invading soldiers)

(Going) Down and Out in Ba Sing Se (s2 au where Zuko chooses Aang in the finale and then has to deal with the aftermath)

The Fire Lord and the Avatar (s2 au where Zuko joins Aang early, unpublished)

Dragon Mama Zuko (s3 au where Zuko gets pregnant via dragon, so much written but not fucking ch 2 ugh)

Action, Inaction, and Consequences (post-canon fic where war criminals are put on trial)

Other (4)

The First Reaction to Truth is Hated (pre-canon, Aang & Kuzon & Bumi, Aang & Gyatso left the Southern Air Temple the day before Sozin's Comet. They survived, but now have to deal with the aftermath)

Hope for the Future (late s3 au, Zutaraang, Aang dreams of a future with Zuko and Katara. When Zuko shows up the next day, he's inclined to trust)

A Seat at the Table (post-canon, Zutaraang eventually, fic about recognizing sovereign powers outside the 4 nations)

A Royal Heir (post-canon fic, Zutaraang, Zuko needs a legitimate heir)

Fic Collections

AKA I have waaaaaay too many WiPs for them all to get their own document.

Gen (55)

Agni's Little Flame (unpublished, spirits aren't supposed to play favorites, but they kinda do)

Unyielding (unpublished, never give up without a fight)

Zuko Collects Strays (unpublished, post-canon)

Zuko adapts other bending techniques (unpublished, Zuko accidentally uses an airbending move while firebending, then realizes there's potential in it)

Fire Control (unpublished, it takes a lot of control not to let fire burn wildly)

Those Who Tell Stories Rule the World (storyteller Zuko)

The Consequences of Breaking the Rules (late s3 au, Zuko is scared of messing up and getting punished by the Gaang)

Nightmares (unpublished, Katara is uncomfortable with Zuko's vocal nightmares. It's hard to hate someone when they're suffering.)

Being a Master Means Understanding That You Know Nothing (actually, this might be ready to publish????)

Healing Fire (unpublished, Zuko is in denial about his 'heat technique' actually healing people)

Sibling Rulers (unpublished, Azula and Zuko as Co-Rulers)

Azula and Her Brother (unpublished, Azula character study)

Breathing Fire (unpublished, tho ch 1 might be ready for publishing, Zuko's crew's reaction to this brat breathing fire all over the place)

Katara hating on Zuko (unpublished, set in the Western Air Temple, it's easy to hate Zuko until she learns more about him)

Zhao's Retribution (Zhao heavily injures Zuko, who is rescued by survivors of the 41st, who happen to follow Jeong Jeong. Aang, Katara, and Sokka still walk into Jeong Jeong's camp without noticing)

Viva la Resistance (unpublished, Zhao ends up regretting stealing Zuko's crew)

Aang in the Iceberg: Dreams (unpublished, while frozen, Aang exists in a dream world. Eventually, Zuko joins him)

Aang in the Iceberg: Angst Coma Time Travel (unpublished, when Zuko has his angst coma freakout in s2, he wakes up in the iceberg with Aang)

Punishment (unpublished, the Gaang is horrified when Zuko approaches them at the Western Air Temple, prepared for his punishment)

Muzzled (unpublished, Zhao welds a muzzle onto Zuko's face. The Gaang is horrified when they find him)

The Long Road to Recovery (unpublished, rejected by the Gaang in late s3, Zuko ends up imprisoned and tortured by the EK and the FN. After the war is over, he's found)

Trusted with a weapon (unpublished, Zuko realizes the Gaang trusts him when they aren't bothered at him sparring with Suki with his swords)

Gaang Established Routines (unpublished, the Gaang's domestic dynamic)

The Tournament of Kingship (post-canon, Bumi dies and Omashu's King has to be chosen thru a tournament. Naturally, Toph has to claim the title of Greatest Earthbender in the World)

Actions Speak Louder Than Words (unpublished, s3 Zuko apologizes to the Gaang thru acts of service/thoughtful gifts)

Spontaneous Combustion (unpublished, s2 au where Zuko stumbles upon a mystery in Ba Sing Se when people seemingly catch on fire out of nowhere)

Early s3 AU (unpublished, goes AU in the Sparky Sparky Boom Man episode and Zuko asks the Gaang to stop his Father, who just revealed his plans for the comet)

Choosing Nonviolence: Aang sees Zuko’s Scars (unpublished, Aang's vows of pacifism are challenged with every scar Zuko unveils. Zuko does not understand why he holds strong anyway.)

Choosing Nonviolence: What is Forgiveness? (unpublished, Zuko does not understand how Aang can refuse to kill Ozai)

Ozai is annoyed when his useless son befriends a blind EK noble (unpublished, pre-canon)

Truth Serum (unpublished, during The Chase, a pollen infects them and makes them tell the truth)

De-Aged Zuko (unpublished, s1 au where a spirit curses Zuko and the Gaang does not know what to think)

Flower language (unpublished, Zuko fucks up when he unknowingly burns Aang's friendship offering (a flower crown))

Working Together/Mission Fic (unpublished, s1 au where Zuko and Aang are captured by slavers and have to escape, along with the other kids who have been snatched)

Zuko becomes Fire Lord at 13 AU (unpublished, Zuko fights back in the Agni Kai. This changes everything.)

Toph joins S1 (unpublished, s1 au with bonus Toph, who utterly destroys the pirates Zuko is working with)

A Scarred Foundation (Zuko's badly scarred enough that he hides the worst of it with makeup)

Gifts (unpublished, late s3 fic, each culture views birthdays differently. Air Nomads don't track them, but they're very important on Kyoshi Island)

Katara POV Zuko tortured by Fire Lord (unpublished, in a world where everything went wrong, Katara is forced to admit that Zuko probably is, in fact, on their side - for all the good it does him now)

Ozai finds out Zuko joined the Avatar (unpublished, Ozai is so fucking annoyed with this damned brat getting in his way)

Kanna (unpublished, character study)

Gyatso runs away with Aang (unpublished, series au in which Gyatso gets frozen with Aang and wakes up 100 years later to Sokka and Katara)

Dad Convo (unpublished, Zuko has a few questions for Hakoda)

Shaking it up down south (unpublished, the South Pole has an issue with sexism. This turns out to be a problem in a post-war world where the women kept the tribe running while the men were away)

Something to Live For (unpublished, sometimes when you're in so much pain that it's hard to survive, you just need something to live for)

Earthbender Zuko (unpublished, don't have much, but wanna try to write the trope)

Avatar Zuko (unpublished, likewise, don't have much)

Getting Zuko to Sleep (unpublished, involves forced cuddles)

Keeping the Avatar Alive (unpublished, Zuko is maybe slightly obsessive about protecting Aang. He can't let his fuckup be the reason Aang dies. (Again.))

Self-Harming Zuko (unpublished, why does getting hurt as the Blue Spirit feel right?)

Haunted Toy (unpublished, after Lu Ten's death, Zuko discovers that a toy Lu Ten gave him appears to be haunted by Lu Ten)

Animal Transformation (unpublished, Zuko gets to be a finch hawk that the gaang takes care of in s1)

Time Travel Zuko 2: Electric Boogaloo (unpublished, future!Zuko comes back to s1 to tell Zuko all the shit no one ever said about how Ozai was fucking wrong)

Toph and Zuko’s Life-Changing Field Trip (unpublished, Toph is invited home by her parents and brings the Fire Lord. Turns out, her parents are trying to marry her off and now all the other suitors think they're competing with the Fire Lord. Zuko dgaf.)

Crossdressing Gaang (unpublished, post-canon, a convo about fancy clothes leads to the Gaang playing around with wearing the dresses Zuko's staff stock the wardrobes in their unused private rooms with. (They all pile onto Zuko's bed on the regular))

Oops, we've hit the character limit for this section oops.

Gen Part 2 (30)

Nerd Lords (unpublished, Zuko and Kuei meet when Zuko breaks into the royal library and accidentally end up becoming friends)

Fight Club (unpublished, Zuko has a talent for finding the underground fighting rings as they travel across the EK)

Instinctive Bending (unpublished, Zuko struggles to move the way his teachers tell him he should to bend. But when he doesn't think about it and just moves, his katas aren't right, but they work.)

Southern Water Tribe – why are there so many more men than women? (unpublished, AKA Llama messed up the math and decided to make plot out of it)

Drugged Zuko Rescue (unpublished, s2, Zuko gets caught by the Dai Li and drugged to high hell. He's pretty sure he's hallucinating the Avatar and the Water Tribe boy rescuing him)

Reputation (unpublished, pre-s1, Zuko's reputation is actually pretty positive amongst Earth Kingdomers. He pays a fair price for his supplies, he does odd jobs/investigates weird goings-on, he occasionally tracks down bounties, etc. Unless you happen to be impeding his search for the Avatar, the Prince is usually not bad to have come around town. Then the Avatar reappears.)

Silence (unpublished, Aang gets to enjoy my discomfort with silence)

Hidden Communities (unpublished, what if all the endangered peoples/creatures were hiding out together? AKA the Sun Warriors' Island has some surprises)

Jeong Jeong (unpublished, character study)

Gyatso adopting Aang (unpublished, Gyatso's POV of hearing baby!Aang laugh and immediately knowing this child is meant to be his.)

Crooked World (unpublished, Zuko has always known his world was different than the ones he read about)

Fire, Water, and Government (Know Nothing of Mercy) (Pirate Zuko AU)

Time Loop/Loop Zoop (unpublished, Zuko gets stuck in a time loop during s1 that always ends with his ship blowing up/him dying)

Southern Water Tribe Mixed Children (unpublished, Ten years after the end of the war, the Southern Water Tribe is rocked with controversy as tribesmen who left the fleet during the war petition to return with their mixed blood families.)

Brother (unpublished, Azula has a different understanding of what family means than the Gaang does)

The Truth About the Air Army (unpublished, Zuko reads through the libraries at the Air Temples and discovers the truth of who the Air Nomads were. After becoming Fire Lord, he decides that everyone needs to learn that truth)

Blue Spirit Reveal (unpublished, after the Ember Island Players, Sokka asks about the Blue Spirit that saved Aang in the play)

Post-canon Iroh and Zuko (unpublished, Zuko feels guilty for feeling abandoned when Iroh leaves for Ba Sing Se just after Zuko gets crowned)

Jet Redemption (unpublished, post-canon au where post-war negotiations end up taking place in Gaipan, which is about halfway between Ba Sing Se and Caldera City. Meanwhile, a certain someone has gone through a journey of his own. Earning trust back will take some serious work)

Aang being worthy of power (unpublished, Zuko's research taught him clearly how powerful the Avatar is. Like, frighteningly powerful. And yet, Aang uses that power with caution and delicacy. Zuko reflects on how much control it must take to actively avoid doing harm)

Ursa finds Zuko in his banishment (unpublished, okay this actually has nothing written, but I'm counting it bc it'll be fun)

The Power Behind the Throne (post-canon, Zuko has to deal with people thinking Iroh is controlling things behind the scenes)

Balance (unpublished, set during the Western Air Temple, when The Duke asks what balance actually means, they discover that Zuko's a giant nerd whose research has given him Opinions on this.)

“Come with me.” (unpublished, s1 au where Aang brings an injured Blue Spirit back to camp with him. Zuko is too concussed to protest overly much)

Attacking a surrendered opponent (unpublished, the Gaang discovers that Zuko believes that surrender just leaves one open for the next attack. Then they realize that for him, it always has. Not just with Ozai - but with Katara at the Western Air Temple, too)

Joo Dee (unpublished, Zuko attends Ba Sing Se University, which means he has a Joo Dee tail from the moment he enters the Middle Ring. People avoid him because of it, and Zuko just wants someone to talk over his lessons with. So one day, he decides to actually try chatting with her)

Mid-s3 Dreamsharing (unpublished, Zuko is plagued with nightmares while back at the palace. The spirits decide that he needs the help of those whose destiny is tied to his to figure out where he stands. Only the Gaang doesn't actually know that it's Zuko they're helping as they move through a dreamscape adventure)

Dark Water Spirit Curse (unpublished, AKA Llama nerded out over the deep sea interpretation of dark water and tried to do something with that. Therefore, Zuko is bioluminscent now lmao)

How Zuko Became a Radical Socialist (unpublished, AKA Llama vents about for-profit healthcare via Zuko in Ba Sing Se)

Blue Spirit puts out fires (unpublished, pre-canon au where Zuko tries not to use firebending when out as the Blue Spirit. When he is forced to, he never creates his own flames, he just extinguishes others. This leads to rumors about the Blue Spirit's ability to put out a bender's fire. The sensible firebenders are frightened by this prospect)

Zukaang (44)

Rope Burns (unpublished, Aang reflecting on rope burns and when they hurt and when they don't)

Blue Spirit Tagalong (Zuko ends up haunted by the Blue Spirit)

Relationship Reveal (unpublished, post-canon with Zukaang in a secret relationship - until they get careless and get caught by Zuko's advisors)

I'm Your Fire, Your Desire (s3 au where Zukaang get together at the Western Air Temple, now with a bonus PWP set in the future)

Shirtless Sparring (unpublished, wrestling pwp)

Return to Pohuai (unpublished, pwp Blue Spirit roleplay)

Our Love Become a Funeral Pyre (unpublished, Zuko is Kuzon reincarnated and dreams of Kuzon's life with Aang before the comet)

Gay Bar (unpublished, s2 au where they each unknowingly patronize the same gay bar in Ba Sing Se)

Airbender Blow Jobs (unpublished, pwp)

Fluffy Zukaang (unpublished, s3 fluff)

“My heart feels like it’s dancing when I look at you.” (unpublished, post-canon, Zuko is very dense about his emotions)

Aang Approaching Zuko Morning After (unpublished, s2 au where Aang stops by the teashop)

Rose Petals and Candlelight (unpublished, Aang spoils Zuko with t-rated intimacy)

Treasure (unpublished, on the 3rd anniversary of Zuko's crowning, Aang gifts him a black pearl that he found the first time Zuko took them diving)

"I'm in love with your voice" (unpublished, set during the s1 finale when they're snowed in in a cave and end up having to talk)

First Kiss/First Time (unpublished, when Zuko kisses him, Aang freaks out - and runs to the South Pole. Fire Lady Mai is the one to come beat some sense into him)

Pao’s Teashop Office Sex (unpublished, s2 pwp)

Body Swap (unpublished, s2 au in which Aang and Zuko switch bodies. Aang is not prepared for Zuko's pain - or his retail experience. Might be gen, might not)

Can't Take My Eyes Off of You (Aang likes the way Zuko watches him intently)

Sexytimes - Voyeurism (unpublished pwp, Aang ties Zuko up and makes him watch him touch himself)

Gossip (unpublished, Aang is excited about getting together with Zuko and has to tell someone. Toph is safest.)

Temporarily Genderbent Aang picks up Zuko (unpublished post-canon pwp)

Blue Spirit x Avatar Aang (unpublished, the Fire Nation is a little too invested in the potential relationship between the Blue Spirit and the Avatar, and where the Fire Lord fits in)

“We need to stop dancing around it. All it does is hurt us both!” (unpublished, Aang thinks he's dreaming and kisses Zuko at the North Pole - only it turns out to be real and neither know how to deal with that in the aftermath)

Identity Porn (unpublished, Aang does not know who the Blue Spirit is, but that doesn't stop him from flirting extensively)

“I can’t stop thinking about you. When I wake up, when I’m about to fall asleep…” (unpublished, Aang doesn't know what to think when Zuko confesses without even realizing what he's confessing)

Soulmate Potential (unpublished, people don't have a predestined soulmate. Some people click more easily than others, but the potential is there with anyone. Including one's enemy.)

Ba Sing Se AU (unpublished, this was SUPPOSED to be a setup to write Zuko's POV of Same Side Sex, because mostly it's been Aang's POV when I've done it so far, but uh... setup takes a lot of work and it grows a life of its own. So now we have Aang and Zuko dating pre-s2 finale and the ripple effects of that. Also, might end up Zutaraang)

Dream Sex (unpublished, pre-canon, aged up Zuko dreams about the Avatar having their way with him.)

Author Zuko: Blue Spirit/Avatar Aang (unpublished, Aang is not excited to hear that a new play is coming out about the Avatar and the Blue Spirit. He is unaware that Zuko secretly wrote the play)

Author Zuko: Zuko writes about the Fire Lord and Avatar’s Bond Thru Time (unpublished, Zuko's a fucking nerd who uses primary sources to back up his pet thesis that his destiny is tied to Aang's)

Cheering Up on a Bad Day (unpublished, Aang pines and tries to lighten Zuko's mood after a rough day as Fire Lord)

Masked Affection (s2 au where the Blue Spirit and Aang end up in a secret relationship. When Aang finds a badly injured Blue Spirit, the lines between Zuko and the mask begin to blur)

Post-Canon Hanahaki AU (unpublished, Zuko starts coughing up strange flowers and is in denial about what it could mean)

Gaang in Ba Sing Se with Aang trying to befriend Zuko without telling them who ‘Li’ is (unpublished, Aang explores the Lower Ring by taking Zuko on 'dates'. He tells the Gaang about it, but neglects to mention who 'Li' really is)

Freudian Nightmares (porn with plot, Aang dreams about Zuko, then gets the chance to experience him in reality)

Depression and Executive Dysfunction (unpublished, set in s3 but goes au in s2, Zuko and Aang had a secret relationship in Ba Sing Se - and Zuko chose Azula anyway. He regrets it, but even once he joins the Gaang, he knows he'll never be able to make up for that. The despair of knowing he can never recover what they once had makes it hard to try some days. Aang just wants to help)

Marking: Scandalized Sokka/Fuck “Aang must be protected” bullshit (unpublished, Aang enjoys getting marked up by his lover. The rest of the Gaang is a bit scandalized and it breaks their brains a little when Aang bluntly says he likes the marks)

Facefucking (unpublished, post-canon pwp, Zuko needs a break from being Fire Lord and wants to not think for a while. Surrendering to Aang's control is a good way to make that happen)

Dreamsharing, but it’s all sex (unpublished, au where Zuko has wet dreams about the Avatar even before he actually finds them. Somehow this is supposed to involve them sharing dreams. I don't really know how)

Destined to Love You/You’re the One I’ve Been Searching For (unpublished, Zuko has been overly obsessed with the Avatar for a long time. It's totally normal for him to care a little too much about Aang's opinion. It doesn't mean anything)

Sauna (unpublished, post-canon pwp where Aang convinces Zuko to take a break from ruling to soak in the sauna)

How tf is Li dating the Avatar? A teashop customer perspective (unpublished, an aspiring fangirl/writer in Ba Sing Se speculates on how exactly the surly teashop server managed to become the Avatar's boyfriend)

Artist!Zuko (unpublished, Zuko likes to doodle. His obsession with the Avatar means that they are often his muse - and once he finds Aang, he fixates hard)

Other (23)

What's Yours is Mine (unpublished, the Gaang cause waves when they wear pieces of Zuko's wardrobe. The gossip is hilarious.)

Come to the Good Side, We Have Cookies (sorta gen???? the Gaang kidnaps Zuko to try to befriend him. Zuko is not amused.)

Oviposition PWP (unpublished, Zuko gets railed by dragons)

Reading Lips (Gaang/Zuko, the Gaang all take an opportunity to kiss Zuko, but fail to ever actually talk to him about it)

To Weave a Tangled Web (Aang suggests that Zuko marry Kuei as a step towards their vision for the future. He forgets monogamy is a thing and fails to actually talk about what that means)

Zuko blows Aang while Katara watches (unpublished, Zutaraang(ish) pwp)

Commitment to Balance (Aang/Zuko/Katara/Toph, "Let's get married. For balance.")

Zuko navigating 10 (billion) relationships (unpublished, Zuko as the fandom bicycle lmao)

Zutaraang PWP (unpublished, sparring porn)

Zutaraang Lap Sex (unpublished pwp)

Aang loves his friends (unpublished, idk might be gen, might be full Gaang. Aang just loves his family.)

Katara and Aang decide to pursue Zuko (unpublished, post-canon, Aang approaches Katara to talk about polyamory)

Everyone is in love with Zuko: He catches a clue (unpublished, full Gaang/Zuko as fandom bicycle, Zuko realizes he's in love with his friends and is worried about what his wife will think. His wife thinks "fucking finally!")

I Still Dream About You (Are You Lonely For Me Too?) (Gaang/Zuko, unpublished, the Gaang shared one drunken, half-remembered night ages ago. It still haunts them.)

Sparring for who gets to take Aang (unpublished, Zutaraang pwp)

An Arrangement for World Peace (unpublished, Toph/Zuko, Marriage alliances are as old as time. Why not take advantage of that?)

Fuck Buddies (unpublished, Toph/Zuko, s3 aged up au)

Mai/Zuko/Toph – Post-Canon Fire Nation Trio (unpublished pwp that might grow plot)

The Southern Waterbending Line (unpublished, Kataang/Zutaraang, Aang and Katara both want to revive their people's bending disciplines, but there's no guarantee their children will be benders. Questioning how bending is passed down leads to learning more about Gran Gran Kanna's past)

Zuko is not in touch with his emotions (unpublished, Gaang/Zuko, Mai sits Zuko down for a therapy session with Ty Lee to help him realize that his friends are in love with him)

Aang as a sexual being/Fuck “Aang is so innocent and pure” (unpublished, AKA Llama gets annoyed at fandom's infantilization of Aang. Aang may be young, but he still grew up in a culture that believed in open and unashamed access to information, including info about sexuality)

Masturbation is normal and healthy (unpublished, Gaang/Aang, au where Aang is the one who teaches the Gaang about masturbation)

Attempt at omegaverse (unpublished, Gaang/Zuko probably, hopefully a pwp but it might grow plot)

Total WiPs: 172 🤯🤯🤯

[anosrepasi]

So I'm having Nil thoughts. Take a portion of a fic that will eventually be finished and make it's way to AO3.

--

The new cell in Sunstone Rock is completely dark except for an hour each day when the sun’s light aligns with the air tunnels built into the deep rock and the light can trickle down to his cell, dusty and dim. He doesn’t know this on the first day, and doesn’t think of it as fact until the fifth.

Janeva tells him that the room is used for “temporary relocations,” that the violent and the bloodthirsty go in and come out docile, one way or another- that man is not supposed to exist so long in the dark.

They say this as they stand at the threshold of the cell as he stands in the middle of the space, straining his eyes to see as much as he can with the light that floods in from the hallway and the open door. The warden’s voice brings his attention back to them.

He tilts his head at them and asks if this is a temporary relocation.

The warden levels him with a blank stare. “That’ll depend on you, I guess.”

They close the door and the only light in the cell becomes the thin stripe falling across the floor from the eyeslot where Janeva currently regards him. “Either way, you can’t keep killing your cellmates. The Sun King can’t “rehabilitate” you all if you’re killing everyone else imprisoned here with you.”

They slide the panel closed and leave him to the dark.

It doesn’t take him long to pace the entire length of the cell, mapping out the meager features in his mind and spinning around a few times and fumbling around until he’s confident in his surroundings. He finds himself propping himself against a wall, chilly to the touch in contrast with the heat of the cell.

He spends the first however unknown amount of time contemplating his temporary relocation and the charges landed by the Warden.

They are right, technically, he has killed every fellow prisoner they have placed in his cell. His confusion stems from what else they expected from him. He is a tool for killing- killing people, preferably. Were they not wanting him to kill the prisoners?

…why in the sun’s name did they put them in his cell then?

His mind goes in circles trying to detangle the paradox presented to him. Logically, he knows it’s possible to coexist in a space with another person, he trained in the barracks like every other soldier of the Sundom. He hasn’t shared a space since then, however, nearly two decades prior. They had assigned him his own tent since his first campaign, out of reward or fear he had never bothered to learn. The other soldiers kept their bunking with shared tents. He had never thought to question why his treatment was different, it just was. It had suited him fine enough.

And now he had been assigned a cell in a similar fashion. But Warden Janeva said it like it was.. a punishment? To be honest, the solitude and the darkness appealed to him. But again, he could recognize that his experience wasn’t everyone’s truth.

He could see boredom becoming a problem.

But that was equally a problem in his previous lodgings.

Perhaps that’s the true root of the problem. Being “rehabilitated” as the Sun King so decreed is rather… tedious. Like waiting for a table of commanders to finish arguing over a table of paper and wooden tokens instead of just letting him take to the field.

He is not a creature of words or theories. The maps and mile markers on a general’s table will not win a war: his hands around enemy throats will prove far more effective.

He sighs in the dark, feeling foolish.

He’s getting worked up about a conflict that’s been supposedly laid to rest–getting attached to that particular avenue of bloodshed is pointless.

Perhaps he’s made a miscalculation on what exactly is required of him for “rehabilitation.” Well, at least he’ll have a question for the Warden when they return.

He’s so caught up in his thought he almost misses the flash of movement to his left.

He reacts on instinct, his right hand darting out to catch whatever threat has suddenly appeared and lets out a bur mused laugh as his right hand clamps down on his own left wrist. He must have been gesturing with his hands while he was thinking.

He strains his eyes in the murky dark and can just barely make out the outline of his hand and wrist, suddenly visible if barely in the dark. He watches, with vague curiosity, as the darkness slowly, slowly recedes into dim light–never enough to illuminate the cell or completely thaw his hand out from the shadows, but it’s enough to recognize general shapes and edges in the dark.

Curious.

Janeva had said the cell was entirely dark.

Wasn’t that the point of the supposed punishment? Scare the people of the sun with unending shadows? Not that he felt particularly threatened.

He stands, turning to observe the wall he had previously been sitting against. It’s indistinguishable from the rest of the darkness he puts his hands to work instead– running his fingers over the stone until he finds a gap. He finds it rather quickly, roughly the same hight as the base of his breastbone, slightly above where his head rested against the wall.

He squats down and presses his face to the wall, allowing his eyes to focus and find the angle of the gap. He’s rewarded with the sight of a small stone tunnel chiseled into the rock with a width no larger than the circle of his own wrist. The tunnel ends some distance into the thick rock foundation, highlighted at the end with a bright light from an unseen opening above it.

He watches the stone tunnel until his body is still and the light at the end dims away completely, leaving the room once again left in utter darkness, the outline of his hand before just a memory of sight.

Huh.

Did they design the cell to do that?

Or is it just an unintended consequence of nature, much like him himself?

He resumes his former contemplations, his thoughts returning like clockwork machines to the temporary diffusion of light, and he quietly eats the meal provided sometime later, waving off the questions of the guards outside as he returns to his newly designated spot along the wall.

Eventually, he sleeps. He’s awakened at some point by the sound of the door opening, Janeva standing once again at the doorway.

He has to blink away the tears at the light that streams into the room from behind the warden’s silhouette. It’s surprising, how quickly he’s become accustomed to the dark. “Warden.”

“Prisoner.” The reply evenly. “It’s been a day to the hour since we left you in here, hopefully the experience has been enlightening.”

He stores away that information, cataloguing a general sense of how much time has passed since he first walked into the cell and assigning a sense of a “Day” to the passage of the time. In the dark it’s impossible to tell time, but between the short hour of dim light and the meal served sometime before he slept a day having passed sounds rather reasonable.

The Warden continues, “Are you going to kill your next cellmate?”

“Yes.” He is honest, if nothing else.

The Warden sighs.

They turn and the door closes behind them. “As I said yesterday, this is all dependent on you. I’ll speak with you again tomorrow.”

Well, that answers one of his questions. They really do not want him killing the other prisoners they keep putting into his cell. Huh.