#“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 ✧

[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

Previous Chapter ☽𖤐☾ Next Chapter

Masterlist ☽𖤐☾ Read on Ao3

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! 👇🏽

🔥🔥 don't forget to reblog tysm! 🔥🔥

[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.

[chronicangel]

lavender moon: Act 1 Chapter 6

Link to this fic on AO3. Words: 4064 Date posted: December 21, 2024 Summary:

The Dersite royal family are famed for their powerful magic, but Prince Dave does not have any. Prospit is an insular nation who believes magic to be inherently corrupting and wicked, and yet Princess Jade has magic flowing through her veins. When their marriage is arranged to end a centuries-long war, they have a lot to figure out.

If there had been any doubt before, Jade has certainly never seen this many people in one place.

Growing up, the castle had served largely as what it was—a stronghold against outside invaders. Castles are not places where people live, they are fortresses where soldiers lock themselves in to hide and rest and strategize. There have been dozens of small, empty rooms throughout the castle Jade’s entire life that she knows would, in another world, be home to knights, squires, and pages, soldiers training and preparing for Derse’s next move. If her mother were alive, if she had not been born small and weak and wrong, then she knows they would live in the ostentatious palace in Skaia where her father was raised and his father before him and every generation of royals stretching back hundreds of years. As it stands, they had needed to put poor, sensitive Jade somewhere no one could get to her, and she’s been imprisoned here since.

Today, though, it flourishes with life in the way that she imagines palaces are supposed to. Under ordinary circumstances, a coronation would be held in the capital city. They would have traveled down to Skaia to show John off to the people as the new king, and then Jade and Dave would have been married in the same place her parents were. It would have been her first time ever seeing Skaia in person.

They didn’t think that Dad could make the trip. Most days, it is difficult for him to even get out of bed, let alone take a two-day carriage ride down to the capital city for a coronation and a wedding. So they had used the wedding as an excuse, explaining that the castle was closer to Derse’s border than the capital city so it would be easier for the prince’s family to come here. Jade thinks there had been an undercurrent of prejudice, too. Do you really want the Dersites in the capital city? Do you really think they can be trusted? When she looks around this room, she thinks she can still see flashes of mistrust directed toward Dave, though it is mixed with blushing young girls practically swooning over him. The servants and guards who have gotten used to his presence either smile casually at him or outright ignore him as yet another figure in the background, but it feels less malicious than it had months ago.

She recognizes a few of the faces, vaguely, as people she and Dave met when they were in the village. Off to one far side of the room, the artist who had sketched them for only a handful of coins stands behind an easel, likely preparing to capture the moment John is crowned. She thinks that most of the people in this room, though, are those who could afford to travel north from Skaia. Most of them are wearing nice clothes, perhaps not to the full extent of a noble, but middle class at least.

Above all of them, on a large dais, her father sits on a throne making his first public appearance in months. Jade thinks he looks like a facsimile of himself. While his attendants have done a decent job of masking his illness with looser-fitting clothing that hides how skinny he’s gotten, excusable due to the summer weather, and some amount of makeup to mask how pale he is, his cheeks aren’t the right color, his hands so thin, his face gaunt, and his eyes lack all of the bright blue lucidity she had seen in them in his room the other day. In fact, he looks like he must not know where he is at all. Dave keeps staring at him, and she feels guilt twist in her stomach as she wonders what he must be thinking. Can he see through the disguise, too? Does he realize now that she and John have been lying to him for months?

Speaking of John, before the ceremony starts he sits in a chair almost like a smaller throne to Dad’s right side. He’s been stuffed into the traditional navy blue and gold formalwear she’s seen on paintings her entire life, and she thinks it looks good on him even as she knows her brother well enough to see on his face how much he wants to run away from this whole situation. On Dad’s left side is an empty chair where she would traditionally sit as the second child, practically the only formal acknowledgement a daughter can get in the Propsitian royal family, which has been robbed from her so she can instead be seen with Dave in public.

It was important, Dad’s advisor had decided, for them to be seen in public together at least once before the wedding. It adds an element of performance to her brother’s coronation that she does not relish as she loops her arm through Dave’s, leans against his side with a bright smile, and spends every moment consciously thinking about how the people around her perceive them. Some are actually bold enough to approach them, congratulating them on their impending union and remarking on how excited they are for the wedding tomorrow. She tries her best to smile and nod, though Dave doesn’t acknowledge them at all.

When the actual ceremony starts, the crowd of people goes quiet to watch John take his vows to protect his country and rule fairly and all of the other empty words that make Jade want to roll her eyes. She loves her brother and she trusts that he will be a good king, but too many bad kings have made the same oaths. He will be a good king because he is John and he is good, not because of these meaningless words he swears to follow in front of a tiny portion of their citizens who, for the most part, already have every privilege they could be granted.

Many of the portions of the coronation that she knows from history books are supposed to be done by her father are instead done by his advisor. The only part of the ceremony that her father really takes part in is the ritual gifting of a sword and placing of the crown on John’s head, which marks the end of the whole thing. She holds her breath when she watches him get up from the throne, half-expecting him to fall down before he’s able to stand. And, granted, he moves a little more slowly than usual, but otherwise seems to get up without a problem even though he has no help. Dave glances at her when she can’t stop a relieved sigh, but he doesn’t say anything.

She makes a big show of saying goodbye to Dave when the whole thing is over so she can go talk to her brother. She holds both of his hands in her own and stares especially adoringly at his face and for a second she almost forgets that they are pretending when she tells him that she’ll be right back. He gives her hands a squeeze that sends a very real thrill through her chest, though he doesn’t say anything out loud then, either. She wants to stay and ask him if something is wrong, but there’s a group of girls who must only be teenagers standing nearby and swooning over him (or maybe them) and that reminds her that they’re being watched, so she just squeezes back and peels herself away.

John is surrounded by people. Nobles and advisors trying to put a stab in for places in his inner circle, she guesses. She can’t help but notice Vriska is among them, standing just a little too close to him and leaning toward him every time he speaks like he’s the most interesting thing in the world. She cuts in, barely keeping herself from grinning, “John, would you like to come outside with me?”

The expression that washes over him is purely grateful. “Please,” he says, with that tone he used to get when they were small children and their relatives would all fuss over him and Dad would ask him to guide Jade back to her room. She used to sneak out on purpose sometimes just to try to give him a break, though proportionally, this was much less often than the times she would sneak out just to try to feel normal. She threads her arm through his and leads him through the castle and out to the gardens. They don’t talk for a while, just looking around at all of the plants that are thriving under all her hard work. She wonders if they’re going to wither and die when she’s gone, or if someone will take over caring for them. Kanaya, she knows, is set to come with her to Derse, where Jade only hopes she won’t feel as isolated as Jade does here. When they get to the gazebo, they wordlessly take a seat on the little stone bench.

“So,” she starts, looking over at him with a teasing little grin. “I see that Vriska has finally taken an interest in you.” He groans, somewhere between embarrassment and frustration, and buries his face in his hands.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? You were so enamored with her only a year ago!”

He glowers at her, and she grins back. “Vriska isn’t interested in me. She’s interested in the king. If Dad had been a viable target she probably would have gone after him years ago. And I’m pretty sure she has something going on with Tavros.”

None of this strikes her as incorrect. That doesn’t mean that she isn’t his younger sister and doesn’t have at least some obligation to make fun of him.

“Well, you’re going to have to marry someone now that you’re king. It might as well be Vriska, since you were already obsessed with her.” His glare grows a little bit sharper, and she laughs.

“I wasn’t obsessed with her,” he eventually hisses, and he looks around like he’s worried someone else will be there to overhear him. Jade wouldn’t necessarily put it past Vriska to follow them to the gardens if she was that determined to have John’s attention, but if he’s right that it’s all a manipulation game, she’s also smart enough not to push that hard just yet.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll win her over,” she eventually says with a shrug. Then, with another wicked grin, she adds, “Maybe after you marry her.” He makes a sort of strangled noise at that and buries his face in his hands, and her laughter is loud enough that it echoes back at them off the stone walls surrounding the garden.

There’s a long moment of silence between them. Eventually, John pulls his face back out of his hands and looks out instead at the stars shining in the sky above them. They used to look at the stars together a lot, when they were younger. Grandpa would help them identify constellations. She always had an easier time remembering them than he did, but he had an easier time spotting them in the first place. They made for a good star-watching duo.

“What does it feel like to be king?” she asks, and she’s not sure if it’s curiosity or if she’s simply trying to redirect the emotions from her own nostalgia.

He laughs rather than answering her, and then asks, “What does it feel like to be engaged?” So much for redirecting. Whatever emotions she may have had about her childhood, the emotions she has about Dave and the arrangement with Derse are much more overwhelming.

“It’s not as horrible as I expected it to be,” she says eventually, and it feels like the truth. As much as she’s dreading going to Derse and potentially never seeing her family again, the engagement part of the arrangement has been… nice. Dave has been nice, which is more than she has ever been taught to expect.

“I could gather that much from your speech at dinner the other night,” he says, and her cheeks flush now. Before she has the opportunity to speak up and defend herself or even sink into the pits of embarrassment, he adds, “I’m glad that you seem happy. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other when you think no one is paying attention. Dad always wanted us to be able to choose who we would marry, and I didn’t want to lock you into a marriage you were going to be miserable in, even if you didn’t get to choose. So I’m glad.”

She considers this for a long moment. “It feels like I chose,” she says eventually, and John beams at her brighter than she’s seen him smile since their father first got sick. She feels guilty, but she hadn’t noticed how exhausted her brother seemed the last few months. He’d seemed so vibrant when he was talking to Dave. When she looks at him now, up close, there are bags under his eyes, poorly concealed by the same makeup they must be using to prop Dad up.

Before either of them can say anything else, there’s a rustling of leaves not far away, and she looks over to see Dave brushing a branch with a large purple flower out of his face. “So this is where you two ran off to.” John laughs and rubs at the back of his neck like he’s been called out for something.

“Are people looking for me?” he asks.

“Serket, maybe,” Dave says, and Jade shoots her brother another teasing smile. “Your father left. Not sure what sorta business a former king attends to right after his son’s coronation, but I guess he must have had something going on. I was looking for the princess, anyway.” She blinks a few times as she stares at him, and he grins. “People are dancing. I thought you might want to?”

She looks over at John like she’s asking for his approval, and he smiles at her before smacking his hands against his knees and standing up. “Do you think dancing with Vriska is going to cause some sort of national incident?” She rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. “Hey! I’m the king now. That could be treason,” he teases, and she snorts.

“I would love to dance with you,” she says to Dave, and he holds out a hand toward her that she has to stride across the garden to take.

Much of the crowd from earlier has cleared out, and it makes it much easier to breathe. All of the villagers from the nearby town are gone, and she supposes that those who are going to the wedding tomorrow will need to be up extra early to get whatever chores or work they may have finished. The small orchestra tucked to one side of the room, perhaps half a dozen people holding string instruments, is in the middle of a song that many of the nobles around the room are dancing to. Vriska and her lady-in-waiting are nowhere to be seen, and Jade guesses they must be trying to find where John disappeared to. Karkat is gone, too, which is not especially surprising—he’s always hated crowds, had relished in the freedom his position as her personal guard had given him to escape them before he was a fully realized knight and he had obligations among the noble crowds she was forced out of.

Dave is still holding her hand, and he uses it to pull her in tight against him, slipping an arm around her waist. It is not a form of dance she is familiar with, but then, she doesn’t have a lot of experience with dancing. This is the first party of any sort that she’s ever been allowed to go to.

She’s never noticed how warm he is before. Her fingers have been cold her entire life, and his hands bleed warmth into her skin, but it’s more noticeable with the way the heat practically radiates off of his chest to her face. It invites her to sink her head down against his chest, and she lets herself fall for the temptation. He’s solid under her, but there’s still a sense of softness there, like a firm pillow. He’s not bony like she had for some reason expected him to be. She’s seen him with no shirt before, seen the muscular expanse of his chest, but when he’s all covered in formal clothing, he looks so lanky.

“Why did you seem so… detached, earlier?” she eventually asks, her voice low enough that she doesn’t think anyone else can hear it over the music, her head still against his chest where she can’t see his face. She can feel his breath hitch, though, and his hand tightens in hers ever-so-slightly. It feels like the seconds crawl on forever before he replies to her, his own voice just as low.

“We’re getting married tomorrow,” he says, and she holds her breath through the surge of anxiety that he’s having second thoughts because they’ve already had this conversation. After a moment of hesitation, he adds, “And then it’s off to Derse for the rest of our lives. Are you nervous?”

“A little,” she admits a bit too readily. He lets out a breath at that that she isn’t sure how to read, so she adds, “I think I’ll manage, though. I’ll have you and Karkat and Kanaya. I’ll miss John, but I’m sure he’s going to be so busy as king anyway that he wouldn’t have had time for me even if I’d stayed.”

“I can’t imagine him not making time for you,” he says, and there’s something about it that makes her feel like he’s trying to communicate something more than what he says, something that makes her heart squeeze in her chest. “Were you two… close, growing up?” he asks, and it strikes her as odd that they’ve never talked about it before.

“We… wanted to be. It was hard, with how locked up I always was. I did everything I could to make him pay attention to me or make him play with me, but especially when we were little, everyone always acted like I was so fragile, and then as we got older, he got so busy. I love him, but I’m not sure close is the right word for it. Were you and your sister?”

He pauses at this, like maybe he’s not sure exactly how to explain it. She can imagine the uncomfortable expression that she’s noticed he gets whenever his family comes up, and she wants to ask more but she doesn’t want to pry.

“When we were little, we were as close as two people could be.” For a minute, she thinks he’s going to stop there. She lifts her head to stare closely at his face and try to read into his every microexpression. It’s easier than it was three months ago, but it’s still not easy, especially with the way he refuses to look at her. “Eventually, when it started to become more obvious that I didn’t have any magic, our father started training me as a knight instead. He said that it was important I still find a way to be useful to our family. To be useful to Rose. She’s one of the most powerful mages Derse has ever produced, so it just made sense that she was the one who was going to inherit the throne, not me. We were less close, after that.”

Jade imagines for a moment a world where their father declared her the heir instead of John. She would be the first queen regnant in Prospit’s history. She wonders if John would resent her, in that world. He had spent so much of their childhood dreaming of some way that she might take the throne instead of him, but that was always in a world where she could never possibly do it. Would he feel differently if she could?

“Dad didn’t have favorites. I mean, it felt like he did, when we were children. Why was John allowed to run around and play and see people like a normal child while I was forced to hide in my room all of the time? Even when I was doing well, the only people my own age I was allowed to be around outside of our family were Karkat and eventually Kanaya, though even that was past the age where I really wanted to play games with other children…” She didn’t mean to complain, and she digs her teeth into her cheek for a second until her thoughts slow down again and she can force herself back on track. “But I realize now that he was just trying to protect me, in his own way. He was doing what he thought he had to to keep me safe.”

“I don’t think my father cares very much about keeping me safe,” he says bitterly.

“I didn’t mean…” she starts, but cuts herself off just as early. Being defensive isn’t going to help anything. She takes a deep breath and then cautiously says, “Our father is dying.”

The quiet that hangs over them after that feels oppressive. She’s finally done it—finally forced herself to admit the truth. How could she keep it from him, when he had been staring so intently at Dad all night? And she doesn’t want their marriage to be founded on a lie, anyway. The idea that this is just a political marriage so Prospit can get off scot-free without Derse realizing they could have won one over on them and so Jade can finally learn how to use the magic she was born with died weeks ago. Months ago, even. If Dave doesn’t love her, then she doesn’t want him to marry her, and that means that she doesn’t want to trick him, no matter what it costs.

“I know.”

And of course, all of that immediately turns on its head. He knows? Who told him? Why didn’t they tell her that they told him? “What?”

“I’ve known for a while. After my blunder at dinner that night that we went to the village, I started to suspect that something was up. I’m marrying the king’s daughter and he hasn’t even tried to talk to me? I’ve met farmers more protective of their goats than your father was of you.” She snorts, and then bites her lip to try to contain it. “After a couple of weeks, I asked John. And you know him, he couldn’t lie to me about it, so he told me the whole thing.”

She stares. He’s known for that long and he didn’t tell her? He’s known for that long and he’s still here? “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs, and they’re still pressed so tightly together she can feel it. “I figured if you wanted to talk to me about it then you would. If the only thing stopping you from telling me was that you thought Derse was gonna go to war over it, then once you got to know me and realized I would never do that to you, you’d have told me. So there must have been some other reason, and I wasn’t about to pry about it. Plus, I figured that John probably would have told you that he told me.��� She sees one corner of his lip quirk up just slightly, and once her eyes are on his mouth, she can’t pull them away.

Slowly, carefully, she licks her lips and starts to lean up toward him. She’s close enough that she can see the outline of his eyes through his glasses, and she can see how wide they are, but he doesn’t make any move to pull away. She can feel his breath against her mouth when the sound of the doors opening suddenly echoes through the hall.

One of the guards with a deep, booming voice announces, “The royal family of Derse has arrived!” She feels every muscle in Dave’s body tense against her even as she reels back to stare toward the entrance. When she finally manages to look back at Dave, it’s as though someone’s ripped the soul from his body, leaving behind something… empty.

[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.

[shaperaverse-brainrot]

All of those winter prompts look amazing. But if you're feeling creative, can I ask for number 8 with Jill and Michael? Please 🥺

Thank you so much for the ask! (Also anyone reading this, feel free to send in more winter requests from THIS prompt list (or any other random prompts with Shaperaverse characters) if you would like. It might take a couple days but I'll get to it probably)

(Ao3 link) (I'm sorry I angsted the prompt, I couldn't help it :( )

8. Eating gallons of ice cream despite the cold weather.

He couldn't stop staring at her. He didn't think he'd ever be able to stop.

It felt like a dream, wandering down the streets of a narrative they had been in so many times before. Jill looked so much older, her brightly coloured hair starting to grey, the wrinkles on her forehead so much more pronounced than they ever had been before.

So much more pronounced than Michael ever thought they would get to be, when he'd lost her after the war.

Yet, after all this time, here she was, laughing by his side. He had expected awkwardness, to be blamed for her imprisonment, or for not freeing her sooner, or for the years apart to take their toll, driving a wedge between them. And…

And she hadn't. Jill clung to his arm for warmth, like she always did when the narrative had a chill and she refused to put on a jacket, claiming it would ruin whatever outfit she had made for herself that morning (Not that it had stopped her from insisting they get ice cream together — for old times sake, of course — and the frozen nature of the bag was certainly adding to the cold). Nothing had changed, apart from the tightness Michael held her with, as if the hellscape would somehow snatch her back if he let go for even a moment. It would be all his fault again.

“You alright, Michael?” Jill asked, seeing his expression. Michael nodded, at first, as he had always done when someone asked him that, before turning back to Jill, the many, many conversations they had once they got back home playing in his mind, and shaking his head.

“I'm glad you're back.” He said, for what must be the hundredth time since the rescue mission.

It didn't compare to the million times he had missed Jill in the last decades. Nothing would.

Jill gave a sad smile, pulling him onto a nearby bench, her hand pausing for just a moment over his metal arm, as it always did.

“You know,” Jill said, the tone of her voice clearly trying to lighten the mood, give Michael something else to focus on. To tell him stories, as he used to do to distract her when lonely thoughts got too much. “They didn't have ice cream in hell.”

Michael blinked, as Jill pressed into his side, bringing the bag onto her lap, and pulling out the ice cream. It was the wrong season for shops to sell cones, but, as Jill had delightedly claimed, that hasn't stopped them from buying multiple tubs and spoons, determined to have their feast.

“What?”

“It would just melt.” Jill shrugged, casting a hopeful glance to Michael. Her strategy seemed to be working, if the glint of a curious smile.on his face was anything to go by. “Now… Triple chocolate with chocolate chips? Cookie dough and strawberry jelly? Strawberry and raspberry whirl with whipped cream?”

“...What is it with you and over-elaborate flavours?” Michael asked, taking one of the tubs at random.

“Trust me, these are very tame compared to what some narratives have in store.” She said, handing Michael one of the spoons, before prying open her own tub, and stuffing a spoonful in her mouth.

A moment passed in silence, until Jill made a face.

“Oh, that's cold.”

“Brain-freeze?”

“Mhm.”

“Would you like my jacket?”

Jill smiled, closing her eyes in contentment. “Who needs a jacket when you're basically a hot water bottle?” She dug her spoon into Michael's tub, taking an equally big portion, as Michael wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

He really had missed this.

[likelightinglass]

Fic Stats Tag Game

Rules: Give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

Thanks for the tag @danpuff-ao3 this looks fun!

Most Hits

In which Severus is stressed and needs Daddy to treat him like a dumb little cumdump. We're both gay and obsessed with tender, intimate kink; moved, we wrote this fanfic

Summary:

Severus spends a morning serving Daddy like a proper little cockslut, since that's what he's good at. Lucky for him, Daddy loves him that way.

Yeah I see all you perverts out there. So many hits on this one and comparitvely so few comments and kudos--and twice as many private bookmarks as public!

I think this may be the fic of mine people seem most ashamed to have read. But I hope people enjoyed it nonetheless haha.

This was so fun to write and it was a hoot to explore some very niche kinks. It was a blast to cowrite with the wonderful alhaz and that excellent naming convention was my crazy idea. I still get such a kick out of it whenever I see it.

Second Most Kudos

World Enough, and Time

Summary:

Soulmate clocks start ticking when you first lock eyes, and count down until your time with them is over. Harry’s starts ticking on September 1st, 1991. He has only six years, eight months, and one day.

This is secretly my favorite fic. I wrote it all at once stream of consciousness style while out shopping. This fic brought to you by eating fast food in my car in a parking lot.

I love the soulmate trope and I loved this take on it. And I am quite pleased with myself that I took the angst and managed a happy ending anyway!

This one had a recent popularity spike due to the amazing podfic by Cailynwrites!!! I am so grateful for it.

Third Most Comments

What Comes Next (and How to Like it)

Summary:

A choose your own adventure fic!

You are Severus Snape. You survived against all odds, and now it's time to take life into your own hands. What will you do with this gift of a second chance, and how will you find your happy ending?

Your happy ending is pretty much always Harry Potter, but there's so many fun ways to get there.

I was so inspired by @lizzy0305 's Choices that I just had to write my own choose your own adventure fic. I am so insanely proud of this one although the plotting was a bear haha. It was very fun writing basically a bunch of mini fics and using so many different tropes. And I got to give Severus over a dozen different happy endings. It's what he deserves.

I feel like this one doesnt get as much love--maybe the interactive nature of it can be off putting? But its one of my favorite things that I have ever wrote and the fic i tend to self rec the most. Most of the comments on this are telling me what their favorite endong was and its so nice to see! Especially since several have been recieved unexpectedly.

Fourth Most Bookmarks

So actually World Enough, and Time again but it is SO CLOSE to More Than Dark, I'm cheating a tiny bit in order to pimp this one out

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31757209/chapters/78608503

More Than Dark

Summary:

Severus is imprisoned in solitary confinement in Azkaban with no idea of who won the war. He is ill, underfed, and slowly losing his mind.

When Harry eventually takes him in and nurses him back to health, he can scarcely believe it's real.

My white whale. My magnum opus. My only published WiP. It haunts me every day that it remains unfinished. I promise its not abandoned, I love it so much and I've written and outlined so much of it but its going to be novel length (in a thousand years when its done) and its been over a year since the last update. I am pouring my heart and soul into this one and its jjst taking a really. Really. Really long time. But if anyone likes WiPs, please try it. I think its one of my best.

Fifth Most Words

Sly and Songful

Summary:

One of the those animagus fics, in which our heroes would rather secretly spy and pine instead of just have an honest conversation.

But where would the fun in that be?

Everyone lives AU, in which you will encounter birds, foxes, pining, stubbornness, falling in love, and scars.

This was one of my first ever fics and it was a birthday present for the magnificent @bleedcolor .

I loved working on this and feeling like I was finally writing a "real" fic with a plot and everything. Its got nightingale animagus Harry and fox animagus Snape and gnarly scars and its very soft and probably a little out of character and amateur but I love it very much.

Theres also a sequel to this, A kind of love called maintenance that I am particularly proud of.

I also commissioned art of this one from Madfantasy! I will reblog it now so it appears right above :)

Fic with the Least Words

AITA for not going down on my boyfriend?

Summary:

Severus takes to the internet to determine if he is, in fact, the asshole.

This was inspired by my obsession with Reddit's Am I the Asshole? And a conversation with Zalil after her spectacular fic where we agreed her fic's Severus was an incredibly selfish lover. It still makes me laugh, I added a couple "in charachter" comments and encouraged others to do so, got some hilarious ones back! If anyone reads this, please comment in the style of AITA hahah.

Tagging: @bleedcolor @perverse-idyll @coconutice22 @givereadersahug @lizzy0305 and absolutely anyone else who wants to!!!