#a broken bone heals twice as strong……….

[cricketsintheaudience]

i cant even finish my homework this end credit song from the lego batman movie is messing with my head

[hedwig394]

I'm Not Yours

Derek Hale x Sarah McCall

Timeline: In S2E4, when Derek is training his betas, one of them tries to kiss him.

Derek's POV -

Isaac barrels towards me with a vicious look on his face. I stare at him, unfazed. Like that can scare me. He leaps at me but I push him out of the way effortlessly. Sure, the momentum makes it difficult, but not difficult enough.

Erica jumps at me from above and I toss her to the ground. She's no better. In fact, she's worse. Isaac at least has the mind to know that he isn't the best, but Erica is full of overconfidence. It's going to get her in trouble someday.

Boyd looks at from above, and cringes as both the betas fall to the ground. I know their bones are broken, they must be. Guilt creeps up my spine, but I shove it down. If I'm to teach them how to protect themselves, then they must sustain a few injuries.

"Does anyone wanna try not being completely predictable?" I ask with a frown.

It is then that Erica jumps at me. But she doesn't try to attack. Instead, she wraps her legs around my waist and presses her lips to mine. Eyes widening in shock, I push her away immediately.

"Don't ever do that again," I say, fury churning through my body. My eyes flash red and I see fear in hers, but I don't care.

I don't want to be kissed by anyone who isn't Sarah.

"Why?" She asks, scared, "Because I'm a Beta?"

"No." I say, "Because I'm Not Yours." I make sure to wipe my lips, just in case her lipstick has left a mark.

Isaac groans from beside her, uninterested in what just happened. "Are we done? I got about a hundred bones that need a few hours to heal."

I bend down in front of him and break his finger, "A hundred and one."

Isaac looks at me in shock and pain, and I hiss at him. "You think I'm teaching you to fight? Huh? Look at me! I'm teaching you how to survive! So if you don't wanna die, I suggest you take this seriously."

I stalk away from them and rush to my loft after putting my jacket on. I had promised to meet Sarah there, and I don't wanna be late. I don't want to miss even a single minute I have with her. Her brother thinks that it's just him who has to do a lot just to see his girlfriend, but he's wrong.

I have to do twice as much just to catch a glimpse of Sarah.

She waits at me at the loft, her long hair flowing behind her because of the wind.

"Angel..." I say. It's one of the few nicknames I have for her, another main one being 'honey'. She turns around and looks at me. Joy fills her eyes and she rushes towards me, throwing her arms around me. She doesn't care that I smell like tar and dirt, doesn't care that the dirt is all over my clothes and face.

I wrap my arms around her, breathing in the scent of her sweet-smelling hair. I kiss her cheek and all the emotions I've bottled down almost spill out. No, I can't let that happen. I have to stay strong for her.

She steps back and looks at me with tearful eyes. I pull her towards me and kiss her deeply, savouring the flavour and taste of her soft lips. She opens her mouth and I slip my tongue inside, exploring her mouth. She tastes like the sweet fruit at the end of countless hardships.

Sarah tastes like mine. There's not a lot I can call mine, but Sarah is mine. And I'll be damned to let anyone hurt her or take her away from me.

And the moan she gives makes me wanna carry her inside and show her just that.

But I have to keep the lust in control since I'd rather talk to her and hold her in my arms in those few stolen moments we have together than have sex with her.

I draw my head to let her catch her breath. I can go on for longer, werewolf lungs and all. But she's human. My human.

I caress her cheek gently and press a kiss to her forehead. "I've missed you, my Angel."

"I've missed you too, Sourwolf." She sniffs.

"Come on," I say, "Let's go inside."

She slips her hand in mine and we walk inside the loft. Sarah beams at the simple arrangement of the place and looks at me. "I've missed coming here."

"I know, I'm sorry," I say ruefully. The loft has not been the same without her. After we got together officially, Sarah used to hang out at the loft frequently. At one point, she was living with me. Those were the best days of my life. Just being with her, inside her and spending time in her presence gave me more happiness than anything else.

But then Gerard Argent showed up along with his pack of Hunters. I turned Isaac and Erica, and Sarah's brother started to hate me. I don't care, Scott's a child. He'll understand the ways of the world after growing up.

But unknowingly, that caused a rift between me and Sarah. It was too unsafe for her to be with me, with hunters prowling around and an unknown beast to add to the list. I know how low Gerard can sink, he can threaten and hurt Sarah just to get to me.

I once had a thought of breaking up with her for her own safety, but she had said to me "I'll carve your heart out with a scalpel and keep it as a prized possession if you ever do that." And that had led to a passionate make-out session.

"Derek..." Sarah's voice makes me look at her. But she isn't looking at me, she's staring at my jacket. "Why do you smell like women's perfume?"

Aah, that is Erica's fault. "Oh, it's nothing. I was going to tell you." I begin casually, but she looks anything but casual. Sarah's glaring at me like she never has before, and I gulp. "Angel, believe me, it's not what you think."

"Then what is it?" She hisses viciously, and at that moment, I can't help but admire how strong and confident she looks.

Right, back to the point.

I explain everything to her, starting from training to the point where Erica kissed me, and at the end, Sarah looks like she could commit first-degree murder. "I pushed her away immediately," I say, desperation clawing at my insides. Will she believe me?

Sarah glares at me. Then, she looks at her feet with a sigh. "Do you like her, Derek?"

"No!" I exclaim, aghast. "Honey, she's my beta, and she's also underage. I don't like her. I don't like anyone but you."

She doesn't look at me. "It's fine, Derek. If you don't like me anymore. I get it. It's been a hard couple of months. And I understand if you wanna be with me. Maybe a werewolf will be better for you."

"Sarah," I ball my hand into a fist. "Look at me."

She doesn't budge, and I gently lift her chin up. Her warm, chocolate eyes meet my werewolf red. She looks a bit frightened, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her hard against me.

"Look at me, Angel." I growl, "You're the only one I like, the only one I want. So don't even think for a second that I'll look at anyone else the way I look at you."

"I'm sorry," She says and my eyes go back to the usual green. "It's been so hard recently, so I thought that you'd give up and...." She looks at me worriedly, "Start looking for someone else."

"Sarah," I say calmly, "It's been very hard, yes. But I'm not giving up on you. On us. It's you for me, Angel."

Sarah gives me a shaky smile, and I continue, "And as for Erica, I pushed her away immediately and warned her to not do that again. You know why?"

She looks at me expectantly and I kiss her softly. "Because I'm not hers, Angel. I'm yours."

Masterlist

[strawberryspence]

disclaimer: this is the most personal work i have yet. please be kind. trigger warnings: alcoholism, attempted suicide, and implied child abuse. please heed the warnings.

-

Eddie flips the coin in his hand.

As a child, Eddie used to drink orange juice from the carton. He likes the pulp, the tanginess, the comfort.

When he gets sick, his mother buys it for him, and like magic, it heals him. It could be the flu or the cold, but with orange juice, it heals everything.

(It's not. It's his mother and her healing magic. Her soft hands holding him through the night, her gentle humming as he sleep in discomfort, her love in the chicken soup.)

Eddie hates alcohol. He hates the burn on his lungs. The way it slides down, all grimy and hot. He hates the bitter taste in his mouth, something you can't wash even with brandname mouthwash.

Eddie hates the smell. The strong smell that stays on you for days, it sticks on your clothes, on your beddings, on your couch.

Eddie hates it. Hates it when he hears the click of a can opening, reminds him of his father coming home. Hates it when he smells it, reminds him of his father's harsh words and harsher actions.

Eddie hates the comfort he finds in it.

(He doesn't, really. Because deep down, he thinks it's the only escape. It's what he was born into. It's what he deserves.)

(It's not.)

There's broken bottles littering his room. He hides it good enough, he thinks. He thinks he does, until Wayne comes crashing into his room, the third bottle of whisky in his hand. Wayne breaks it against his wall and Eddie cries. It was so expensive.

He promises he'll get better.

He does. He does for a while.

Steve helps. Robin helps. The kids help.

And then—

Well.

It breaks.

It breaks the same way Dick Harrington's wine closet breaks, and Eddie feels dirty and useless as he uses his boyfriend's baseball bat— the same one that has saved their lives time and time again— to get him alcohol.

He doesn't really care. One sip and it'll all be gone.

(He cares.)

Eddie's not sure what pushes him back, if it's the writings on the walls, littered all over town or the heaviness of the truth. The truth that he was nothing but a burden. That he should've died that night in Dustin's arms and into nothingness.

Steve finds him like that, and Eddie hates himself for doing it to him twice. Hates that he made Steve go through it twice. Hates that Steve used the same rhythm twice to give him chest compressions. Hates that Steve has cried over almost losing him twice.

Eddie wakes up in the hospital and he's nothing but bones and meat.

Steve forgives him. But his eyes are sunken and his lips are bleeding.

Dustin doesn't visit him. At least he doesn't get to see Eddie like this.

(It doesn't give him any comfort.)

Steve and Wayne talk to him.

Eddie goes to some kind of facility.

It's not working. It's some kind of fucking bullshit.

(It doesn't work that way. Healing is like building blocks. One block at a time.)

Eddie gets out six months later.

He doesn't go back to Hawkins.

The whole Party picks him up.

(It's okay. It's not home. It was never home. It has always been the people.)

"Hey, you going to bed?" Eddie looks up at the voice. Some sitcom is playing in the background. The only light in the room is the light the TV emits.

Eddie yawns, "Yeah, I'll be right behind you, sweetheart."

Steve smiles at him, and it's like being showered with sunlight in the dark. He moves forward to kiss the crown of Eddie's head and it makes him feel like royalty, "Alright. I'll see you there, love."

Without Steve in the room, it's dark. It's only him and himself. Eddie shuts the TV off, walking slowly to the kitchen.

The coin digs into his palm, the familiar inscription sharp and throbbing. A constant daily reminder.

Eddie opens the fridge.

There's orange juice.

There's always orange juice on the fridge.

He takes the orange juice, drinking it out of the carton. Letting the magical juice heal him once again.

(It doesn't work that way.)

He closes the fridge, and a polaroid taped on the fridge catches his eyes.

It was taken on Eddie's 23rd birthday. Everybody was smiling around him, all toothy smiles and laughs as he blows the cake.

(There's orange juice. There's always orange juice in the other room and in Hawkins and in Boston and in Chicago and in California and in Indianapolis.)

(Maybe it doesn't work that way, but having orange juice does help.)

Eddie flips the coin and slaps it on the back of his hand.

(1 year.)

(One day at a time. Like building blocks.)

[sodalebooks07]

Why Katniss was always going to choose Peeta

Gale was never even a real option for Katniss, it was always going to be Peeta.

Gale was always *physically* there for her in the sense that he could hold her hand/hug her/hunt with her/take care of her family etc. which was confusing for her because 'why would she choose Peeta if Gale was literally right next to her?' But Peeta was always *emotionally* there for her, in the way that he understood her and knew how to comfort her versus Gale sometimes not realising there was more to healing than just Katniss's exterior healing like broken bones mending.

Katniss knew Gale for years, he was easy to love because she was familiar with him, she understood him, could read him like a book. It was the plain, simple fact of her being around him for so long.

She didn't agree with Gale's opinions or plans, and I don't mean the ones he threw about in the woods criticising the Capitol, but the ones where he could justify killing (murdering) innocent children. And I don't mean her disagreeing in like a casual, argumentative way, but she genuinely felt sick to her core at some of his ideals, found them horrific and him barbaric.

Peeta and her shared a traumatic experience, twice. They both went through the Games, and both survived, barely. And I know it could be argued that this could have confused them into being in love, but it really didn't. It wasn't the Games that made them fall for each other, we know Peeta liked Katniss way before them, but it was how Peeta helped Katniss to recover from them. It was the aftermath- the nights on the train- that fuelled their feelings.

Gale was the fuel to Katniss's fire, but Peeta could calm it. Gale and Katniss were both too similar, hot headed sometimes, could be a little impulsive, very strong minded. Whereas Peeta was very gentle, he could soothe Katniss, give her a sense of security and comfort.

Gale and Katniss had similar childhoods so automatically they felt drawn to one another, and I think it was difficult for Katniss to kind of separate herself from Gale because of that. Like, he understood that part of her, but in a way he never got how she was later on. He didn't want her to change from the girl in the woods. But she did change, and he couldn't accept that to some degree. Peeta might not have understood Katniss's childhood like Gale did, but he tried to. Gale never really openly talked about what it was like for Katniss in the Games. I think he assumed he knew what it was like just from watching it. And maybe that came from a good place- him not wanting to drag up bad memories (???)- but it wouldn't have hurt for him to help her open up about it.

Gale (whether unintentionally or not) blew up Prim. Ofc he didn't mean to, but he did. AND HE HAD NO REMORSE FOR THE BOMBS, JUST THE FACT THEY KILLED PRIM.

Peeta fell in love with her twice.

"You love me, real or not real?" "Real."

[breannasfluff]

Pinned Down

Whump Rating: 4/5 TW: Mainly emotional angst, minor description of blood, being held down, panic AO3 Link

Wild won’t let them near his wing. They can’t move on with his wing dragging on the ground. Yet anytime someone tries to approach, he starts up a warning chatter and shuffles further away.

Time, as flock leader, puffs his wings and gives a strong flock call. “Wild. We just want to help. You’re going to hurt yourself further if you let it keep dragging.” He steps forward, hands up but wings out. He gives another call. Flock leader, obey.

Wild’s ears pin back to his head at the sound. Time never uses the obey signal. He trembles but manages to keep it down to a few shuffling steps as the kite gets closer.

“I’m going to pick up your wing, okay? Just so we can walk over to the clearing and get you looked at properly.” His voice is low and soothing as he approaches.

Wild starts up his chatter again but doesn’t bolt.

“I need to touch your wing to get it off the ground. I’ll do my best not to move it too much, but you are going to get an infection like this.”

The magpie’s chatter kicks up in warning as Time reaches out. He pauses, refluffs his wings, and repeats flock leader, obey. Wild is still edging, ready to bolt. Obey! Submit, hatchling!

Legend flinches and he’s not even the target. Asking for submission is frowned upon in avian society. The call is too instinctual to easily ignore. From a stranger, yes. From a flock leader, no.

Wild wails, but stays put as Time carefully wraps his hands around the dragging wing. Despite how the kite keeps his wings up, showing dominance and flock leadership, the tips tremble and shudder. For a bird who cares deeply for his flock and their happiness, the command hurts him as much as it does Wild.

Time lifts, dipping one wing around to support the secondaries of the dragging wing. Keeping an eye on the bone, he gives a sharp nod. “Over to the clearing. Warriors, lead the way. Twilight, get the others.”

The group scatters and Wild takes a stumbling step, chittering as his broken wing moves. Hyrule gives a calming coo on instinct, but it doesn’t seem to permeate.

Each step away from the battlefield is agonizing and Time has to repeat his obey call twice more to stop Wild from bolting. Finally, they are situated in the middle of a large clearing. Sparse pine trees provide cover, but the ground is mostly dirt. They have the space needed to splint his wing.

“Sit down, Wild.” Time lowers the broken wing in time with the magpie, then lets go and steps back.

Wild crouches and immediately starts up his warning chatter. The other wing flutters and fluffs, trying to compensate.

Warriors—loner that he is—pulls Time into a hug. The kite clings to the captain and he wraps him up in his wings. They are all going to need to show the old man attention and love after a display like that, but Wild comes first.

Four shoves a green potion in Hyrule’s hands and he downs it, standing steadier. His magic alone isn’t enough to heal a broken bone; speeding the healing will over tighten the muscles needed for flight, but he can help.

Legend lets go as Hyrule moves forward. Flockmate, flockmate, here to help, the hearler trills. Safe, care for you, protect. When that doesn’t work, he tilts into a maternal call. Chick, little chick, comfort and help!

Wild chatters at him, unswayed.

“Let me try.” Legend steps forward and lowers his wings until they brush the ground. Help help worry. Hurt flockmate! Then he adds on a descending note. I hurt because you do, it says.

Go away, go away, threat! Wild chatters back. His eyes are blown wide, but they aren’t focusing on the flock’s faces. There’s a haze to them. Whatever trauma this triggered, it’s not a pretty one.

Unfortunately, Legend has a good guess at what it is.

Hyrule tries another coo, then turns to the vet. “This isn’t working. His wing is bleeding and the longer we wait to set the bone, the worse it’s going to get. Do you think Time’s up for another order?”

Legend glances at where their leader is still shrouded in Warriors’ feathers. “I think he’ll do it if we have no choice.”

“I’m not sure we do.” The thrasher turns back to Wild. “I need to check your wing, little chick. Can I come look? I won’t touch it.” Flockmate, love you, he adds with a melodic trill.

Wild’s chattering slows and he drops into a warning hiss. It’s an improvement, so Hyrule moves forward, keeping his hands well away from the broken wing.

“How’s it look?” Legend asks.

“Not great. The bone has torn skin and some of the muscles were cut as well. He’s in a lot of pain, that’s for sure. I’m worried about the bleeding.”

“There’s not that much blood?” True, any amount of red splashed on blue feathers is worrying.

“Exactly. I think it’s bleeding under the skin. It will swell and, worst case, rupture.”

The vet swallows hard, wings shuffling at the notion. Wing injuries are hard to deal with at the best of times. This is definitely not the best.

“So, what do we do now?”

“I’m going to need to splint it in place and make sure the pooled blood is drained. Once we do that, I can use a potion or magic to heal the artery. I can push the bone and muscle a little, but not too far or they will heal stiff. We’re going to be walking for a while.”

The bowerbird brushes the inconvenience away. Wild needs their attention. Hyrule chirps at Wild, but droops when he doesn’t get an answer. He turns back to the other avians. “I’m going to need the raptors to help move his wing into place and hold it steady while I splint it.”

Stepping forward, Legend shakes his head. “He’s not going to like that.”

The healer’s eyes are agonized when they meet his. “I know.”

~

The flock huddles to one side to go over the plan before breaking apart and heading for Wild. The magpie is still in the same spot, one wing dragging limp on the ground. It looks—wrong. It is wrong.

Legend is on distraction duty as the only other flockmate who might be able to keep Wild calm. Time’s face is set, despite the puffy redness that points to recent crying. He’ll do anything to keep his flock safe, even betray their trust.

Of course, that’s the worst-case scenario. The vet can’t help the bile rising in his throat because the worst-case is likely what they will get.

“Hey, Wild. Hyrule’s going to take another look at your wing. I bet you were really scared when the net caught you.” His job is simply to talk, to provide distraction. The magpie’s eyes snapped to him immediately, despite the haze over them. He’s here—or, more likely, here and trapped in his memories at the same time. Past and present colliding in misery.

“You’re being really brave though, you know that? When I was a chick, I lost a primary jumping out of a tree and oh, you would have thought the world ended for how much I wailed.”

Hyrule huffs softly at the anecdote, carefully reaching for Wild’s wing. Legend keeps talking. If silly stories of him as a chick are what it takes, he’ll provide them.

At first, it’s working. Hyrule pushes feathers aside and uncorks a bottle of water. As soon as he pours it over the wound to clean it, though, Wild’s attention snaps to him.

There’s no warning.

Wild lunges at Hyrule and his other wing snaps out. Legend ducks and the bone whistles over his head. Hyrule squawks and backs up, but he isn’t ready for a sudden attack. The magpie snaps at the arm still reaching for his broken wing and bites. Hard.

Hyrule’s melodic voice should never be forced into that register of pain. Legend snaps at the air and chatters at Wild on instinct, because Hyrule is flock.

Wild lets go of Hyrule’s arm, but only to spin and bolt. The broken wing drags on the ground.

Through gritted teeth, Hyrule yells, “Now!”

Obey! Down! Now! Time’s flock call is so strong it nearly stops Legend before he rushes forward to help the others. Wild snarls and doesn’t follow it.

Submit! Submit submit submit!

That finally stops the magpie, but everyone else is frozen as well. Time hurriedly shifts the identifier. Hatchling submit! Obey! Down! The others start moving, but even then, Wild wavers, on the verge of breaking. Hatchling disobeys! Angry, bad, shameful to flock leader! SUBMIT! The call is half snarl, half screech.

Wild drops to the ground. Sorry sorry sorry! His wails are nothing but cries for forgiveness. Tears stream down his face. Forgive, forgive! comes in broken whimpers.

Time is crying, too. This is not how he leads his flock. But Wild is going to damage his wing irreparably if they don’t fix it. Right now, this is the only thing keeping Wild from running. Trauma bites deep, but instinct bites deeper.

Verbally held one spot, the raptors pounce on him. Time and Twilight pin him to the ground. Warriors holds down the other wing, putting a knee on the joint and pressing. It’s dangerous; the weight could snap the bone at the joint, but it’s also one of the few ways to keep Wild incapacitated.

Despite the command, he shrieks and thrashes.

“Keep his wing down! He’s going to damage it more!” Hyrule snaps.

Swallowing hard, Legend steps forward to help.

This will be finished tomorrow! With some comfort!

[hedgiwithapen]

Screams from across the hall for Caitlin Snow?

(can be read on it's own but also theoretically fits into Miles Through The Night, which I swear one of these years I'll get back to...)

Caitlin stared at the dull and pitted cement floor, trying to keep her breathing even. General Wade Eiling's steel-toed boots moved closer in her field of vision. She didn't glance up, and told herself that it was because she didn't want to see the look on his face and not because she was afraid of the promised slap if she did lift her eyes. She could tell he was looming.

"Well, if you're going to be stubborn," he told her. "Then I'll simply have to gather the information I require through alternative means." 

Her head shot up, long enough to see him adjust the radio he wore on his belt and glance at his watch. 

"Dr. Hadley, you can begin whenever you're ready."

Caitlin bit down hard on her lip, tasting blood. Be strong, she told herself as she braced to be struck, jabbed with a cattleprod, stabbed. Whatever he does--

Outside her door, the cement hallway echoed with an awful scream. Barry's scream. She'd heard it before, on the medbay cot in STAR Labs, over the coms when a metahuman got in a strike he wasn't ready for. A second howl of pain tore loose.

"Well?" Eiling asked.

"No," she whispered, trembling. Her fingernails cut perfect crescents into her palms, even cut short as they were. 

"You can stop this, Snow," Eiling said, sharp. "Dr. Hadley doesn't stop until I say so. He'll keep going until every one of the Flash's bones is broken, and then we can see how many break twice. Unless--" he paused, deliberately, and Caitlin heard another scream.  Another. Another. 

She dry heaved, shaking her head again, weakening.

Eiling saw it, too. he thumbed the button on his radio. This time, she heard the snap of a bone, Barry's scream that much louder. It echoed in her ears. 

What was the point of withholding information, stalling for a rescue, if they'd only get it anyways, worse?

"Stop," she said, cracking.  "Stop, I'll tell you. The Files, I can tell you how to get into them, where they are, everything, just stop this. Please."

Eiling checked his watch again, and clicked the radio. "Hadly."

"A success, Sir," the man--Caitlin wouldn't think of his as a doctor-- returned. under that clear voice Caitlin could hear the awful whimper of her friend in agony.

"Five minutes," Eiling commented. "Impressive."

Caitlin swallowed, and Eiling smirked down at her. That wasn't right. Even in good health, it took Barry over an hour to heal from a broken bone. Starved, cold, already injured--that couldn't be right. 

"Oh, Doctor Snow," Eiling tsked. "I wasn’t timing how long it took the Flash to heal. I was timing how long you took to break."

[gravitytrips]

Chapter 4: Interrogation

Scout and Medic were awoken but the halt of the truck. They had arrived. The door flew open. Men in uniforms pointed guns at the mercenaries, ordering them out of the cargo box.

Medic knew he couldn’t risk trying to escape. They were certainly outside of the range of the respawn machine, and while he and Scout were certainly very fast, bullets were faster. So, he complied.

Scout didn’t go down so easily. The logic part of his brain was no know for being all the strong. His mind told him to run. His legs itched to go. So he did. 

Medic didn’t have time to call out for him to stop. He could only watch as the butt of a soldier’s rifle connected with the back of Scout’s skull.

Scout lost consciousness immediately. 

Medic could easily tell that the boy was concussed.

“Scout!” Medic shouted as he rushed to his side. The doctor reached for the boy’s bleeding head, but the soldiers quickly grabbed and hauled him away.

Scout regained consciousness a few hours later with a headache from Hell. He groaned and tried to roll over, but he found that he could not move. When his eyes focused, Scout realized that he was sitting up, tied to a chair. 

The door clicked open.

Scout’s mind was still hazy, his reaction times slow. His head moved towards the door.

A tall man in a suit walked in.

“Greetings, mercenary. I trust that your trip here was….comfortable.”

Scout did not say anything.

The suited man grabbed Scout by the hair and yanked his head up.

“Good. Because it’s about to get so. Much. Worse.”

These words shook Scout’s foggy mind. A weak sob shuddered through his body.

The next hour was, as Scout would later report, the worst of his life. The suited man asked him many questions about his fellow mercenaries. What were their abilities? Weaknesses? Where would they hide? What weapons did they use? One moment the man was offering Scout deals, the next he was being hit with a metal pipe. Scout was not a sellout. He stayed silent to the deals. And for once, he did not cave to pain.

Medic had been pacing in his new cell.

Back and forth.

His mind was full of thoughts, but most were focused on the Scout. That had been a nasty blow to his head. Would they even let him heal the kid? And Lord knows what they were doing to him now.

The door opened. A soldier appeared.

“We do not have enough cells to accommodate all 18 of you mercenaries, so you and a few others will have to share.”

The soldier left, and another appeared, dragging the battered body of Scout behind him. Medic was frozen for a few moments, just watching as they dragged the beaten kid in and dropped him on the floor.

As soon as the door closed, Medic was immediately at Scout’s side.

The vitals were weak, but he was breathing, and his heartbeat was there.

Four broken teeth.

Several possibly broken bones.

Cracked ribs.

Broken nose.

Too many bruises and cuts to count.

Medic took off his lab coat and folded it into a long rectangle. Then, he wrapped the length of cloth around Scout’s torso.

Medic was suddenly angry. He was a doctor! He should be able to do more than make a lousy brace for Scouts ribs!

Scout’s eyes opened for the third time that day. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Every breath he took was like getting stabbed. Every part of his body was filled with a dull ache. Scout attempted to shift, and a sharp pain hit him like a dart to the lungs. He cried out in pain.

Medic’s attention was immediately brought back to the situation at hand.

“Stop moving. You are only hurting yourself.”

Scout didn’t have to be told twice. He lay still. 

Medic stood, walking over to the door. He knocked three times, and called out. 

A soldier slid open the window covering.

Scout could hear Medic talking quietly to the soldier. Scout’s heartbeat and breaths echoed in his ears. Pain coursed through his body.

Scout closed his eyes. He listened to his heartbeat and breathing. On the verge of sleep, Scout suddenly had a thought.

“Weird,” Scout thought, “the beating’s stopped.”

@aerowolf

[isleofdarkness]

Mischa is one of the worst child abuse cases on the Isle. In fact, most Isle kids will tell you he's the worst case hands-down. He heals twice as fast as a normal human and his curse is extremely strong, making him nearly impossible to kill. And then there's his habit of throwing himself between his sisters and their father. He doesn't have one bone in his body that hasn't been fractured or broken at least once, and he literally has more scars than skin. Despite being one of the older Isle kids, he's every bit as malnourished and ill as Isle kids from the younger generations.

Mischa is one of the most horrifying cases of child abuse the Auradon courts have ever seen.

[ikeromantic]

Strength

Ok, so this is for @ikemenlover but the ask has been eaten in my inbox. It's a good thing I copied it to my notes, huh? ^_^ Approx. 1400 words on the ask: Hey Can I have Fanfiction of Ieyasu tokugawa with MC who has a psycho stalker and hurts her very much and ieyasu taking care of injured MC?

Ieyasu followed the maid through the halls of Azuchi and into the chatelaine’s room. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful spring day, the windows were closed tight and she lay curled up on her futon beneath a blanket. The maid gestured silently, her face twisted with worry.

The warlord shooed her out and then knelt beside the bed. “Mai?”

She stirred, but only to pull the blanket over her head. “Leave me alone.”

“I would. But the maids are worried about you. They said you didn’t eat last night or today, and that you won’t get out of bed. So get up, and I’ll go away.”

“I will. Later.” She didn’t come out of the covers.

Ieyasu frowned. This wasn’t like her at all. Mai was cheerful. Annoyingly so. And full of energy, enough that he felt tired just talking to her. She always had a smile for him and a kind word. Always. Maybe she was really sick. “Now. I have to look you over and see if there’s something wrong.”

“I’m fine.” 

“Then come out.”

“No.”

Annoyance blossomed in Ieyasu. He had a thousand things to do, and he did not have time to coddle her. His real fear was buried somewhere under that justification, his fear that something was very wrong here. With one strong pull, he tore the blankets from her grip and tossed them away from the futon. 

Mai immediately turned away from him, but she could not hide the dried blood nor the stiff way her legs moved. “Dammit, Ieyasu! I don’t want you to look at me!” 

“Mai . . .” Ieyasu felt all the air knocked out of him. He fought back a wave of panic that made the room seem smaller and darker than it was. “You’re hurt,” he rasped, and forced himself to take a breath. 

“I said I’m fine.” He could tell she was crying now. 

“Stop being an idiot and let me look at you.”

She went still, and for a moment he thought she would ignore him, but she slowly sat up. Her breath hitched as if the motion pained her. When she looked at him, he saw why she’d hidden her face. Her lips were split, swollen, and bruised. One eye was so puffy that she couldn’t open it. And she was cradling her wrist. 

Ieyasu rocked back in shock. “What - what happened?”

“I fell.” The lie was so blatant that it hurt. 

Though he wanted to know more than anything, right now it was more important to treat her injuries. He could find out how they’d happened later. He knew there was no fall that did this. “Alright. Let me . . . let me see.”

He took out his ointments and bandages, first cleaning the wounds on her face and then carefully treating them. The tear on her lips might leave a scar, he thought. 

She winced at the sharp sting of the medicine as he worked. “Will that . . . make it go away faster?”

“It will, if I reapply it for you. Twice a day for the next week, at least.” He frowned at her, wishing she trusted him enough to be honest. Ieyasu moved to her hand. Several of her fingers were broken, the wrist sprained. Her nails were torn and bloodied as if she’d been fighting something. Or someone. 

“What about my hand? I have to be able to sew.” She looked as if she might cry again. 

Ieyasu gently stroked her forearm, the only part he was sure he could touch without hurting her. “You will. I wish you’d come to me right away though. This will hurt more, now that they’ve had time to sit like this. The bones out of place.” 

It took a moment to pull them straight, and then to bind them so that they could heal. “I’ve had to do this several times. For Masamune, after a fight.” He glanced up at her face and saw fear there. 

“I just . . . I fell. On my hand.” 

“Mai. I’ve seen a lot of injuries. These aren’t the kind you get from falling.” He took her other hand and examined it. No broken bones, just some scrapes on her knuckles, and torn nails. He began to bandage them as well. 

“Ieyasu. I can’t. I can’t say anything else. Or-”

“Or what? Mai, you have to tell me.” His eyes blazed with the intensity of his feeling, though his expression changed little. Something in his chest shifted, aching in an unexpected way as she met his gaze.

Her next words were so quiet that he almost couldn’t hear them. “He’ll hurt someone else.”

“He?” An irrational rage shot through Ieyasu. Irrational because it had no direction. He still didn’t know who had done this or why. “Who?”

“I . . . I don’t know his name.” She took a shaky breath. “I thought he was nice, at first. He helped me carry my shopping bags. But then he - he -” She started to tremble as if her body would rather shake itself apart than to continue.

Ieyasu carefully pulled her into an embrace. He held onto her as if she were made of the most precious, fragile porcelain, afraid he might crack her delicate exterior. 

She clung to him, and the tears came. Great, heaving sobs that tore from her as if the act of crying itself hurt. Words came too, in that undammed flow. At first he could make no sense of them, but eventually the story came clear.

This man she’d met knew all kinds of things about her. Where she lived, who she associated with, what she ate and drank. He’d been watching her for weeks at least. And then made his move. 

“H-he told me he hated . . . he hated that I could smile,” she cried. “Th-that he would hurt mmme until . . . until . . .” 

Ieyasu gently stroked her back, letting himself express the emotions he was not ready to voice. He cared for her so much. Too much to see her like this. “Why,” he asked, when she finally quieted, “why didn’t you tell us? Me or Nobunaga? Anyone in Azuchi?”

“He said -” Mai took a long, slow breath, calming herself. “He said he would kill a servant if he even thought I told someone. I - I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. And, and now . . .” Her voice disappeared in another wave of helpless tears.

“I promise you, he is not going to hurt anyone.” Ieyasu wasn’t sure how to keep that promise, but he couldn’t let Mai sound so broken and hopeless. He would have to speak with Nobunaga. Somehow, they would keep everyone safe until this man was caught. And they would catch him. One way or another.

After taking a few minutes to get her tears back under control, she nodded. “I - I believe you.” 

“Good.” He settled her gently back into the futon. “I am going to send for some food and while you eat, you are going to tell me everything about this man. What he looks like. Where you saw him. What did he wear. Every detail.” Ieyasu’s voice was cool, calm and collected as always. But anger simmered just below the surface. Anyone who could hurt a woman like this - much less one as sweet and naive as Mai . . .

“And when you are better, I am going to teach you some things. To make sure this never happens again,” Ieyasu added. 

Mai gave an uncertain nod. “I don’t know if I can. I’m not very strong or fast.”

A remembered shame boiled in Ieyasu’s gut as he remembered his own helplessness and fear. He’d been a child then, and Mai was a grown woman, but it was the same feeling. The same problem. In this world, you had to grow hard and strong. Cruelty would not pass you by just because you were sweet. Beautiful. 

“You can. If you are strong enough to learn.”

“I. . . I think I am. With you as my teacher.” 

When her fingers curled around Ieyasu’s hand, he felt his heart lurch in his chest. A sudden, erratic pounding like a deer bounding across an open field, full of wildness. He pulled his hand back. “I’ll send for food. And get something to write on.”

This would not be easy. Catching her stalker. Training her to defend herself. But Ieyasu would not fail. He had to be strong. She needed him. And, in the echoes of his fierce heartbeat, he knew he needed her.

[thequeendomhq]

“He favours his right knee.” “He’ll favour the other one next.”

Raven hair pulled tight behind her, Astrid's fingers threaded one piece over another as the long, Iskaran braid began to take shape at the crown of Gunnhild’s head.

At sixteen she didn’t respect many. Her father never treated her like a child, he ran the cisterns, the criminal underworld of Yggdrasildal, and Gunnhild had started out as a thief. Then she was a thug. 

Astrid didn’t have Gunnhild’s respect, at least not at first. Five years ago the woman had only seen twenty-three summers, a flavour of the month, but she’d been kept around where others fell away. Sharp, observant, and keen to make a name for herself, Gunnhild understood that some people had to work with what they’d been given.

“I envy you.” “You’re welcome to take my place.” “So young. So powerful. Your father raised you well.” “My father wanted a son.” Gunnhild smiled as Astrid finished and stood to run her hand against the smooth, shaved scope at the side of her head.  “Your father wants a great many things.”

“And he usually gets them.” Gunnhild eyed her reflection in the polished steel plastered to the wet brick of the cistern. She saw a girl who’d broken so many bones that they had no choice but to heal twice as strong. A woman who’d been standing a foot above those her own age since she was only ten years old. 

“I’ve never known you to walk away from a fight.” “Who’s walking away?” Gunnhild asked as she caught Astrid's gaze in the reflection of the makeshift mirror. 

“You know what I mean.” “But you know not what you ask.” It was sharp, as was Gunnhild’s nature. A forked tongue that was too crude for flyting, one that only stilled under her father’s harsh gaze. “Winning isn’t everything.”

Astrid was silent because she did not need to speak, Gunnhild could hear her thoughts echoing within her own well enough.

“Feel your braid, Hilda.”

Thrown to the floor of the ring, Gunnhild’s body protested as she tasted iron across the tarmac of her tongue. 

“Kill the bitch!” “Rip her fucking eyes out!”

Men always craved violence, but women were not so different. Gunnhild the brute had been to most of their doors at some point. Flanked by men twice her age and half her size sent by the girl’s father to collect a debt that was owed. It was a common saying that you could not get blood from a stone, but Gunnhild had a way about her. When the lives of children or spouses were threatened, it was a marvel what they could come up with.

“Get up!” “Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild get up!” “Fight!”

The crowd hated and favoured her, their wages split, but she’d spent a year earning her reputation here. Sigurd bet against her, Gunnhild the dutiful daughter, heir of rats.

When next Gunnhild looked the crack she felt along her jaw reverberated through her frame. She did not see stars, but an explosion of lights and sounds as the full weight of her body twisted upon itself before she once more hit the ground, hard.

A bleary-eyed stare lifted her gaze through the throng of grubby ankles and torn hems. Gunnhild could hear the abuse, the laughter that reverberated from the bellies of bloated, drunk men, and through the shadows she saw a pair of violet eyes watching her. A tail flicked through the shadows, back and forth.

Gunnhild stood and turned. She avoided the next strike with deft ease, instead of flesh the man that was more meat than a person brought his fist through the open air - broken only by the tail of her braid.

He was three decades her senior, harder, stronger, and carved from the same Iskaran stone as her. Gunnhild was faster, sharper, leaner, and far smarter. Before he’d recovered from the recoil of his stumble, she’d struck him four times over his rib cage, and under her knuckles came the deft feeling of cracking and popping. 

The underground fighter turned to swing at her but Gunnhild was light on her feet, incensed by adrenaline and blood like a berserker driven mad, she subverted his swing, and then another before she followed up with one that sent blood spewing from his nostrils. 

His nose flattened clean across his face, painting him like an overgrown elephant. Red-faced and enraged, Gunnhild heard the women within the crowd cheer her name and smirked as she moved in.

Bone cracked under the weight of her fist and the crowd roared around her.

Grown men pulled out their hair, but they didn’t earn her sympathy, those who did not cheer were the ones foolish enough to bet against her.

“Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild!” “Gunnhild!”

They thrust her fist into the air and Gunnhild’s smile was bright and broken. She took in the reverie, but it faltered when she met her father’s eyes. She’d cost him a fortune tonight.

Sigurd had been telling Gunnhild her worth for an age, but she never expected that her value would ever fall to disposable. Not when she’d worked so hard

“Victory again, Hilda.”

Her father’s man was equal part cruel and vicious, his henchmen just as merciless. They left her for dead, a notice to one of the local witchers that they’d found a witch in the cisterns.

Witcher. Kingsguard. First.

“Is this all that you can do?” Gunnhild paced in easy, intentional movements, a great axe hung carelessly at her side - its hilt held just a breath above the stone. “Is this all that you’re capable of?” For all the fear that the witchers imposed, it began with The First; she was not known for her kindness, kindness was easily misconstrued and when it was between witchers and the rest of the Iskarans there could be no room for error. 

She knew better than most how precarious their position was, and how quickly the winds could change. 

Gunnhild looked down at the wiry limbed child, watched as their veins pulsed and throbbed - poison protested its way toward their heart and she steeled herself once more for this moment. 

“Did you really come all this way, just to die?” Her axe lifted the thin-faced progeny and studied the clarity and the vitriol behind their eyes. “You must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.”

She stood and watched as their body stilled, listened as their heart stopped, and then Gunnhild released a breath she did not know she was holding when it started again. 

Forty years a witcher and Gunnhild had outlasted those of her graduating class by a decade now. She could feel the poison ebb at her veins but by now this discomfort was a familiar burn. Some said Gunnhild was too stubborn to die, that her life could not be spent until she’d twisted a cruel finger into every affair across the Kingdom. Her Mad High King had appointed her two decades ago, and for twenty years she’d curated the generations of witchers to come.

From the top of Witcher’s Watch, she saw the mountain descend from the sky, and felt the heat as it scorched the land with arcana that only the oldest of stories whispered about.

Beneath her the watch was evacuating, they’d need time to take their children and their secrets into Valkyrie’s Reat, time that Gunnhild would have to buy for them.

Her braid was woven at the top of her head like a crown, but as she sheathed herself in antimagic it fell to sweep the ground behind her. Gunnhild’s face was lined and scarred; she foresaw her Kingdoms fate, but her duty was to her people - and the Iskarans who spat at her name. Iskaldrik, this broken, beautiful, stubborn land of ego and violence would fall to something far worse. She saw its face as it scorched the earth and left nothing but waste. Ichorous shadows like ink whipped about her, the natural weaves of the world seemed to protest as the air itself bent around her.

She stepped onto these threads and took flight, sustained by means of rejection. Against the shadow, a stark line of Silverlight took shape as a mithril bow formed, arrows of shadow and mithril enveloped its shaft before they pierced the sky. Antimagic erupted against the mountain and an invisible field rippled around it - shielded, she fired again and again.

A handprint burned over her heart, though Gunnhild paid it no mind. 

She envisioned a white flame and passed her fears to it as they floated through her consciousness.

She flew, and she fired. 

From the mountain bastion, a ray of prismatic flames fired toward Gunnhild, engulfing her. The shadow of her ascent was blotted out as the blast struck through and erupted against the ground below, but as quickly as it had blotted out the inky shadow of her antimagic, the ray erupted from its center and split the sky apart in a blinding array of light. Her bow fell toward the ground but a great-axe had landed in her palm instead, with a two-handed swing Gunnhild roared, heaving it at the Aetherian's mountain barrier before she cracked its great mithril blade against a field of seven colours and watched as the barrier shattered.

Its defense brought to ruin, Gunnhild remained smoldering, she prepared to charge, but from thin air itself, three suddenly appeared and descended upon her: a man with hair like the sun, a woman wrapped in gilded armor, and a third with gray hair the colour of churning sea foam.

The grayed Aetherian raised a hand, smiled, and then the sky erupted once more.

I shall not fear.

THE BARRIER

A cold fog swept over the people that morning, most were awake already, charged and ready at the barrier. They knew that once the Olympians began it would only be a matter of time before the Aetherians descended to pick their bones clean. 

At the Olympians’s order, elements bore down upon the barrier to strip it away layer by layer. Frost against fire, fire against frost, air against lightning. The prismatic force was a myriad of complexities, each field of the prism needed to be taken down simultaneously and yet one at a time as well. As quickly as they could tear through, it sealed itself shut again, as they were the Olympians would not manage it on their own. 

The witchers of Iskaldrik stepped forward, and the words of their First echoed in their mind: fear is the mind-killer. 

They sheathed themselves in antimagic, transforming as they rushed the barrier and carved into it with their mithril weapons. Cloaked in ichorous shadows, the force of the barrier closed down upon them. Flames washed over them, cold sunk into their nerves, acid ate away at their skin, and poison twisted away at their insides while lightning coursed through their bodies. Visions of horror flooded their minds in a blinding array as each of them gradually began to turn to stone. 

Their King was gone, their purpose was their nation, united, and with the aid of the Olympians, they cracked open the barrier as it rippled with a flood of arcana that cascaded across the surface in an array. If the Aetherians did not know where they were previously, then they would certainly be upon them shortly. The prismatic barrier sat on the shoulders of the witchers, the force of it tearing through them little by little. 

Iskarans rushed through, and the refugees passed under the mantle of the array while Aetherians poured down from the sky. A rain of prismatic flames washed across the Lostlands and one by one the witchers holding the field either collapsed or were pulled away. The barrier closed bit by bit until the last of it resealed into place and the pursuing Aetherians were trapped within, staring through the prismatic array at the Lysarans and Iskarans standing shoulder to shoulder. 

Despite their condition, none of the witchers died. Their petrification eroded away from the barrier, their sight returned, and with time their wounds were healed.

For the Iskarans, what more could be said?

What could they say after two long months on the road? Sequestered with the blight, starved, and raided by darkspawn. They'd watched their children turn into ghouls and felt the bracing hands of the witchers holding them back as their fiendish offspring were cut down and buried.

They'd been marched through wretched storms and unbearable cold and barely held their grip in the jarring tundra of the Wastelands and the treacherous peaks of Ymir's most Northern Spine. They'd come face to face with Aetherians, and battle dragons, and still trudged through a swampish hell only to face what should have been an insurmountable challenge.

They had lost their homes, their families, and their livelihoods.

For a moment there was nothing but shock and uncertainty, then a choice of glee seemed to erupt. A chorus of an old song passed over stubborn Iskaran songs as the Queen of Haven swept open the doors and bid the nation welcome among her wolves.

A pack that would grow with those who wished to join her, and a border nation that suddenly doubled in size overnight.

Too many Iskarans were taken the night of the Nornwatch attack, but six returned, each carrying scars both seen and unseen. Over the hearts of five, a handprint had appeared. It didn’t take long for word to spread, among the elves one of the elvhen said it first: Hrimthur’s Heart. From there another adage began to follow: The Daughters of Manetheren and The Heroes of the Wastelands. 

Their triumph over the abomination, Munin, spread like wildfire. Munin became the face of the darkspawn, a name that the Iskarans could attribute to all their woes concerning the blight. A skaldic young witch limped about Haven and spread the tale of their valor; inflating some aspects and deflating others. These brave stories spread from the Iskarans, through Haven, and across Lysara like a wildfire.

A Princess missing her eye stood now among the legionnaires, abandoning status in pursuit of a greater good. Aetherians had taken Iskaldrik, but she’d gazed upon Isengrim’s Embrace and knew that if left unchecked, the blight would see to it that there would be no Iskaldrik to return to.

A Steady blade had watched the princess cut off a dragon's head and took a knee. All her life she'd been Iskaran, she'd served a King, but she swore herself to the woman who she hoped would someday return to Iskaldrik as Queen.

A Shield for a Jarl was left touched by magic; the Iskaran woman knew nothing of witchcraft but now an unknown amount of years in wisdom sat idle across her mind. Lifetimes lived through the distorted lens of an altered fate, her task became siphoning the parts of her that were true and what was better left abandoned.

A Stationary woodcutter from the Iskaran Ironwood, signatures draped in a red riding cloak, had been kissed by the moon. An amulet of Aetherite was worth enough to purchase a fleet of ships ten times over, but what it gave her was so much more. Where it had come from and what it meant remained obscured by the fog of the blight, a fog she stepped toward. A wolf among the legionnaires draped in a cloak of red over armor of black.

A Path of shadows draped in raven feathers obscured her identity now. She drifted into the peripherals and faded into the background. Darkness had laid its hand upon her, and while she’d given little and told less, most never so much as learned her name.

A Gaze had turned toward the future and the horrors that she’d been made to endure. Orphaned urchin from the grimy streets, an Iskaran weapon meant to defend her nation. When the Legion of the Dead extended its hand, she stepped toward her Joining and set her eyes upon carving out the rot that settled around her Kingdom.

A Temperance of a sixth did not carry the mark, not a daughter of Manetheren, but a scientist. One who’d fallen through the veil but had turned away from uncovering more and chose safety instead. Wounded and battered, she would piece together the past in the hope of stitching what remained of their future. One who would fail far more than she’d succeed. 

A Sword missing an arm carrying the rank of Kingsguard bore the mark of Hrimthur's Heart, engraved by the storm giant, Orum - though to what end, he could not yet say. He rallied those under his charge in the absence of The First and at the unwavering side of the Iskaran Heir; a sword to lead the witchers to their noble, Iskaran purpose - to someday hunt and kill the magi of Aetheron.

A Hero known as The Errant Knight began to spread like wildfire. From the bowels of a plagued, abandoned outpost, a slayer of blademasters and defectors from the Legion of the Dead had been cut down. He carried one of her swords, one a heron-marked blade wielded by a Crusader of the Light, his story would spread and in so would inspire others to walk the warrior’s path - not knowing the dark secret he harbored. 

A Devout legionnaire wielding the weight of the bloodied arts of an Olympian or Ceres pulled countless from the brink of death. For months she’d worked to the bone, setting limbs and minds alike. Toiling day and night among Iskarans who’d have sooner spat at a witch than accepted her aid. What she knew better than most was what she’d known from her formative years: there was only one battle that mattered, the battle between good and evil. Life and death.

An Heir who now carried the ring of his father, wielding with it a power that as of yet ran unchecked. A prince who would someday be King, a man who carried a dark secret and an even darker burden - because now his people were looking toward him for hope. He was the face that they would pin their desire to return to the nation that was taken from them, and it would be his name they would remember should he fail. 

An Oathsworn man who’d never thought to hold the mantle of leadership, but with every legionnaire above him cut down, there were few other choices. Should they make it through the barrier, then he’d stand as the Lysaran Field Officer, and march the new burgeoning Legionnaires to reclaim and rebuild Caer Glas Keep of the Silverlands. 

A Runner had finally reached his destination, a woodcutter from the Iskaran South, a boy and his dog who'd lost everything along the way to find the family he'd known but never met. A home within a home, a life within a life, his purpose still yet undefined but one who'd carved out runes and seen a Storm Giant with his own eyes, living to tell the tale.

A Hand that was the voice of The High King watched as the man he’d sworn himself to, the man he’d betrayed, and the man he’d watched return from the brink of death, slip away. A maddening uncertainty addled the warrior famed as the Raven Feeder, once Orhan’s voice when he stood in the hall of Arethusa Mordecai, it was he who spoke on behalf of the Iskaran people. 

One by one the people of Iskaldrik were vetted, the crimes in their nation were of no consequence to the Lysarans, and the supernaturals hidden among them were thoroughly searched for any connection to Aetheron, or the Blight. Within Haven, Queen Aurea gave the Iskarans everything they needed: food, lodging, and healing when necessary with the understanding that they remained by her good graces and they could continue to do so so long as her law was respected.

Overall, those who were not native to Lysara were sequestered within the lupine city for a month's time. One by one the Agents combed through every detail and made note of anyone of interest: changelings, vuldaks, cambions, devils, thieves, potential darkfriends and so much more. As was their nature, they revealed this only to their Sitters, and to those who were deemed necessary.

The prismatic field remained, no one could enter or exit, but it remained abundantly clear that

ooc info:

This concludes Troupe 1: Journey to our Queendom. Thank you all so much for coming along on this, it has meant the world to me.

The Iskarans are in Haven, in the game it'll be about a month, but IC you're welcome to have them interacting and playing outside of the city.

The Agents of Minerva uncovered the secrets of most of the Iskaran refugees, they know their history - bloody and all. These aren't witches you can easily hide things from.

EVERYONE receives DM Inspiration on their next quest for either surviving and thriving in all the horror I put them through, their campaign actions, or their in-character actions. Additionally, each of these characters in the troupe is awarded 2,000 gp to spend on whatever they wish ( Call it a gift from a charitable wing of the Vanguard of the Light ).

A reminder that the wrap-up posts are due next Friday!

Congratulations on completing the tutorial, The Game has officially begun :)

[bookwyrminspiration]

a broken bone(r) heals twice as strong

hello @thegreatlibraryfangirl, I was your gifter! (put together by the lovely @gay-otlc). I don't know you very well and I'm new to the series, so I kept it classy and simple when combining your whump/smut prompts--I hope you enjoy, because drawing this was delightfully fun and a new challenge for me (I hate back muscles now), also happy new year :)

[rosanna-writer]

a simple name, and everything has changed

Summary: we said hello and your eyes look like coming home, Rhys POV chapters Or: Rhys's slow realization that he's mated to Prythian's most chaotic human (and how much he loves her for it) Warnings: implied/referenced sexual assault Word Count: ~3k

I decided to pull together some of my notes on what's going through Rhys's head and write a few Rhys POV chapters of we said hello and your eyes look like coming home! This is his POV of chapter six: this mad, mad love makes you coming running, which is his reunion with Feyre Under the Mountain.

Read on AO3, or you can find it under the cut.

The bond shifted as Feyre woke up. She was too tired to shield, each stab of pain from her broken ribs shooting across the thread tying us together. My own hand flew to my chest. Thank the Cauldron this hadn't happened until I'd finished enough rounds in Amarantha's bedroom that she was sleeping like the dead. A small mercy, but at least it went quicker now that I knew what she liked.

Even with her head swimming, Feyre was assessing her injuries and scrambling to her feet, like a prizefighter gearing up for a second round. All tenacity, which wouldn't be infuriating if she weren't hellbent on putting herself in danger. I winnowed to her cell.

At the sight of her covered in bruises, I couldn't hold back a snarl. She shouldn't have come down here—humans were so easy to hurt. "What the hell are you doing here, Feyre?" I said.

"I wasn't going to leave you down here to rot," she said. Her voice was strong, as if she hadn't just been unsteady on her feet a few seconds ago.

There was another bolt of pain from her broken nose, and I tamped down on the instinct to summon up a scrap of magic to heal every last injury. Everything in me was screaming to just winnow her back to Velaris, consequences be damned.

"You were supposed to be safe. If nothing else, that was the one thing—"

Yet again, she dug her heels in, cutting me off. "Who did you kill, Rhys?"

"A human woman about your size," I forced myself to say. I'd killed for her, and she had a right to know, even if it made me a monster in her eyes. "I mangled her corpse so it was unrecognizable, glamoured it to smell like you, and left it for Tamlin to find. Amarantha was delighted I'd sent him a clear message to think twice about breaking the curse. I didn't want anyone to come looking for you."

At first, she said nothing. The swelling and broken bones made her expression hard to read, but if I wasn't mistaken, she was thoughtful, not horrorstruck. I didn't understand it.

"What you're telling me is that you felt strongly enough about me to kill on my behalf after one night, but you didn't think I'd come back for you?"

That wasn't the point. I wasn't the point. All of this was to keep her safe, and for some reason I couldn't fathom, she was determined to get herself killed. Despite my best efforts, I was likely going to watch my mate die in front of me, sooner rather than later. Just the thought of it had darkness leaking from me.

"You have no idea how relieved I was when you got to Ve— When you got home. All of this was worth it if you were safe. But now you're not."

"You clearly think you're worthless, so If it makes you feel better, tell yourself I'm doing this for all of Prythian instead," she snapped, blue-grey eyes flashing. I stilled. "I can't go back now, so help instead of lecturing me."

For a moment, I said nothing, just blinked in surprise. I hadn't known what to expect coming down to her cell, but not for her to be upset with me. A horrible new possibility bloomed in the back of my mind—that she'd seen Velaris and discovered that somehow I hadn't protected my people as well as I'd thought and that she rightfully considered me a failure.

"Did you think I haven't been helping you this whole time?" I said, sounding pathetic even to my own ears. "Tamlin gave her your name, not me. While those faeries were beating you, I broke into their minds and ensured they didn't leave any permanent damage. It was the best I could do without them realizing I was in their heads. There were too many of them for me to also get into yours and take away your pain. I'm…sorry it wasn't enough."

She sighed and leaned back against the wall, the fire gone from her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was small. "Thank you for all of it. I didn't— It's not that— I just…needed to know that you're in my corner. That's enough. You're enough."

I didn't understand Feyre—and odds were, I'd never get the chance to—but I was suddenly very certain that someone important had abandoned her. Maybe more than once.

One day, I'd kill whoever had done that to her.

But now, we had a task at hand, and I needed her to know I was on her side and always would be. I'd do everything I could for her, even if Under the Mountain, that wasn't much.

"May I?" I said, reaching a hand towards her face.

She nodded, and I swept my thumb along the small patch of unblemished skin on her cheek. For the first time in weeks, I was touching my mate.

The crackle of electricity along the bond told me she was thinking along the same lines.

Fifty years Under the Mountain made it a wonder to touch someone I wanted to touch. It didn't matter that it was nothing more than the pad of my thumb brushing her cheek, the feeling was intoxicating. I'd never wanted to put my hands all over someone like this.

And I could feel that she wanted it, too.

"I can't heal everything without arousing suspicion, but I won't let a crooked nose mar the most beautiful face in Prythian," I said, sounding more like the person I'd been before that bitch had trapped me here.

For a moment, Feyre looked too stunned to speak, which was ridiculous. It wasn't as if I'd been lying when I'd called her beautiful. "Are you flirting with me? Now?" she said, her voice seeming to rise several octaves.

I shrugged. "If not now, when?" She seemed to accept that answer. And the flirting had felt good—and probably kept us both somewhat sane—but I couldn't keep ignoring her obvious injuries. "I have to set it in place first. It will hurt," I added.

"Just do it. I won't scream," she said with a defiant lift of her chin.

By the Cauldron, if you dropped this woman in the middle of the Blood Rite, she'd make it to the top of Ramiel with no killing magic, just sheer stubbornness alone. I'd known plenty of human warriors, but they didn't hold a candle to Feyre. And she was my mate.

"So stoic. Are you sure I'm on the only Illyrian here?"

But she just looked at me expectantly—even a bit impatiently, if I was being honest—and I wanted to laugh. Nothing stopped her. With a bittersweet twinge of pride, I thought about how easily she must have slotted herself in with Cassian and Azriel.

True to her word, Feyre was silent as I pushed her nose back into place and reached for the scrap of magic I was still allowed, thanking the Mother that it was sufficient to heal Feyre's nose. Her grey-blue eyes just held mine through all of it.

"Thanks."

Once her pain abated, I could breathe easier. I kissed the tip of her nose and moved closer, her scent drawing me in. Or at least, the scent of the glamour hiding the bond. I drank it in anyway, resting my forehead against hers. That lavender and pear scent had haunted my dreams for years now, and it had kept me from breaking.

More clear-headed, I straightened up after a few moments. Amarantha wouldn't be asleep forever. "We need to plan while I have time with you."

"How did you manage to get down here for so long anyway?" Feyre said, immediately wincing. But at least this time, the movement in her face didn't send more pain lancing across the bond.

"I tired her out," I said, forcing a smile. Feyre still looked horrified, and I refused to burden her with this. I made a gesture to indicate it was no big deal and hoped she believed me.

Feyre started to pace. I leaned against the wall and watched her for a moment, just appreciating the view. I'd heard her describe me as feline in her thoughts often enough, but I don't think she really understood that in this cell, she was the one who moved like a caged tiger.

She didn't hesitate to get to the heart of the matter. "There's nothing stopping them from attacking me again, is there?"

"Whatever I'd have to subject you to in order to get you out of this cell might be worse," I said. It was an unpleasant truth, but there was no use in talking around it. "I may be able to spare you pain, but not humiliation."

"What are you thinking?"

"I can keep you with me if I treat you as a toy to taunt Tamlin with. Dress you up, degrade you in front of your so-called beloved, and make it clear to everyone else that I don't share."

I wished I had more to offer her, but I'd been turning this over in my mind for hours and hadn't come up with something better. I half-expected her to snap at me again, just for suggesting it. I wouldn't blame her for it.

She didn't, though, just shrugged and said, "There are worse fates."

I was glad she hadn't panicked, but it still seemed horribly insufficient. I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. "The trouble is, it may cause complications when we all get out of here."

"Complications?"

I was obvious enough to me, but maybe not to her. Since Calanmai, I'd been dreaming of what a future for us could look like when we got out of here but perhaps….perhaps she didn't want that, too. I reminded myself that she hadn't known about mating bonds until a few weeks ago. Feyre hadn't grown up thinking she could have a mate one day, and now she'd permanently accepted one without realizing what was happening.

If she didn't want anything to do with me, I understood completely. She deserved better. She deserved choices.

"A human will have enough trouble being respected as Lady of the Night Court, if…you want that," I said, hating how uncertain I sounded. I caught the look on her face that told me she'd noticed, and now wasn't the time to talk about it. I pushed ahead before she could interrupt. "Parading you like that in front of everyone here will make it worse, even after revealing it's a ruse."

Obviously frustrated, she just paced faster. It was an effort not to push past her shields and read her thoughts on the matter. She could tell me herself, no matter how curious I was.

Then abruptly she froze and said, "What about my maidenhead?"

Cold horror gripped me. The thought hadn't crossed my mind before, but I'd been foolish not to have seen it. Cauldron boil and fry me, Feyre was so young.

"Your maidenhead? Cauldron Feyre, on Calanmai, did I—"

"You didn't. And before you ask, Tamlin didn't either," she said, voice flat. That was strange—I hadn't been thinking of Tamlin at all. "But no one else needs to know that if you can ensure Tamlin and Lucien won't expose the lie. Tell everyone you intend to make an event of taking my virginity. It would give you a reason to make sure no one touches me and still leave me down here."

Brilliant. She was utterly brilliant, and I could have kissed her right then and there. Stubborn and strategic.

"Now there's an idea," I said, pressing my fingers together under my chin. The rest of the plan formed in my mind easily, the pieces coming together. "It would work, if only for a short while. They'll question why I haven't just done it if it drags on too long, but I'll take whatever time we can get. I'll ward the cell and have someone trusted bring a change of clothes and body paint for when Amarantha drags you out for housework."

Her smile could only be described as mischievous. If I wasn't mistaken, by some miracle, she was flirting back. "And of course you'll have to come down here frequently to ensure the paint is still intact."

"It would be far too important a task to delegate," I purred in that way I knew she liked.

Feyre gave me one more smile then resumed her pacing; I was beginning to suspect she never sat still. "And the riddle? Has she given it any consideration?" she said, all business again.

"Not yet, and before you ask, we've all been barred from helping you solve it or telling you the first task. I have her ear, and I'll keep pushing her to make plans that play to your strengths."

She nodded, and I shared everything I could think of that might give her some small advantage Under the Mountain. I couldn't arm her with weapons, just information. It was better than nothing. As I deposited the information in her head, I was careful not to push deeper into her mind accidentally. She deserved privacy.

We had a tentative plan in place, and I doubted Amarantha would stay asleep much longer. Swallowing my disgust, I brushed against her mental shields just briefly enough to reassure myself she was still asleep without alerting her.

I turned my attention back to Feyre quickly. "I don't have to go right this moment, but soon."

She nodded, not quite able to maintain that same stoicism from before. We were both suddenly very aware that I'd have to leave her here in this cell. The thought of it was already ripping me apart.

Feyre was impossible to leave. But if I had to force myself to do it, at least I'd leave her with something.

"Feyre, do you mind if I…Could— Could you please come here and take a seat?" I said.

She eyed me curiously but did as I said, sitting down on the pallet of hay that had been left for her. I knelt behind her, and she kept watching me over her shoulder. The confusion was still written all over her face, as if she had no idea that she was the only one in the world I'd ever willingly get on my knees for.

"That bruise towards the top of your ribs is going to make it uncomfortable to lift your arm, at least for another day or two," I said, sliding the tie off the end of her braid.

As gently as I could, I ran my fingers through her golden brown hair, smoothing out the tangles but mostly just savoring the feel of the strands against my fingers. Given the opportunity, I'd card my fingers through her hair for hours.

But we didn't have hours, so I started to braid. It had been centuries since I'd done this for anyone—Mor had been the first, when she'd insisted I learn because she didn't have any female friends in the Court of Nightmares, then my sister when she'd been a youngling, and eventually even Cassian when his hair had been longer and we'd been bored to tears in the war-camps and desperate for a laugh. And now Feyre.

"I won't be there if you wake up and vomit tonight, so consider this my way of holding your hair back for you," I said softly. I'd felt her nightmares, watched through the bond as she'd emptied her stomach into the toilet, and spent too many nights wishing I could be there for her.

It wasn't enough, but she needed to know she wasn't alone.

I tied off the end of her braid, and she turned to face me so we we sitting knee to knee "Thank you," she said. "And you have a lifeline, too, you know. Use it."

She tugged on the bond, and I nodded, unable to talk about this. It was something I couldn't bear to burden her with, not when she was looking at me so sadly. I was feeling horribly insufficient again. I'd done something for her, I realized, but maybe there was more she needed to hear me say.

"Don't think I'm not still upset with you, but while we can speak face-to-face, I should say that you were brilliant in that throne room. It was a clever bit of bargaining. And I know you were training before, but that much tenacity can't be taught. It's an innate gift."

She smiled. I memorized the sight of it because I'd made her smile. At least I was good for something.

"That's the nicest way anyone's called me stubborn," she said.

Somehow, I was smiling, too. Under the Mountain, a real smile felt like an impossibility. But Feyre had made it happen.

She stood and held her hand out to me, as if she was ready to lead me out from this place. I took it and got to my feet, desperate to follow her.

"Stay safe," she whispered, ridiculous as it was when she'd just thrown herself into the line of fire in that throne room.

"You too," I said.

I wanted to kiss her goodbye, but my eyes landed on the swelling in her lips. Even the slightest pressure against that might hurt, and I wouldn't risk causing her pain.

And besides, Feyre Archeron was the Queen of Night. A beating and a cell didn't change that, and she deserved to be treated like it. And I was still a High Lord of Prythian, even Under the Mountain. I bent at the waist and kissed the back of her hand, then winnowed away.

Before summoning Nuala and Cerridwen, I took a moment to breathe. On the other end of the bond, Feyre—brilliant, brave, unstoppable Feyre—was already thinking about makeshift weapons.

We were going to get out of here.

[northsalpha]

the  children  of  ansel    (    in  birth  order    )    as  written  about  in  a  journal  kept  by  ansel’s  bedside.

eleanor  tomlinson  as  merewina    (    merrie    )    dragenson  nee  anseldottir. 

and  though  she  came  first,  she  never  stood  with  superiority.  her  mother’s  daughter  through    &    through,  merrie  became  the  heart  of  the  pack;    beloved  sister,  cherished  friend.  it  was  she  who  would  heal  the  wounded  and  feed  the  hungry.  she  who  would  teach  the  children  how  to  read.  though  born  a  wolf,  merrie  rarely  turned  and  yet,  inner  wolf  was  never  clearer  in  the  fierce  loyalty  she  displayed  everyday.  the  same  loyalty  that  saw  her  die  at  mikael’s  hand,  shielding  families  from  his  onslaught.

joseph  morgan  as  niklaus    (    klaus    )    mikaelson.

each  full  moon  drew  me  closer  to  klaus.  it  was  undeniable;    a  strong,  stubborn  bond  that  i  could  not  shake,  no  matter  how  much  esther  insisted  i  must.  the  call  of  my  own  was  loud    &    i  yearned  to  be  near  him,  to  raise  him,  to  teach  him.  i  waited  for  the  day  he  would  trigger  his  curse    &    need  me,  but  that  day  never  came.  the  pack  was  never  complete  without  him.  i  was  never  complete  without  him.  i  should’ve  done  more.      this  insert  includes  many  hand  -  drawn  pictures  of  a  young  niklaus,  sketched  by  ansel’s  own  hands.

eysteinn  sigurdarson  as  cadman  anselson.

born  two  minutes    &    seven  seconds  before  his  twin  sister,  and  rest  assured,  he  never  let  goldiva  forget.  cadman  stood  with  the  confidence  of  an  alpha  before  he  could  even  truly  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word.  i  watch  him  lead  warriors  into  victory  after  victory,  and  he  did  so  with  a  valiance  not  even  i  myself  possess.  he  did  not  marry  nor  have  children,  and  he  believed  that  made  him  a  stronger  leader  for  it  gave  him  nothing  to  lose.  perhaps  he  was  right.  though  nothing  like  his  namesake,  i  feel  in  my  bones  father  caedmon  would’ve  felt  honour  in  knowing  my  son  fought  with  his  legacy.  

thea  soie  loch  naess  as  goldiva  anseldottir.

and  should  anyone  ever  doubt  goldiva’s  place  on  the  battlefield,  they  certainly  never  lived  to  make  that  mistake  twice.  my  daughter  was  born  with  fire  in  her  eyes    &    a  wolf  in  her  heart    /    claws  already  sharpened  for  war.  she  embraced  the  change  on  her  eighteenth  birthday,  underneath  the  blood  moon  and  standing  side  by  side  cadman,  neither  ever  truly  apart  from  the  day  they  arrived  together.  i  fear  cadman  struggled  without  her  when  she  died  at  mikael’s  hand  and  he  did  not.  it  turns  out  he  did  have  something  to  lose  after  all.

harrison  osterfield  as  ricmann    (    ric    )    anselson.

ricmann  was  a  quiet  child  and  he  remained  so  throughout  life.  the  boy  seemed  more  interested  in  nature  than  people,  whispering  words  to  the  injured  birds  while  nursing  their  broken  wing.  he  would  spend  hours  with  the  plants,  tending  to  vegetables.  though  his  name  meant  the  power  to  rule,  he  grew  up  a  gentle  soul,  burdened  by  the  weight  of  the  moon  in  the  sky.  i  could  see  the  pressure  he  felt  to  follow  in  his  sibling’s  footsteps.  i  hope  he  knew  i  would’ve  loved  him  regardless.  it  was  a  conversation  we  never  got  the  chance  to  share  before  mikael  slew  us  both.

freya  allen  as  hildegyth  anseldottir.

the  youngest  girl  of  a  large  family.  i  think  it  bothered  her  sometimes;    too  often  mistaken  for  a  child  when  she  was  so  desperate  to  grow  up  as  fast  as  possible.  she  became  the  perfect  combination  of  us  all,  carrying  herself  with  the  softness  found  in  ricmann's  heart,  but  fighting  with  cadman’s  spirit  if  ever  required.  overcame  obstacles  with  determination  that  could  only  be  learnt  from  goldiva,  yet  in  turn,  won  many  villager’s  admiration  with  that  same  ability  to  love  i  saw  in  merrie.  it  was  as  if  we  took  the  best  parts  of  us  and  gave  them  to  her.  she  wasn’t  just  a  wolf.  she  was  a  force  and  those  that  underestimated  her,  soon  realised  the  error  of  their  ways.  hildegyth  survived  mikael  and  i  watched  over  her  as  she  raised  merewina’s  daughter  as  her  own.  because  of  her,  our  legacy  lives  on.  

unseen  in  this  gifset  as  beowulf  anselson.

our  littlest  wolf.  beowulf  came  to  us  as  a  miraculous  surprise,  born  on  a  cold  winter’s  morning,  with  sif  clutching  my  hand.  we  loved  him  dearly  in  the  short  time  we  had  together  as  a  family,  and  though  i  know  he  struggled  to  remember  us  as  i  watched  him  grow  from  the  other  side,  i  do  not  regret  dying  to  ensure  his  survival.  my  approach  distracted  mikael  long  enough  for  brida  to  run,  beowulf  tucked  safely  in  her  arms.  i  died  knowing  he  was  in  safe  hands.

[kueble]

Cozy Little Christmas

Indulging in some Christmas fluff.

Teen. No Warnings. 2,100 words.

Price/Gaz

---

It’s raining again.

John fucking hates the way it turns the entire base into mud, hates the ache in his bones when the storm gets too rough. He’s not old, just older, but he’s not made for this weather. There are too many scars and healed broken bones littering his body to escape it unscathed. So he scowls as he stomps across the base they’ve been stationed at for way too long.

This was supposed to be a short trip. Three weeks tops, and then they’d all be home by Christmas. Only it’s been over a month and here he is on Christmas Eve, mucking around the desolate base. Because they’re here for a mission, but everyone else has retreated to their off base housing, probably bundled up with friends and family. Price curses the combination of bad intel and shitty weather than has him and his boys stuck here all alone.

The grocery bags nearly weigh him down, and he takes one wrong step and almost falls to his knees in the mud, but he manages to make it back to the officer’s quarters. The other members of his team are housed closer to the rest of the grunts, so his privilege means he’s even more cut off than usual. He longs for their own base where they have a wing practically to themselves. Their well-loved arm chair and ancient tv seem practically bougie compared to his bare quarters.

Ghost and Soap have claimed one of the rec rooms for their own private celebration, and he pities any stragglers on base who may stumble into it. Ghost already terrifies most of them, and Soap’s bite is actually worse than his bark. They had offered a half-assed invitation to Gaz and himself, but both seemed relieved when they were turned down. Instead, they all agree to eat whatever Christmas miracle the mess hall staff manages to pull together tomorrow night.

Ghost and Soap deserve a night to themselves, and it’s rare to get time alone on a foreign base. Besides, they all know how the night will end, and both he and Gaz have already seen way too much of their relationship. He doesn’t need to see that much skin ever again. Gaz still looks truly horrified from the time he caught them fucking in the showers. He just kept mumbling about how he didn’t even know Ghost could bend like that.

It’s not unusual for commanding officers to host holiday parties for their teams, though they’re usually off base and overflowing with too much booze. Even though they’re not at home, Price doesn’t think twice about offering Gaz a home-cooked meal, knowing he wouldn’t read too much into it. Just because John has been infatuated with his sergeant for ages doesn’t mean anything will come of it. Besides, he would have done the same for any of his boys, regardless of how gorgeous he thinks they are.

Which brings him here: this tiny kitchen where he is going to somehow prepare a feast worthy of Gaz. The oven has seen better days, but maybe a little Christmas magic will help him pull this off. Checking his watch, he realizes he has a few hours before their arranged meeting time. He pushes up his sleeves and gets to work. His mother would cry if she could see the sad state of this kitchen, but she taught him how to turn any situation into a happy one, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t feed Gaz the nicest dinner he’s ever had.

—

Three hours later, Price is stirring the gravy when Gaz wanders in. Price loses his grip on the spoon when he takes in the tight jeans and navy shirt he has on. The shirt is very form fitting, and he has the sleeves rolled up in a way that draws Price’s gaze to his strong forearms. Christ, he’ll be the death of him, walking around here looking like a feast himself. Price shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts and offers what he hopes is a friendly - not harassing - smile.

Gaz has a box tucked under his arm and sets it on the counter before sniffing at the air. “Smells amazing, Captain!” he says before gesturing at the box. “Picked up some cookies since I can’t bake to save my life.”

“I’ll bake for you sometime,” he says as casually as he can, trying to keep any hint of his feelings from bleeding into his tone. “I spent half my childhood chasing my mother around the kitchen and don’t often get the excuse to show it off.”

“I’d like that,” Gaz murmurs, leaning in closer and eyeing the pots on the stove. He ignores the saucepan Price is stirring and points to a larger pot on the back burner. “What’s that?”

“Figured since we’re officially off duty I’d make up some mulled wine. Why don’t you grab the ladle and pour us some? Can’t offer you anything but the mugs in the cupboards for it, but should still taste fine,” he says, smiling as he watches Gaz reach up for the mugs. The bottom of his shirt pulls up, and he nearly burns the fucking gravy staring at the thing strip of skin it reveals.

Crisis averted, Price pulls the roast out of the oven where he’d been keeping it warm. Gaz hums as he takes it in, and Price feels his chest tighten over how proud he feels. The chuck roast looks perfect, tucked into a nest of neatly arranged potatoes, carrots, and onions. Gaz reaches out to touch it, so he slaps him on the back of the hand with the gravy spoon.

“None of that now, you heathen,” he says, laughing. “Take the wine to the table and let me plate this up.” Gaz doesn’t look shamed at all, instead grins like he’s pleased with himself before throwing out a hasty salute and following orders. He shakes his head though he loves the playful way they can interact when not on duty.

The roast slices up nicely, and he adds veggies to each of their plates before pouring gravy on top. It smells heavenly, and he brings both plates to the small table with a smug look on his face. He can’t openly romance Gaz the way he wants to, but he can at least provide some comfort in the middle of a long mission.

“I’m fucking starving,” Gaz mumbles before taking his first bite. He moans around his fork, and Price is suddenly thankful for the table hiding his lap. He takes a long sip of how spiced wine and dutifully ignores how much he longs to hear that sound again.

“Told you I could cook,” he says gruffly, and Gaz just gawks at him.

“Yeah, but I figured you could grill some steaks or something. This is amazing! I hope you know I’m going to be pestering you to feed me all the time now,” he says, already stuffing another bite into his mouth.

“It’d be my pleasure. Like seeing you happy,” Price admits before ducking his head down. He can feel his cheeks heating up and knows how red he gets despite the beard covering his face. His cheekbones are probably ridiculously bright right now, and he doesn’t need to make Gaz think he’s after anything more than a meal with a good friend.

Sure, it’s the friend he’s been falling for since he met him, but there’s no need for Gaz to ever know that. Besides the fact that he’d have to explain himself to Kate - and her wife who has been hounding him about it for months now - he knows Gaz deserves someone younger, someone not as tied to his work as Price is. Sometimes he thinks there might be more than friendship in the looks Gaz sends his way, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Gaz is overly nice, going out of his way to befriend everyone on base, so Price knows he isn’t getting any kind of special treatment. Also he could never be the one to make a move, and Gaz surely doesn’t want to, so he’s more than happy to simply stay by his side as long as Gaz wants him to.

The rest of the meal goes smoothly and they fall into conversation as easily as they always do. They compliment each other so much, and Price can picture nights like this, just sharing food and company, lost in their own little world. He may not be willing to confess anything, but a little longing never hurt anyone. By the time their glasses are empty and their plates are clean, Price is comfortably warm and even more head over heels for the man in front of him.

“Let me clean up and then we can put on a movie or something,” he says in an effort to avoid staring at Gaz like a lovesick teen. The wine must be hitting him harder than he thought, because he swears Gaz’s smile is a little softer than usual.

“You wash, I’ll dry,” Gaz offers, and he can’t find a reason to turn him down. Thankfully he’d been smart enough to buy a disposable tin for the roast, so they don’t have to scrub anything too much. So they end up crowded at the tiny sink together, arms and thighs brushing every so often in a way that makes his breath catch in his lungs. They keep chatting, joking and laughing while they tackle the dishes.

It’s all so fucking domestic that it makes him weak in the knees.

After they clean up, Gaz ushers him towards the couch, stopping in the middle of the room to point up at the ceiling. He looks up, blinking slowly at the plastic piece of mistletoe taped to the water-stained ceiling tiles. It looks a bit tacky, a huge red bow practically dwarfing the fake plant.

“I didn’t hang that up,” Price says, eyes narrowing as he looks up at the offending sprig of mistletoe. It must have been left from an earlier party, maybe before the locals went off base for the holiday.

“I know,” Gaz says with a mischievous grin, “I did. Thought you might need a little push to kiss me, since we’ve been dancing around it for so long. You haven’t caught on to any of the hints I’ve been dropping, so I figured I should be direct for once.”

“Hints?” he asks stupidly.

“For someone so smart, you’re fucking clueless. I’ve been hitting on you practically since the day I met you. I thought you’d do something about it, but then I realized you’re too proper to take the lead. The guys have been threatening to tell you themselves, since they’re sick of me whining about how hopeless I am. So this is it. I’m making my big gesture, with a pathetically tiny piece of mistletoe I found in town, and I’m hoping I’m not wrong and that you want me back.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone else,” he whispers, putting his whole heart into Gaz’s battle-worn hands.

“Good. Then shut up and kiss me already,” Gaz orders, his eyes bright as he points up to the ceiling again.

“This is going to cause me so much paperwork,” he says, laughing when Gaz just steps closer and walks him back towards the wall.

“Come on, you love paperwork,” he tells him before bracketing his body with both arms, smirking at their shared hatred of the damn stuff.

“Not as much as I love you,” Price admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. Still, Gaz shivers before placing a hand on Price’s chest, right over his heart.

“I love you, too,” he answers softly.

Price leans in and presses a tentative kiss against his lips. He means to keep things light, but he didn’t count on Gaz biting his lower lip, dragging a soft moan out of him. He shivers as Gaz licks into his mouth, tongue brushing his own as he tightens his hold on Gaz’s waist. It’s perfect, warm and plush with the taste of mulled wine clinging to Gaz’s mouth, and he realizes he’ll never get enough of this.

And by the way Gaz sinks into him, sighing happily against his mouth, he stops worrying about not being wanted. He’s found this, this bright star in the middle of his rough existence, and he aims to fight like hell to be able to keep him. Gaz seems just as hungry for it as he is, and for once he stops thinking about anything except the way they fit together like they were born for it.

[biitchcakes]

A B I L I T I E S .

S U P E R H U M A N ⸺

S T R E N G T H . she's able to lift around 7 imperial tons.

S P E E D . nothing too special, but she can move faster than a peak athlete if she really books it.

S T A M I N A . able to fight at her fiercest for hours on end, her musculature doesn't fatigue as fast as a normal human's ( though she can still get occasional cramps ! )

F L E X I B I L I T Y . same goes here with the muscles, means she's extra limber, double so that of your average joe; her muscles are also twice as strong.

D U R A B I L I T Y . not invulnerable, but the gal has been hit by the Hulk and lived to tell the tale yk. not only that, but she has fallen from a few stories too high before and just walked away scraped and bruised.

A G I L I T Y &&. R E F L E X E S. she's just built different.

H E A R I N G . not only can she hear from great distances and even through steel walls themselves at times, but she's also able to hear virtually any frequency as well.

W A L L - C R A W L I N G .

She's able to do this through electrostatic attraction, capable of adhering to most surfaces, as well as carry a considerable amount of weight all the while.

R E G E N E R A T I V E H E A L I N G F A C T O R .

Due to her time in the stasis tank, Jessica developed a healing factor. Weakened over time due to various times she's lost and regained her powers, it still works well enough to get her by, but she's also able to be left with marks after fights, bones are capable of being broken.

This has also granted her E X T E N D E D L O N G E V I T Y, greatly slowing her aging while increasing her lifespan.

V E N O M B L A S T S .

Her body possess something known as bio-electricity, and she's able to fire this out from any limb ( it even sometimes makes her eyes glow and spark when she's hella pissed ). She's capable of controlling the intensity of her bursts, ranging anywhere from a tiny little tingling zap to a shock powerful enough to kill a man ⸺ as though he'd just been struck by lightning.

More on them in a post HERE !

P H E R O M O N E S .

Depending on one's sexuality, Jess is able to secrete a powerful pheromone that either elicits intense feelings of attraction, or repulsion so strong you start to hate her. Whoever she uses it on would have to potentially be attracted to her ( just anyone who is attracted to women ) for it to work the first way.

C O N T A M I N A N T I M M U N I T Y .

Her body's capable of rapidly metabolising all forms of toxins, poisons, and / or drugs ⸺ after an initial exposure, anyway. Due to not only this, but the dangerous levels of radiation present at Mt. Wundagore where she grew up, and then set to cook in stasis for decades ⸺ she's immune to radiation.

S K I L L S .

P R I V A T E I N V E S T I G A T O R . from having her own firm in California, to Madripoor and eventually New York, Jess has been an incredibly talented P.I. for many years.

S P Y . extensively trained in espionage, covert operations and stealth.

A C R O B A T . olympic-level gymnast abilities.

M A S T E R M I X E D M A R T I A L A R T I S T . having trained in both armed and unarmed combat under the Taskmaster, her tactics integrate seven different styles of martial arts.

M U L T I L I N G U A L . fluent in several languages including Spanish, French, Japanese, Russian, Portuguese, Korean, and German.

S U I T .

posting these so we can experience the discovery of her current suit with her :

slicey stabby wings !!

[myinky-cloak]

13 Books

What’s up readers?! How about a little show and tell? Answer these 13 questions, tag 13 lucky readers and if you’re feeling extra bookish add a shelfie! Let’s Go!

Not tagged by @softest-punk but I saw it on their page and decided to get involved.

1) The Last book I read:

Just finished Tana French’s “Broken Harbour”. I LOVE Tana French, particularly her Dublin Murder Squad series. I wasn’t very satisfied with the ending. It required too much suspended disbelief for me. Too many characters descending into madness at the same time very conveniently. But it was interesting to consider how many issues we cause for ourselves by attempting to be someone we think we should be.    

2) A book I recommend:

Not to be basic Tumblr bitch but Neil Gaiman’s “The Ocean at The End of The Lane”. The way he can articulate the terrible things that happen in childhood, how we deal with them, how we carry the memories, and the effect they have on us for the rest of our lives left me shaken and breathless. ”You don’t pass or fail at being a person, dear.” I wish I didn’t need this reminder but I do, so thank you, Neil.

Plus, I find it fascinating to see the difference between people who can intimately relate to it and those for whom it is just a story.

3) A book that I couldn’t put down:

Stephen King “The Waste Lands” The third book of The Dark Tower series. A book series that started out so promising and ended with me throwing the final book against the wall in disgust and cursing Mr. King to high heavens. For all the issues the final books in the series had “The Waste Lands” was an absolute masterpiece. I remember reading it on a train to work and nearly missing my spot because I needed to find out what happens next.   

4) A book I’ve read twice (or more):

One book?? Right. Stephen King’s “Salem’s Lot”. It absolutely terrified me when I read it as a teenager. I loved the feeling of small town America invaded by the supernatural which he writes so well. Plus, vampires!  I have a habit of re-reading it every time I go home, don’t really know why. I probably should get around to reading it in English at some point. 

Sometimes I re-read books by accident. I consume so much crime fiction that occasionally I will pick up a book from the library and happily read it with no recollection of the plot only to be told by GoodReads I’ve read it years ago.

5) A book on my TBR:

I am beginning to think this list was made by someone who isn’t a reader. One book? I guess it has to be R.F.Kuang “Babel”. I really want to read it. It's like The Secret History but in Oxford! I know I will enjoy it but I only have it on Kindle. I prefer reading long books in their physical form but the library copy is in hardback so it’s cumbersome to carry around. Thus it stays on my TBR.

First world problems of a bookworm.

6) A book I’ve put down:

Dan Brown “Angels and Demons”. I knew about his reputation when I picked it up, but I wanted something mindless to read and thought it would be fine. Reader, it wasn’t fine. Terrible, terrible writing. I couldn’t deal. Turns out I do have standards even for my trash reads.

7) A book on my wish list:

Stephanie Foo “What My Bones Know: A memoir of healing from complex trauma” I’ve read so many books on trauma and complex trauma both for my degree and for personal understanding. Surprising no one most of them are written by men. I’m very excited to read female perspective on it, plus she talks about generational trauma which is such an incredibly fascinating topic. 

8) A favorite book from childhood:

Alexander Dumas “The Three Musketeers”. I was obsessed with this book. OBSESSED. I’ve read it so many times I could recite pages of it. It introduced me to my first problematic fictional crush Athos, starting my love affair with all the sad tortured blorbos which going strong till this day. I named my dog Count de la Fere after him. I wanted to be a musketeer so bad. Still kind of do.  

9) A book you would give to a friend:

It does slightly depend on a friend but Amor Towles “A Gentleman in Moscow”. I was so blown away when I read it. I gave copies to my friends. I talked to everyone about it: friends, people on the internet, strangers in bookshops or on public transport (In London! Imagine the horror!) One of my friends refuses to read the last chapter till this day because she does not want the story to end. This is probably my proudest book gifting achievement.  

10) A book of poetry or lyrics that you own

The OG problematic bae Lord Byron Selected Works. It’s a second hand school library's copy from 1950’s full of underlinings and scribbled notes. I love seeing evidence of other people engaging with writing and thinking about words. 

Such a problematic person. Such a great poet. 

11) A nonfiction book you own:

Cindy Crab “Things That Help: Healing our lives through Feminism, Anarchism, Punk & Adventure”. I found this book in the feminist bookshop in Brighton when things weren’t going so great for me for the umptheen time and it was like pouring healing salve on my soul. It’s not a book in a traditional sense but a collection of self-published zines collected into a little tome. It destroyed my very conservative idea of what a book is and how “professional” it should look that I did not realise I held until that moment. Most importantly, it reminded me there are other ways of being in the world that a conventional way of living.    

12) What are you currently reading:

Teo van den Broeke “The Closet”. It’s a memoir of a fashion journalist who tells of growing up, coming out and figuring out himself through clothes that were important to him. It’s written in an easy, conversational style. As someone whose wardrobe consists of jeans, leggings and t-shirts I find it so interesting to peek into fashionista’s world.   

13) What are you planning on reading next?

Isabella Hammad “Enter Ghost”. It is a book set in Palestine about staging Hamlet and possibly also a queer love story. What more could you want from a book? Cannot wait to start this one!!