#canonically the manacles stay on

[teethlordd]

Kremy! You know I can’t gulumph alone!

[spotaus]

Ichor's back again! Decided to do some exercises with my silliest traumatized Sans, and the one that ended up sticking was the Cute Outfit doodles!

[shirefantasies]

Little Flower- Beorn x F!Shy!Reader

A request from @peachpitpoisonlips! Always down to write more Beorn 😁 where my Beorn girlies at?

Warnings: angst at the beginning (fluff later I promise!!!), canon typical peril

Perhaps you were simply a fool. Would anyone but, after all, have set out into the woods so late and with so little? But what choice did you have? Homeless, you were little more than a nomad. Some towns welcomed you in, but it was clear when the novelty wore off and your lack of coin impeded. Selfish as it may have been, it rent your heart to see families walking hand in hand together, even couples sitting side by side or the occasional set of twins playing a game of hopscotch or arguing over some book. Everyone with some outward tether practically built into their lives by some divine craft, a gift from the Valar you could not resist sometimes feeling had been wrest from your hands. But did you know any better?

The woods felt thick, leaning and pressing down upon you as though you held something they greatly desired tucked close against your chest, just out of reach. Every sound had your head darting this way and that. Were something to come for you, you had a small knife to your name to fight with and that was that. No fine weapon of iron, no great wooden shield. At least you were a fair climber. Getting up into the trees would help against a wolf at least if not a-

Rustling startled you out of your own mind, jarring your vision back into focus of the fading light filtering between the trees. Soon it would be nightfall. Things were moving in the gathering shadows. Stepping slower, more carefully, you swung your gaze back and forth but saw nothing and pressed on.

Dodging a jutting stone, you almost startled yourself kicking up some leaves, let loose the faintest of nervous chuckles before hearing a distant scrape. Taking hold of the next tree trunk ahead of you, you peeked out, scouting the horizon. There!

A great black bear, the most massive one you’d ever seen, lumbered closer to your place, huffing. Dread slid down your throat like cutting icicles as its eyes slid right to yours. This was not how you wanted to die. You’d always imagined it more as a release, giving up from the defeat of shivering cold beneath surrendered blankets. And yet what anticipated you? A life of brief antiquity, no hearth or fields to call your own? Not a soul to call your name once you were not there speaking it?

This, too, could be a release. Inhaling deeply, you stepped from behind the trunk and closed your eyes, waiting, waiting…

No pain, no sound, not a single thing befell you, and there you were finding yourself frowning, your eyelids peeling back open just in time to see the bear’s form melt and shrink, becoming a man before your eyes. Gaping, you studied his sturdy, bearded form, the pair of brown eyes looking you over, then softening. He reached out a hand and you flinched back.

“I have no reason to hurt you, little flower,” he said, voice low, accented, and for emphasis raised his hands up and away from you, palms out.

Something about the nickname, even from a tall, imposing stranger, brought a shaky smile to your lips. Heaving breaths came a bit slower to your aching chest. Completely frozen at their shaky hold upon twisting roots, however, your feet did not cooperate.

“Come on,” he took one step closer, “you cannot stay here. Come with me, please.”

Please. Eyes widening, you finally shook out of your stupor and slowly gave a tiny nod, stepping forward to his side. Who was this man? How had he transformed before your very eyes? As your gaze drifted over his form, dodging quickly over his bare chest with heat creeping to your cheeks, you caught sight of the broken manacle still binding his left wrist. Perhaps it would be rude to ask questions. Maybe he would change his mind about guiding you.

At least you could learn his name. Thus, you asked it, voice still quiet as air returned to your lungs.

“Beorn,” the man said, “And you need not be afraid. These are my woods. It is the elven woods you must be careful of. But these borders are far. You will not wander there.”

Taking his pause as an invitation whether it was one or not, you supplied your name. “So you… guard this place? Who else lives here?”

A wince cut across Beorn’s face at that, softening his severe features into something more timid. Something that had hurt. That must have been how you looked to him, too.

Just as quick, though, that vulnerable look was gone again, gone completely stoic. “My animals and I call this place our home.”

“Are- are they…?” How could you put it? Do they turn into people too? Are you an animal? What strange magic lives in this place.

“Just animals, little flower. There are no others like me. I live alone.”

Perhaps you had more in common with the bear-man than you’d have thought. You shook your head at his last comment, though.

“If you have them, you are never fully alone. …I- I love animals,” you admitted quietly.

“You might see them, then,” Beorn replied, “but first you need a meal and a rest. Perhaps a bath.”

You could have argued, but he was right. Even if he had not been, he could have mauled you. The more you observed the way Beorn looked at you, how he took much shorter, slower strides to stay at your side and hovered a hand by your back, though, the less you could picture him attacking without grave cause. The same part of you that had resigned to Beorn’s being the end of your life now gave a faint, internal laugh.

~

Another temporary home. This time a cottage a ways deeper in the woods, doors and windows lined with intricate woodwork and stone. A rocking chair rested upon the porch, welcoming you to a small, cozy home with pillars as beautifully carven as its exterior. Beorn settled you down in one of the great chairs at the dining table, a table you could not help wondering at given his solitude.

"Stay right there. Lucky for you I already had broth warming. Care for some bread?”

"Sure," you agreed, nodding faintly.

Back to another house of novelty. One more night of entertaining a stranger, this time one who almost killed you. One who was an even greater rarity than yourself.

From the stove across the way, Beorn looked over his shoulder at you, and you felt a flush of heat rise to your face.

"So..." You wrung your hands. "Get many visitors?"

"No," he shook his head, "And I do not try to. Though I confess some days I tire of my voice being the only one heard. I like yours well enough."

Well enough. Well enough for what? For one night? To tolerate? To keep? No. You shook your head, feeling an even redder hot glow about your face.

“Thank you,” you answered quietly.

"Here."

Crossing the room, Beorn approached you with a large pot in hand. Sliding a bowl and spoon in front of you, he ladled you up a serving of steaming brown broth and set a slice of bread at its side. You hesitated, staring down at it until you noticed his expectant look and took up your utensil. The broth slid warmly down your throat, bringing a glow back to your body you hadn't realized you lost.

"Good?"

"Good," you nodded, taking a bite out of the bread, the softness of which was equally warm.

You spoke very little during that meal, both of you, and though you could not speak on Beorn's behalf you simply did not know what to say.

~

Waking up was the only thing that brought you realization of your sleep, a state you were not sure when you entered. Large, fat bumblebees drifted lazily about the air above your head, one landing upon your knee and butting its head up against it, which brought a shaky chuckle to your lips. All uncertainty was forgotten in that little moment of levity, bringing you to throw off the thick woolen blanket you had no memory of even laying eyes on.

Your location? Still within Beorn's cottage, that haven of warm hearth and hanging candles and those gorgeous pillars you'd begun to wonder if the man had made himself. Could hands so large create something so beautiful? Stranger things had happened. You'd seen them turn from a bear's paws in the blink of an eye, after all.

Rising scents distracted you, pulling you fully onto your feet. Softly you padded across the floor, still chilled from the night's air.

Across the room Beorn stood and gently slid a pair of softly-cooked eggs onto a plate aside sliced apples and some sort of honey-drizzled cakes. Eyes darting your way and back down to his work, he spoke.

“For you,” he said, nodding toward the plate.

Simple enough, but a beautiful and comfortable sight. Taking the seat across from Beorn, you ate, sneaking glances at him. This time, though, he did not allow for silence long.

“So what brings you here, little flower? Where do you belong?”

Little did he know how the little flower before him wilted. Wincing, you replied in a voice barely more audible than had you whispered. “Nowhere. I have no home.”

Brown eyes widening, Beorn softened again, a rare lifting of his stoicism that moved your heart faintly beyond the borders of your pity.

“I understand,” he told you, gaze dropping, “I am the last of my people. Sole carrier of a legacy of hunted people. I belong nowhere but with myself.”

“Do you never wish for more?” You blurted out before you could stop yourself, leaning forward in your tower of a chair. “Have you never desired that someone would stay?”

“Who would?” Beorn shrugged, venturing another glance into your eyes. “What have I to offer if I am not game?”

“To me,” you replied, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks, “You have offered kindness. The most beautiful home I have seen. Realer company than the pity nights often given. Your heart is worth far more than your pelt, Beorn.”

At that, it was the great hulking man’s turn to be speechless.

~

You were taken out into the yard, crunching across the crisp green grass at Beorn’s side and handed a dented metal pail. He nodded encouragement and watched closely as you shakily milked one of his cows. Brushed one of the longer-furred ones, a smile crossing your lips. Repeated every animal’s name softly. The skin-changer, as he called himself, all but started at the welcome one of his horses gave, butting her head into your hand.

“She was the most difficult spirit to tame,” he explained.

“Kindred spirit to you, then,” you teased, shyly handing him his brush back and smiling when he did not recoil, mirroring your expression and shaking his head as his fingers closed over yours.

“Yes,” he said, “Perhaps so.”

~

It was at Beorn’s bidding that you returned with him for dinner, this time a roast with savory brown gravy and a variety of vegetables nestled at its side. How all things looked nicer out in nowhere escaped you, but it charmed your soul nonetheless.

The next words spoken cut into your thoughts with a heavy realization: leaving it all would engrave the deepest wound yet.

“Where will you go next?”

Your face fell, fork dropped at your side as you inhaled deeply. “I… I do not know.”

“Nowhere you particularly care to see?” Beorn prodded.

Your breaths sped a bit, bringing you back to the sinking black water of despair that had swallowed you in the woods. Darkness closed in on your vision. “No. I travel only where I have not yet been sent away.”

“And that,” Beorn's eyes were your anchor, the only points of focus remaining through the haze, “Is not what I mean to do.”

You frowned. You looked up from your sticky white sea of oats, the golden ooze of egg yolk spilling onto its borders.

“The decision is your own. I know the feeling of the cage. But the animals…they would miss you. I would miss you. Perhaps I have been alone for too long.”

A bumblebee lazed past your head. One buzz sounded, two, three. Beorn swallowed, stared at you like he had never seen you before. You smiled. His hand crept to rest over yours across the surface of the table. For once, you did not feel like a novelty.

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[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

The Dangers of Hope Ch. 2

Series Summary: When Y/N shows up at Camp Chitaqua with her little girl in tow, her bloodshot eyes leave no doubt that she's infected. Or is she? Everything Dean has come to know for certain over the last five hellish years, is about to be challenged.

Pairings/Characters in the series: Endverse!Dean x Reader, Emma (OFC), Castiel, Sam Winchester, Lucifer, Michael, Zachariah, Risa, Johnston (OMC), Patrick (OMC), Theresa (OFC),other survivors and soldiers.

Series Explicit 18 +/Warnings: Show level violence, some gore, angst, smut, fluff all the usual for a series of mine. ❤️ Endverse!Dean (that's a warning for his anger and callousness as well as his extreme hotness. 😁) Each chapter will have their own specific warnings.

Chapter Warnings: Not too much. A mention of recurring nightmares, some talk of fears.

Word Count: 4,240

A/N: So, I've had this idea for quite a while. Basically since I watched The Last of Us. I loved Pedro in the role of Joel, but I kept thinking how incredible Jensen would have been. Which then made me think of how amazing he was as Endverse!Dean which then led me to this idea. Lol! I've stolen the premise of Ellie's storyline from TLOU, but made her a grown up, a reader insert, and a love interest for Dean.

If you've never seen TLOU, don't worry - you don't need to have seen it to understand this story. 😊

I've taken some liberties with the Endverse in my story, changed a few things from canon, but kept lots of things too.

I sincerely hope you enjoy the story. It will be ten chapters and I will do my very best to post one chapter every weekend. ❤️

A/N 2: Thank you SO much to everyone who was so kind and gave such a lovely reception to the first chapter of the series. I hope you enjoy this new chapter too! ❤️

Series Master List || Tag Lists

The dividers used here were created by @saradika .

The big, wide log cabin seemed so completely empty after Dean Winchester left, as though his presence alone was what had filled it.

The blue-eyed man - Castiel - ran after him quickly, shouting an order to a guard outside to let no one go in. 

So Y/N sat completely still, listening to the muffled sounds of camp life happening on the other side of the pine walls. Her exhausted brain was trying to comprehend what had happened, trying to piece it all together.

The first person she'd encountered had been the woman, Risa. She and another soldier had been guarding the border of the camp when Y/N and Emma finally stumbled out of the forest.

Y/N was fairly certain she would have been shot on site if Emma hadn't been there. Instead, their hesitation gave her the chance to swear up and down that, despite appearances, she wasn't a Croat.

The two soldiers had eye-balled each other and Risa had finally told the other guard to stay at the outpost. 

“The Boss is still out on the raid. I'm taking them to Castiel.”

She'd pulled the heavy chains and manacles out of the guard post shack, and brought Y/N, cuffed and bound, to see Castiel. She’d met with him in the big cabin, tying Y/N to the table and then explaining things to him. He'd seemed a bit out of it at first, but then seemed to sober up quickly when Risa explained the situation to him a second time. Then he examined Y/N and made her tell him the story again. His face got progressively more dumbstruck as she spoke.

When he was informed that the Boss was back, he'd told Risa to take Emma away somewhere safe while they all talked.

Now, in the big, lonely cabin Y/N had to shake her head. She’d been so certain, in the end, that she was going to die. But Dean had walked away and left her breathing.

Just another miracle that somehow kept her alive for one more day.

The evening wore on and the light began to disappear, leaving only a dusky blue twilight inside the cabin. She didn't like the night time and the dark. It was a fear that had started with the poltergeist when she was sixteen - when every time she turned off the light and closed her eyes, something evil emerged to cause her pain and terrorize her in the dark.

Before long, the very last of the twilight left the room, and unknown, unkind darkness loomed all around her, and she began to feel the panic rising. But suddenly, just before it could take hold completely, Dean strode through the door, carrying a bright lantern that banished the dark. She breathed a sigh of relief, thankful to see him in spite of everything.

He moved to stand directly in front of her, almost exactly where he stood when he’d elected not to shoot her. She looked up at him and gave a slight smile, not knowing what else she could do. Then she thought to ask the question foremost on her mind.

“Can I see Emma? I'd like her to know I'm safe.”

“No.” He said, shooting down the request without hesitation. He moved over to a metal folding chair that sat at the end of one of the tables and pointed at it.

“I'm gonna sit right here, all night, not sleeping. And if you so much as twitch? I promise I'll put you down.”

Y/N still couldn't help but appreciate the light he'd brought in for her, and the fact that she was still breathing, so she gave another half smile. “Okey dokey.”

He looked briefly taken aback by her response before his scowl returned. He plunked himself down on the chair and folded his arms across his chest, sitting up ramrod straight. It didn't look very comfortable.

But then, her spot on the hard floor, chained to the table, wasn't all that comfy either. But she decided she was grateful that the length of the chain allowed her to comfortably move her arms around. That was something.

She leaned back against the wide metal leg of the table and tried to relax. But soon her active mind was wandering and she stole a glance at Dean, wondering about how very different he was now. Of course twelve years was a long time in the best of circumstances. Twelve years spent fighting monsters and battling through an apocalypse was bound to change a person. 

As she stared at him he turned his head and caught her at it outright. She blushed slightly and decided to cover with a question. “Can I see Emma tomorrow?”

“No.” Dean said before going back to staring at the far wall.

His outright refusal was frustrating. But she worried that arguing with him might be considered “twitching”, so she kept her mouth closed.

The silence stretched out again and made Y/N antsy. She was used to Emma’s little-girl-babbling, her singing, and just her general five-year-old noisiness. The camp was mostly silent on the other side of the wall as well, only the crickets could be heard, playing their creaky songs.

Her eyes once again settled on the only interesting thing in the room, Dean. She tried to be less obvious about staring this time, but realized she’d failed when he spoke harshly without looking in her direction.

“Why are you staring at me?” His voice was full of annoyance.

“I’m not.” She said quickly and unconvincingly.

He finally looked at her and his face was cold and angry. She remembered that he used to have a really bright, beautiful smile. 

“Why can’t I see Emma?” She asked, aware she was probably pushing buttons she shouldn't.

Dean ignored her and slowly looked away again. Y/N huffed out an angry puff of air and despite her worries about riling him, decided to argue. “She’s my daughter. I just want to make sure she’s okay, and let her know that I’m okay too.”

He remained silent and Y/N’s voice became desperate. “Please!”

Dean swung his head back to look at her angrily. “Look, I’m probably going to end up shooting you. When that happens, do you want her to have to go through all of it again? Or worse, have her sitting in the room when you turn and I have to take you out?”

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat, but she shook her head. “No.” She said softly.

Dean lifted his hand and then dropped it, looking away again. “So okay. Then shut up about it.”

Y/N was only a little offended and sighed slowly. After being quiet for a minute she spoke with another frustrated sigh. 

“Okay, but do we just have to sit here? This is boring.” Her eyes lit up slightly. “We could play twenty questions.”

Dean looked back at her and his expression was finally registering as something other than angry or blank. He obviously thought she was nuts. 

She shrugged. “Just to pass the time.” When he just continued to stare, she shook her head. “No? How ‘bout the alphabet game?”

Dean’s perplexed expression fell back into his usual scowl but Y/N trudged on anyway. “The alphabet game is where you pick a subject, like countries of the world, or 80s action movies or something, and then go back and forth, each having to come up with something that matches the next letter. Like if I said ‘Action Jackson’, you’d say…’Beverly Hills Cop’, then I’d say-”

“Shut. Up.” Dean said succinctly. His mossy green eyes were dark, and quiet frustration oozed out of him.

Y/N slumped back against the table leg. “Sorry. I talk when I'm nervous, and when I’m bored. So, it’s a double whammy here. Hence the motor mouth.”

“Go to sleep.” Dean said in a clipped tone.

“I have too much adrenaline for sleep. I WAS almost shot today, after all.”

Dean’s jaw clenched before he looked away from her again and leaned back slightly in the chair. “If you don’t shut up and go to sleep I may change my mind about the ‘almost’ part.” 

Y/N bit her lip trying to suppress a giggle as exhaustion and adrenaline combined with her twisted sense of humor. The result was a loud snort that had Dean once again looking at her like she was nuts.

She smiled at him, wishing he’d smile back, and shared the movie quote that was tickling her funny bone. 

“Good night, Westley. Good work, sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”

When Dean just stared at her silently, she shook her head. “Princess Bride? No? It’s a classic.” 

She swore she saw his hand move towards the holster on his thigh and she raised her hands in surrender. “Okay. Sorry. I’ll be quiet now.”

Dean stared a while longer at her and she wondered if he really was contemplating shooting her, until he finally looked away and settled himself more comfortably in the chair.

She sighed. It was gonna be a long night.

***

Y/N was floating down a river in a little canoe. Emma was sitting across from her and talking to her, though she was still a baby. 

“We’re lost, Mommy.” She said and Y/N shook her head. She had to keep her baby safe and that included keeping her safe from the truth.

“No we’re okay, baby.” Y/N said as the river got choppy and sharp rocks jutted out, waiting for them around every bend. They careened straight towards one, and Y/N could do nothing to steer the canoe around it; the one oar she had was mostly turning her in circles. They smashed into the rocks and the boat began filling with water.

“Mommy, the water is coming up.” Said Baby Emma. “We’re gonna drown.”

“No, we won’t baby. I won’t let us.”

Y/N tried to scoop the water out with her hands, but it was just too fast. They were sinking. Y/N grabbed for Emma but the baby began to float away. 

“Emma!” Y/N called out to her daughter as she floated farther and farther away. But even though she was almost a mile away, Y/N could still hear her little voice right in her ear.

“You lost me, mommy. I can’t come back, I’m lost.”

“No! I didn’t!” Y/N cried out, jerking awake.

The cabin had sunshine pouring in through the east-facing windows. It was morning, she was alive, and so was Emma, she reassured herself, she was just out somewhere in the camp. Her recurring nightmare could be left in the shadows. She took a deep breath and looked over at Dean. He was staring intensely at her. She raised her hands.

“Sorry, not ‘twitching’, just a bad dream.”

Dean still didn’t blink. It was unnerving. “Did you really not sleep at all?” Y/N asked.

“Said I wouldn’t.”

Y/N took in his posture in the chair, straight and alert; he’d barely moved an inch all night. It made her smile and shake her head.

“Huh.”

Dean’s scowl was firmly in place. “What?” He questioned.

Y/N shrugged. “No, nothing. It’s just good to see that things haven’t changed much, after all.”

Dean scoffed. “Woman, everything in the world has changed.” He looked away from her. “And it just keeps changing every day.”

“Maybe,” Y/N conceded. “But yet here you are, all these years later, and you’re still protecting people.” 

His head swung back towards her and he seemed offended. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Y/N lifted a manacled wrist and gestured beyond the cabin. “You sat up all night, in what I can only assume to be the world’s most uncomfortable chair, to make sure that everyone in the camp was safe from a potential monster.” She shrugged again. “Because you’re still protecting people.”

“That is not what this is.” Dean said angrily, and Y/N raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No.” Dean reiterated. “I am the leader of this camp, and leaders do their own dirty work. If you turn, I’m gonna be the one to shoot you.”

“To save your soldiers having to do it.” Y/N said with a nod. 

“No!” Dean barked. It surprised her that he was so angry about what she was saying. It was obvious to her. The hunter she’d known may have turned into a soldier, may have gotten a little harder, but from everything she’d seen, he was still Dean Winchester underneath.

His face was a snarl now, though. “Look, I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of benevolent nursemaid here.” Dean tried to explain. “Everyone in camp has jobs, has their roles. It’s how we’ve all survived so far. My role is to keep the camp guarded. And I do that so everyone else can perform their roles. It’s simply a matter of survival. If you turn into a Croat and start killing folks, that lowers our numbers, makes us all more vulnerable. That’s all this is. So don’t go thinking I’m some kind of bleeding heart. When the time comes, I will take you down.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Okay.” She said calmly. She didn’t really believe a word of it. But she wouldn’t argue with his need to make her see him as deadly. 

“I mean it. I won’t hesitate.” Dean said coldly.

“But,” Y/N looked at him and gave a small smile, “you already did. Hesitate, I mean.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “Are you taunting me?” His voice was low and very menacing. 

Y/N raised her hands, making the chains rattle. “No!” She denied vehemently. “I’m not taunting you, I’m thanking you. That hesitation saved my life.”

Dean’s glare was hot and angry. “Well, like I told you, things change real quick these days, so don’t tempt me.”

He turned away from her again and Y/N lowered her hands. His attitude was not what she’d expected. He honestly seemed insulted that she’d implied that he was a good man who made it his mission to keep people safe.

Silence descended again, until Y/N began shifting around, noisily rattling her chains. 

“Stay still.” Dean barked without looking at her.

“I can’t.” Y/N said, slightly embarrassed. “I…I have to…pee.”

Dean turned to look at her for a moment and then shrugged. “Go ahead.” 

Y/N’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Ew.” When Dean made no move to rectify the situation, she let out an annoyed huff. “Do you at least have a bucket?”

Dean continued to stare at her for a long time, before calling out. “Johnston!”

A thin man holding a rifle stepped in the door. He’d clearly been standing just outside. “Yes sir?”

“I need your help with the latrine.”

“Sir?” The young man’s face was confused and Y/N snorted out a laugh. 

Dean shot her a dirty look. “Shut up.” He ordered. She bit her lip to stifle her smile. 

He turned back to the soldier. “With her, Johnston.” He said, pointing at Y/N. “I need help taking her to the latrines. I’m gonna hold her chains, so I need you to keep a gun on her.”

“Oh!” The man was clearly very relieved. “Yes sir.”

Dean stood up and took a key from the inside pocket of his green canvas jacket, bending to unlock the padlock that kept Y/N attached to the table. He pulled her to her feet and she stumbled into him, her legs being slightly wobbly and asleep from her uncomfortable position.

“Sorry.” She said, suddenly shy as she stood so near him. She looked up into his face and was slightly mesmerized by his shining emerald eyes and the dusting of freckles on his cheeks. He really was remarkably beautiful, moreso today than when he’d come to save her all those years ago.

Dean just grunted and stepped back, holding her thick chains in his big hand easily. He took the lead, his long strides forcing her to jog along behind him or risk being dragged all the way.

The camp was still just waking up and she could smell coffee brewing around the campfires where people sat sleepily rubbing their eyes and then popping them wide open as the strange procession passed by them. She tried to smile at them, but the fear on their faces made her remember her bloodshot eyes, and she lowered her head. They probably thought their leader had gone crazy, dragging a Croat around on a leash.

After a few minutes of walking they reached a row of outhouses, plain but well built. Dean pointed to the one on the end of the row and Y/N went in. She stopped just inside the door, looking back at Dean.

“Are you going to let go of the chain?”

“No.”

She frowned and waved her hand at the wooden door. “I can’t close the door if the chain is in the way.”

Dean just shrugged in answer.

Y/N’s face was imploring. “Come on.”

Dean said nothing.

Y/N gritted her teeth. “Well could you at least look the other way?”

“No.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and let out a little growl of frustration. “For pete’s sake, I am in chains, and you’re holding on to them! Where the hell am I gonna go if you look away for a minute?”

Dean stared at her a moment longer before finally, begrudgingly, turning his head. 

“Thanks.” Y/N mumbled, trying to pull the door over as far as it would go with the chain stopping it. 

When she was finished, she came out with pink cheeks. There was no way both men hadn’t heard her peeing. There were definitely some real indignities involved in people thinking you were a monster.

When they got back to the cabin, Dean was locking Y/N back up to the table, crouched down beside her, when her stomach rumbled from hunger. He ignored it, double checking her manacles before walking out and leaving Johnston watching over her with his rifle.

A few minutes later though, a young girl, probably no more than thirteen, came in with a bowl of oatmeal and some canned oranges. She also had a cold glass of water on the tray and Y/N groaned out loud. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until she saw it there. Her groan seemed to startle the girl who was approaching Y/N with considerable trepidation.

Y/N tried smiling again, knowing there was nothing she could do to change her bloodshot eyes, but hoping she could still show kindness in them. 

“Hi.” She said softly. “My name is Y/N, what’s yours?”

“Theresa.” The girl said, as she came a little closer. “Boss told mom to make you some breakfast and she sent me to bring it.”

Y/N nodded. “Thank you so much. It smells delicious. Tell your mother I said thank you as well.”

Theresa nodded back and finally came up beside her to set the tray within reach on the floor. Then she scuttled away quickly and Y/N tucked into the food. The oatmeal was slightly stale and plain with nothing to go in it, but it was warm and filling and the oranges were sweet and juicy despite their slightly tinny taste. It was the best meal she’d had in well over a week and she was grateful to Dean, the man who didn’t care about anyone, for providing it for her.

She hoped Emma was eating well this morning too, and that she was somehow coping with everything. She closed her eyes and tried to send her daughter strength.

The next few days passed much in the same way. Dean would watch her every night, assuring her that he was watching for any signs she was turning. But a couple days in, she woke up in the night to see his head slumped onto his chest, exhaustion finally winning out over any remaining fears he had of her changing.

On her fifth morning, Dean was locking her back up to the table after a visit to the latrines (during which he now allowed her to take the chain in with her and shut the door), when he swore and grabbed onto her right hand. He pushed the manacle up further on her arm and examined her wrist where it had been rubbed raw on the underside.

“What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

Y/N shrugged. “Didn’t hurt that much, and I figured you wouldn’t care, you know, if you were still figuring on shooting me.” She said with a teasing smile.

Dean gave her his usual dirty look. “Yeah well, I wouldn’t want you to die of sepsis before I get the chance.”

He called to Patrick whose turn it was to guard the cabin for that morning. When the red-headed man stepped inside, Dean told him to bring a first aid kit from the medical tent. When Patrick left, Dean pulled another key from inside his jacket and unlocked the manacle on Y/N’s right hand.

Her arm felt strange without the extra weight of the manacle and chain. Dean checked her other wrist, satisfied that she only had the one wound. When Patrick returned with the first aid kit, Dean began cleaning the raw spot on Y/N’s grubby skin. 

As he worked, Theresa came in with Y/N’s breakfast. She pulled up short when she saw Dean there, since he was usually gone by the time she came in. Y/N tried to encourage her forward. 

“Thank you, Theresa. Don’t worry, your boss is just fixing up a scratch on my wrist. You can still bring breakfast over.”

The girl hesitated before moving over to Y/N and setting the tray on the floor. “Have you seen Emma today?” Y/N asked. 

Most of the time, she tried desperately not to think about what her daughter was going through. If she were to dwell on it too long it would drive her mad. As it was, the nightmare of watching Emma float away from her, was coming two or three times a night now.

The girl looked afraid to answer with Dean there and kept glancing over at him, clearly nervous. “It’s okay.” Y/N reassured her again. “Please, how is she?” Y/N asked, aware that desperation laced her voice.

Theresa looked up at Y/N, her big brown eyes far too wise for a thirteen year old girl.

“Sad.” She said simply before standing and scurrying out of the room.

Y/N felt like a knife was twisting in her gut. She closed her eyes and tried to stop her tears from falling, but simply couldn’t. Two fat tears fell down her cheeks as she stared into her lap. Without saying anything, Dean tied a bandage around her injured wrist before tying more gauze around her uninjured left wrist, protecting it from the rough metal.

He cleaned up the first aid kit and left without a word. It was a few minutes before Y/N realized he hadn’t re-manacled her right wrist.

All that day it felt as though a heavy stone sat in her stomach. She barely touched her breakfast (an egg and some sliced fried potatoes) and didn’t have a bite of lunch. She felt terrible wasting the food and insisted Patrick eat it. It tasted like ash to her and she simply couldn’t swallow. All she could think about was Emma and how she was hurting.

Her ability to compartmentalize her pain and fear was breaking down as worry and heartbreak took over everything. 

That evening, Dean showed up earlier than usual. He walked right up to her and, kneeling beside her, unlocked her other manacle so that she was free of the chains at last. She gave him a quizzical look.

“What are you doing?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s been nearly a week that you’ve been here and almost two weeks since you got bit.” His usual scowl was highlighted by confusion in his green gaze. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but it seems increasingly unlikely that you’re gonna start foaming at the mouth any time soon, so…”

He stood up and moved away, nodding to someone outside. Risa stepped through the door and behind her, holding her hand, was Emma.

Y/N gave out a loud cry of surprise, too many emotions flooding her at once to articulate any actual words. She tried to leap to her feet, but ended up stumbling back to her knees as Emma launched herself at her.

“Mommy!” Emma’s tears and sobs soon choked anymore words out of her as well. 

Y/N wrapped her daughter up tightly in her arms. “Oh, baby, baby!” She buried her face in her daughter's long hair, squeezing her too hard, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She’d been so terrified she’d never get a chance to hold her again, so she savored the moment briefly before turning her head to where Dean was standing by the door.

Her throat was choked, but she pushed the words out. “Thank you. Thank you.” It was all she could say.

Dean didn’t respond and just walked out the door.

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters: @lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @akshi8278 @evznackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly @candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma

Dean Fics Only: @roonthelittlespoon920 @slamminmine @zepskies @deangirl96

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom: @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl @waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits: @k-slla @leigh70 @eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @notinthislife50 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

[smokescreenimusprime]

watched tf one the other night with my best friend and now I've been Re-Mental Illnessed, here's some Rescue Bot Smokescreen Rot I rotated while driving home :]

I think I've finally hammered out some more details of Inside Job and this is what I came up with:

like canon it starts with the Omega Keys. Specifically when Bulkhead gets attacked and knocked unconscious when looking for one

And against direct orders, Smokescreen leaves the base to go get him

there were a bunch of reasons why he did what he did. A desire to prove his capability as an EMT. He wants to be a field medic like Ratchet is, he wants to be able to do more than just wait for them to come back injured when the more time that passes the more dangerous it could be. There was also the fear of losing anyone else, especially so soon after he befriended Bulkhead. It's barely been a few days since they started getting along, and the loss of the entire Rescue Bot Force is still raw

so he goes, and finds Bulkhead unconscious and alone in the woods, with the only injury being some scratches and a blow to the back of the helm. Smokescreen doesn't have a scratch on him as they hobble back to base

it doesn't stop Ratchet's anger

Now, don't get me wrong, Ratchet is angry because he was scared. Smokescreen could've been in very real danger. He didn't know what awaited him on the other side of that portal. For all they knew, the Decepticon soldiers could've still been there, and they could've lost the last Rescue Bot in existence

but unfortunately, he says all this when still angry

and Smokescreen, as thick as his skin is from experiencing years of discrimination, is genuinely hurt by it. This isn't just a fellow medic or instructor yelling at him, this is his idol berating him for what he thought was the right thing to do

this is his idol unknowingly repeating the words that followed him all throughout his training and that he sought to prove wrong, and he has no idea how to respond

so he runs. He drives as fast and far away as he can, shuts off his comm because he just. Can't right now. He can't interact with them right now because frankly he doesn't trust himself to speak and not say something he would regret to his dying days

and unknowingly this puts him right in the Decepticon's claws

some aspects of his capture stay the same. He wakes up in the medbay strapped to a table, the Omega Key is extracted, and he is placed under the cortical psychic patch

but the differences happen in the details

His restraints are barely more than a pair of manacles that he could've probably figured out how to escape if given enough time. The Omega Key was removed before he even woke up, the incisions of surgery fresh on his frame but the work is well done with obvious care. With the patch, the mental prodding and information gathering is... oddly gentle and quick, doing barely more than verifying what the Keys are and Smokescreen's identity as a Rescue Bot before retreating

Smokescreen is not a warrior after all. He is a bot thought to be long since extinct who quite literally dropped out of the sky at their feet without warning. He may have loyalty to the Autobots but... he's not fighting this war. Not really. He's just been doing what Rescue Bots do: helping those who need it.

The "cell" he's kept in, if it can even be called that, was an old now-dead officer's quarters. The door is locked and there are guards stationed inside watching him at all hours, but they are not cruel. He gets a healthy amount of rations regularly, and has even been given a data terminal to keep himself entertained (of course, no before Soundwave had thoroughly firewalled and restricted anything that could be used against them)

the most stressful part of his capture is when Megatron comes to visit. Every day without fail, he will come check in on how Smokescreen is doing. He will ask how he's doing and they talk. About Cybertron, about the war, about how accepting the Rescue Bots were, allowing any Cybertronian regardless of caste to join, how much of a tragedy it was for them to have been wiped out.

Smokescreen is not blind to how he attempts to sow seeds of doubt into the Autobots into him. About how cruel it was for them to keep him confined to the base, how cruel Trion was for implanting a relic without his knowledge, questions if Smokescreen truly wanted to help them or if that's just what they've pressured him into doing with false promises that crumble like glass

but instead of refuting him... Smokescreen decides to play along

after all, Megatron obviously sees him as a poor, innocent, helpless bot who could be swayed by some sweet words and a cage advertised as protection

and that facade would make it all the easier to escape when the time came :)

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch7

chapter seven: survival

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 7, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-6, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: nightmares, drowning; canon-typical blood, violence, gore, & death. y'all know the drill by now, i think.

If your dreams were vivid before, you’re not even sure how to describe them now. The moment you close your eyes, you’re transported somewhere else. Suddenly, you’re walking with bare feet on muddy soil when wrists shoot out of the damp earth, grabbing onto your ankles and yanking you back through dirt until you fall down next to a decaying corpse… 

Then you’re swimming through a sea of broken glass, every movement burying shards further into your skin. Your blood slips through the fragments, a crimson bubbling sea rising around you until you’re being pulled under by the ferocious current… 

…You’re restrained on an autopsy table, a surgeon making an incision down your chest. Your chest aches, but you suspect the feeling isn’t just from the scalpel. Sure enough, you feel something clawing at your chest cavity and you lurch forward against the iron manacles forcing your wrists down. Claws prickle against your skin and, suddenly, a bright bird bursts from your chest and flies about the room… 

Then you’re standing across from Hannibal, as he stares at you from his confines. He presses his fingertips to the glass boundary and it crumbles to dust in the stale air. For a moment, when you blink, you see bloodstained antlers branching out from Hannibal’s head. When you blink again, he is standing impossibly closer. You’re screaming at yourself to move, run, but you’re entirely frozen. Just as he reaches out, there’s an impossibly loud blaring sound… 

You open your eyes to find yourself tangled in your bedsheets, your alarm making incessant noise. You reach out to grab your phone and turn off the alarm, before rubbing a hand over your face as you try to ground yourself to reality. These dreams of yours aren’t helping your sleep at all, and you sometimes find yourself staying up later in the foolish hopes of outrunning the horrors you know you’ll be met with when you close your eyes. 

There’s a buzzing sound ringing in your ears—an aftereffect of the dream. You clamp your hands over your ears, surprised that the effort actually dampens the sound. Then you glance at your nightstand and realize that your phone is ringing. You stare at it for a few moments in confusion, before groaning and picking it up. There’s an incoming call from Jack—you immediately accept and push yourself up to a sitting position, before bringing the phone to your ear. 

Jack neglects a greeting. “There was a murder,” he says. Immediately, all of the thoughts you’d been trying to push away—namely, the Tooth Fairy killings and your conversation with Hannibal—come flooding back. You take a short breath in. “A prisoner at Baltimore State Hospital died yesterday; he choked on his own tongue.”

Foreboding clings to your skin like a vice. Jack doesn’t need to provide any more detail, because you can already picture—with almost complete certainty—who the victim was. All you need to do is close your eyes and remember the disgusting feeling of saliva on your cheek, followed by the ice-cold shiver that ran down your spine as you saw the fury gleaming in the Ripper’s eyes. Just as you expect, Jack confirms that the victim was Miggs—the same inmate who you had that rather unpleasant interaction with but a few days ago. 

You’re lost for words. Thankfully, Jack isn’t expecting an answer from you. “Chilton wants you here,” he continues, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Now.” You’re still sitting in bed at this point—and Frederick Chilton isn’t exactly a person you’d rush out of bed to assist. 

“Tell him I’ll be there this afternoon,” you answer after a moment’s contemplation. You have plans to visit Abigail today—which you refuse to reschedule. Plus, you need to review the case files and autopsy reports before returning to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. “And if that’s not soon enough… then too bad.” Chilton isn’t your boss—Jack Crawford is. And you know Jack has far more pressing issues than a house call from a hospital administrator. 

Your suspicions are correct, because Jack doesn’t argue. “Got it.” The call ends and you groan, rubbing a hand over your face roughly in an attempt to fight off your exhaustion. It’s a bit earlier than you intended to be awake, but you know you won’t be able to fall asleep again. Conceding defeat, you brush your teeth and get dressed before heading out to the kitchen for a light breakfast. 

Not long after, you find yourself taking notes on what you know of the Tooth Fairy so far as you sit on your back porch, wind whipping at your skin. The cigarette dangling between your fingers is a small comfort, and it doesn’t provide nearly enough warmth as you desire. Even as you try to focus on the imminent threat—the Tooth Fairy—all you can think about is your interaction with Hannibal. You should have known that he would aim to harm Miggs. Indeed, that vicious snarl on Hannibal’s face was indicative of what was to come. You should’ve fucking known. Then, maybe another person wouldn’t be dead. Then, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting on your porch with this selfish guilt crawling around in your chest. You have no right to be guilty—you practically allowed that murder to happen.

…Right? 

You’ve caught yourself getting stuck in that mindset rather often recently. Your psyche loves to assign you the guilt and award you the responsibility. Sometimes, you know it’s deserved. But, in cases like this—in situations like the murder of Miggs, where you were just a bystander—you feel like you’re giving yourself too much credit. 

There’s only so much time you can spend mulling over the details of the Tooth Fairy killings and refreshing your memory before you find yourself growing agitated. You’re buzzing with restless energy, your foot tapping against the deck impatiently. Your thought process has grinded to a halt; the just barely visible trail has now gone cold. It’s frustrating to have so little information on this killer, especially when you know exactly when he will kill next. You feel as if you’re just fighting against the inevitable, at this point. But murder should never be inevitable. The BAU needs to find a way to get this guy behind bars. 

You shake your head and push yourself to your feet, collecting your materials into a relatively coherent pile and moving back inside. The sky is looking a bit overcast, and you’d rather not have raindrops scattered across the files. Besides, it’s nearly time for your visit with Abigail, you realize as you look down at your watch. 

You’ve been visiting her off and on since the encounter with her father in their home—since he sliced his daughter’s throat and stared right through you, those eerie, dusty green eyes pinning you in place with ease-

Safe to say, your memories of Garret Jacob Hobbs still aren’t buried, even after so many years. He’s the first of the many voices sounding in the cacophony of your mind. 

You push thoughts of the murderer aside and walk up the path towards the building. You sign in with the receptionist and walk over to the waiting area, taking a seat on the couch. It doesn’t take long before Abigail makes an appearance, and the two of you exchange greetings before you walk outside, settling on one of the benches under a willow tree. The wind rustles through the leaves and there’s a slight chill to the air, but it’s far from unpleasant. You place your hands on your knees and try to pretend as if you aren’t feeling tense. You’re here to speak with Abigail—you can abandon thoughts of bloodstains and corpses until you leave. 

For a few minutes, Abigail and you sit on the bench in companionable silence. You get the feeling that Abigail is trying to figure out her next words, and your instinct is proven correct when she breaks the silence moments later. “I’ve been placed into a foster home,” she reveals. 

You raise your eyebrows and try to study her reaction. She doesn’t exactly look thrilled. Actually, on second thought, Abigail looks as if she wants to be happy—but she’s preventing herself from being hopeful. You suppose that’s a normal reaction, for someone who’s been through what she’s been through. “That’s wonderful news, Abigail,” you say with a smile. The smile on her face flickers and you frown. “What’s the matter?”

Abigail sighs, clasping her hands in her lap. She is being uncharacteristically evasive. You decide to be patient and wait for her to gather her composure. Eventually, she takes a deep breath. “I… I’m scared.” The admission seems to take a lot out of her. She’s avoiding your gaze now, staring ahead at the building she’s been practically trapped in since she woke from her coma. 

“What are you scared of?” You hum, genuinely curious. You don’t want to patronize her, so you try to ensure that your expression is as open and honest as possible. 

Abigail is silent for a bit. “Disappointing them,” she eventually admits. You try to digest that confession. “And I feel like… I don’t deserve this. After everything I’ve done…” Everything she has done, indeed. Abigail was not entirely innocent in her father’s crimes—and she was more than just complicit. She helped him source his victims, pretended to make friends with them so that they would let their guard down. Maybe that’s why you have formed such a kinship with Abigail: you both know cruelty; Abigail and you have both been victims and perpetrators. “What if they don’t like me?” Abigail whispers, so quietly you nearly convince yourself you imagine it.

Then you’re abruptly reminded that, above all, Abigail is still a young girl—practically a child. Your throat burns a little as you process her statement. “They’ll love you, Abigail.” You’re quick to reassure her. 

“What if they don’t?” Her voice cracks and your heart breaks a little. 

“Then you can make a break for it,” you respond with a dramatic wink. The remark successfully diffuses the tension that had been settling in the air and Abigail laughs. A small part of you wants to offer for her to stay with you, but you know that’s a foolish promise to make. You suppose it’s normal to want a family—every human craves connection, in one way or another… regardless of how that connection may manifest. But you’re not deluded enough to think that you have all the necessary tools to be a parental figure to Abigail. You’re busy enough fighting off your own demons. Abigail deserves a normal life, and you’re not able to give that to her. 

(Maybe, in another world, you would be able to provide her with a quiet, ordinary life and a loving home. Maybe, in this other world, you would have someone to share that responsibility with you—someone who cares about Abigail just as much as you, someone who would protect her with all the ferocity and compassion that she deserves. Someone like…)

Your thoughts are veering into dangerously fantastic territory. You shake your head and try to shift your focus back to the conversation, ignoring the deluded (but compelling) calls of domesticity and belonging. Ultimately, you have never belonged. And you don’t see that changing any time soon. 

“So… it may be a while before I see you again,” Abigail says, tearing you out of your reverie. You stare at her for a few moments. 

“That’s okay,” you then reassure her, upon seeing the guilt written all over his face. “You’ll be busy—going to school, hanging out with friends. You won’t even think about an old geezer like me.” You smile, hoping to cheer her up further. Your efforts seem to work, because a smile rises on her lips. 

“Shut up,” Abigail says with an amused huff. “That’s not true.” 

“It is true,” you say, a fond smile growing on your face. You hope she’ll be able to move on from all this and live a normal life: go to school; hang out with friends; and engage with her hobbies. You can only hope that Abigail’s father doesn’t haunt her mind the same way he haunts yours. “And I wouldn’t want anything less for you.” You maintain. 

A pleasant silence descends across the air once more. A gentle wind blows through the trees and Abigail sighs. You mimic the gesture and she smiles. You’re not sure how long the two of you remain seated in companionable silence before an orderly appears in the doorway of the building and taps her wrist, indicating that your time is almost up.

You dig your hands in your pockets and find the item you intended to give her, turning it over in your hand and hesitating for a moment. Abigail follows your gaze and looks at it. You realize it’s too late and take a deep breath, offering her the object. “If you ever need me,” you say pointedly. 

Abigail takes your business card and looks down at it, raising her eyebrows. “Ooh, how professional,” she teases. You roll your eyes. The orderly motions pointedly and a sudden sincerity stifles the air. “I’ll make sure to text you.” She promises, the resolute gleam in her eyes indicating that she will not go back on her word.

You stand up and she does the same, before turning towards you and reaching forward to hug you. There’s a kind of sadness lingering in her movements, in the unspoken way she tucks her head into your chest and stays there. It’s clear she’s still nervous about the whole foster parent affair, and you don’t blame her. “They’re going to love you,” you assert, resisting the uncharacteristic urge to ruffle her hair. 

“I hope so,” she murmurs against your shoulder. 

“They will,” you reassure her. They’d better, you think darkly. The two of you eventually break apart and Abigail regretfully traipses back to the building, leaving you to walk to your car with conflicting feelings of relief and stress. You get the feeling you’ll see Abigail again, but it may be a little while. You’ll be busy with work and she’ll be busy adjusting to a new lifestyle—a peaceful one. 

Overall, your visit with Abigail was a welcome distraction from everything going on; unfortunately, the moment you start your car and pull out of the parking lot, all of your anxieties come rushing back. You’re supposed to meet with Frederick Chilton. Supposedly, he wants to speak with you. You can only hope that your conversation won’t be centered around getting you to participate in a consultation appointment with him. 

And, to your immense fortune, Chilton doesn’t mention a consultation appointment once. Perhaps he’s finally accepted that you’re not interested in participating in a vulnerable conversation with him (or a conversation at all, if you’re being perfectly honest). Instead, he levels you with a wary gaze as you enter his office, his eyes tracking your every movement. You settle for standing in front of his desk with your hands shoved in your pockets. Admittedly, you’re feeling pretty restless—but you don’t want to give Chilton the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“You wanted to see me.” You prompt, after a few seconds pass and the administrator doesn’t make any move to address you.  

“I’m assuming Jack has briefed you,” he says, cutting right to the chase. You nod and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The prisoner who died was Miggs… His cell was near Lecter’s.” You aren’t very surprised and the thought briefly makes you feel guilty, before you remember why exactly Miggs was imprisoned. “When I went to review the security footage, I noticed something interesting,” Chilton continues ambiguously.

The look on his face is nothing short of pure suspicion. You’re quickly losing patience with this circular conversation. “What?” You demand tersely. 

Chilton doesn’t seem surprised by your sudden rudeness. Instead he just exhales slowly, clasping his hands on his desk and looking at you with an unreadable expression. “There was an altercation between you and the victim.” He states. 

“Yes, he spit on me.” You recall, unable to hide your distaste. Chilton grimaces in sympathy. It’s a fleeting gesture—one that is performed for pretense, rather than out of genuine sentiment. Although, you’re sure he’s had similar experiences with prisoners—what with his position as the hospital’s head administrator. 

“Immediately after, you spoke to Lecter.” Chilton continues. This is just one of the numerous reasons you don’t like Frederick Chilton: when he has the opportunity to speak, he monopolizes it. He likes hearing the sound of his own voice, so he’ll go into painful and unnecessary detail for his own amusement. You always struggle with being patient in these moments, and right now is no exception. “Then, hours later, Miggs turns up dead. That seems like more than mere coincidence.”

You grit your teeth, catching the implications of his statement immediately. “You think that I spoke to Lecter and ordered him to kill Miggs?” You repeat, a little indignation seeping into your voice. You’re trying your best to remain calm, but it’s difficult when you’re being accused of a murder you didn’t commit. “Why would I do that?”

“Miggs spit on you, disrespected you,” Chilton answers. It’s an incredibly weak justification, and it almost looks as if he regrets uttering it. In your infinite generosity, you give him a few moments to take it back. But he doesn’t move to apologize or rescind his remark, so you’re forced to acknowledge it.

“My pride isn’t that easily wounded,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you know I didn’t sic Lecter on him just for a simple discourtesy.” 

“Men have been killed for far less.” That may be true, but you wouldn’t kill someone over a small act of disrespect. You want to think you wouldn’t kill at all, but you’re afraid it’s a bit too late for that. Your victims cackle in your ears, reminding you of your cruelty and hypocrisy. 

Chilton is staring at you expectantly. You remember that it’s your turn to respond. “Yes, it’s probable that Lecter killed Miggs,” you acquiesce. “But I didn’t ask him to do that.” He did it of his own accord, you know. Arguably even more frightening. 

“Even so…” Chilton breaks off. 

“Just stop,” you interject, before he can hurl any more unfounded conjecture at you. “You’re grasping at straws here. Not to mention, if you checked the security footage, you would know that I left the building after that encounter. There’s no way I would’ve been able to get back in and have another conversation with Hannibal.” You don’t notice the slip until you see Chilton raise a brow, and you’re quick to continue speaking. “Besides, if you wanted to know what he said to me, you could’ve just asked.” You suspect that’s been the prime motivator for this conversation. Chilton likely knows that you didn’t commit the murder—he’s just trying to lead you into a verbal trap in which you reveal details of your conversation. 

“Very well,” Chilton acknowledges with a gesture of mock-surrender. “What did he say to you? The footage shows you about to leave, before you return to Lecter for a few moments.” He recalls, glancing at his computer before looking at you again. 

“He was calling my name,” you remember. “I went back.” I’m not sure why, you neglect to say. “He asked me if Miggs spit on me. I told him that he did. He said it was discourteous. I told him it would be fine.”

“And then?” Chilton asks, practically leaning forward in interest. 

You smile. “Then I walked away.” You answer. 

Chilton visibly droops and you just barely manage to hold back a laugh. Honestly, you can’t believe he had the audacity to try to play mind games with you. You’re a criminal profiler and investigator—you’ve spoken to far more dangerous personalities and have manipulated people far more threatening than Frederick Chilton. The fact that he thought, even for a moment, that he could talk circles around you is insulting—and it speaks to his towering ego. 

“Now, I want to speak to Lecter,” you assert. I’m not letting this visit be a complete waste of time, you think to yourself. You’re already here—you might as well try to squeeze some more answers out of Hannibal. Will you actually get any valuable information? Probably not. But you won’t know unless you try. At least, that’s how you try to justify it to yourself. The voices don’t like that justification, though—Franklyn whispers that you’re just like him, that you just crave his full attention-

“Knock yourself out,” Chilton sighs dejectedly, tossing you his keys. You’re roughly torn out of your thoughts and you just barely manage to catch them, surprised that he’s trusting you with his keys after he just finished accusing you of murder. Your thoughts must show on your face, because Chilton just shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s been a long day.”

You decide to leave it at that and leave his office, heading downstairs and pacing down the hall lined with iron bars and dehumanizing cages. The prisoners aren’t nearly as rowdy as they’ve been in the past, and you think you make it all the way to the final door before Hannibal’s cell without being harassed or insulted. That might just be a record, you think to yourself wryly as you unlock the security door with Chilton’s door and shut it behind you. Immediately, your eyes aren’t drawn to Hannibal—but to another cell. 

Miggs’ cell is empty. There’s a sizable chunk taken from the toilet (evidently, that’s what he threw at you). More worrying, however, is the rather large, light pink stain marring the floor. It’s clear a janitor was tasked with mopping up all the blood that Miggs left behind. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like all of the blood came out. You shake your head and rip your eyes away, that familiar nausea prickling at the back of your throat. 

When you settle in front of Hannibal’s cell, you realize that something is different. Hannibal is seated at his writing desk, staring down at the cracked wood as if it holds invaluable secrets. He looks up when you take another step, but you’re too busy looking at the empty shelves behind him. Consulting your memory, you realize that his books aren’t crowding the shelves anymore. 

“Where are your books?” is somehow the first question that leaves your lips. Hannibal clearly doesn’t expect the question, because he blinks for a few moments before helplessly quirking his lips as he turns to face you. “Chilton took them?” You ask before he can answer. 

“Yes,” Hannibal nods. The irritation that is normally hidden behind layers of his mask almost seems to froth and bubble over, spilling over his frame and tightening his posture. He clasps his hands on the desk and stares at you, studying you. You’ve gotten used to the feeling of being shoved under a microscope and relentlessly examined with attentive eyes, yet it doesn’t fail to unnerve you. 

“I’ll speak to him,” you suggest after a few moments. Getting Hannibal his books back may help him to trust you, which could prove beneficial in the long run. But that’s not the real reason you’re offering, is it? “In the meantime-” You try to continue. 

“Will you really?” Hannibal interjects, staring at you scrupulously. There is little emotion in his voice—no sign of hope or gratitude. The statement is spoken with an entire lack of substance. Perhaps captivity is slowly eating away at the man. Somehow, you doubt it. 

“Yes, I will,” you promise before you can consider the consequences. Why did you do that? Somehow, you felt pressured to agree—and Hannibal hadn’t even formed any expectations for you to do so. You just volunteered to speak to Chilton on his behalf… entirely of your own accord. And that troubles you. You thought you were maintaining a professional distance, but your actions are speaking to something deeper. 

“I would be grateful,” Hannibal says. “There is little to do in this cell.”

Now you’re feeling guilty. You’re falling prey to his mind games, knowingly, yet you aren’t doing anything about it. You are an entirely willing deer prancing about near a lion’s den. “Books keep the mind at bay, I’m sure,” you murmur. You’re speaking before thinking and it shows. “Anyway, that’s not what I came for-”

Hannibal inexplicably gets up from his seat and you flinch. He paces towards the glass barrier, until he is a mere two or three feet from you. Then he inhales through his nostrils. The man’s brows furrow and his expression turns pinched. “You smell of smoke,” Hannibal remarks astutely. His eyes flit up and down your form, likely looking for evidence of your new habit. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice sooner,” you say guardedly. Indeed, from what you remember, he has always had a keen sense of smell. That primarily manifested in him making those eerie types of comments, but you also noticed his nose scrunch at unpleasant scents when he thought no one was looking. 

“I noticed the moment you approached the glass, before our most recent conversation,” Hannibal confesses. You frown. “I dismissed it as a once-off occurrence… It appears I was incorrect.”

Silence. You don’t know what to say. Hannibal seems content to let the silence drag on painfully, as he just stares wordlessly. Just when you’re growing to be a little too uncomfortable, he breaks through the quiet air. “Tell me, do you enjoy the thought of lung cancer?” He hums lightly. 

You don’t bother dignifying that statement with a response, instead burying your hands further into your jacket pockets. Your fingers find the steadfast cold metal of your lighter and you take a deep breath. A cough is building in your throat and you tilt your head to the side and cough into the crook of your elbow. You don’t need to look at Hannibal to know that he’s staring at you with a knowing expression, but you find your gaze pulled back to him (as it always is). You’re instantly surprised by the sight of Hannibal frowning at you. You were certain he would take pride in foreseeing your suffering, but instead, he looks concerned. Surely you must be seeing things. 

“Does it bring you solace?” Hannibal breathes. You don’t need to ask him to elaborate, but he does anyway. “Burning yourself from the inside out, that is.” Admittedly, you have thought about that before. A part of you, however small, does take solace in the fact that your new smoking habit is slowly destroying your lungs, rendering them entirely inedible to a cannibal. Maybe this is just a small delusion you’ve allowed yourself—one fleeting act of resistance against a never-ending, surging tide. 

The Chesapeake Ripper is waiting for an answer. Inwardly, you find amusement in the realization that, out of all the things you’ve done, smoking is what bothers Hannibal. You have done far more cruel, dangerous, and self-sabotaging things—but this is where he draws the line. Once a doctor, always a doctor. 

“I’ve grown used to the flames,” you mutter. 

He doesn’t find your answer satisfactory. That much is clear, from the way his lips are pulled tight in a thin line to the disappointment lingering in all that remains unspoken between you. “And to addiction?” Hannibal asks. His presence before you now is one big contradiction: his words are non-confrontational, yet there is a combative desire written in the harsh lines that sew him together. 

“You’re not my doctor,” you snap, with a bit more bite than usual. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face roughly, shaking your head in disbelief. Hannibal remains entirely enigmatic—too unpredictable for your liking. One moment, he’s murdering an inmate; the next, he’s attempting to warn you off of smoking. These interactions never fail to give you whiplash. 

“Very well,” Hannibal acquiesces, clearly sensing that he won’t get more information about your harmful coping mechanisms. Before you can get in another word edgewise, Hannibal is continuing to speak. “Send in Dr. Chilton, will you?” You’re being effectively dismissed. Somehow, you feel humiliated. This entire time, you were foolish enough to think that you were controlling the conversation, that you were the one with the power. But that was never the case. Your presence, your existence behind these nondescript walls was always his to dictate. 

“Sure,” you respond through gritted teeth, cursing yourself for letting your guard down. You turn on your heel and walk away, very tempted to ignore his farewell. You eventually settle for throwing a wave over your shoulder as you depart, lost in thought. 

You come back to yourself as you’re standing in Chilton’s office. You blink dazedly and look around you, confused as to how you got here. You don’t remember walking back through the halls, but you must’ve—otherwise you’d still be standing in front of Hannibal. You rub at your eyes roughly and try to collect your composure, painfully aware of Chilton staring daggers into you as you stand there. He’s nearly vibrating in curiosity; unfortunately for him, it takes you a few minutes to regain the ability to speak. 

“He’s asking for you,” you finally utter. Chilton nods and steps out of his office. You stand frozen in the doorway until you hear the doors to the hall shut behind him. Then, as if possessed, you move to his desk and look down at his computer screen, which is focused on the surveillance camera feed for Hannibal’s cell. For a few minutes, Hannibal remains seated at his desk in solitude. Then, Chilton appears in the hall. The camera feed is slightly grainy and there’s no audio, but you try your best to ascertain what’s happening from their nonverbal gestures and posture. 

“I need to speak to Jack Crawford,” Hannibal says.  

“And why should I listen to you?” Chilton scoffs. Chilton is standing at least a foot away from the glass wall. You’re starting to think the administrator has a bit of a complex when it comes to Hannibal. Now that the Ripper is behind bars, Chilton is foolishly convinced that he is the one who holds the power. But Hannibal’s surrender was tactical, and you’re almost certain that he has something more up his sleeve. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, instead staring at him silently. It’s abundantly clear that the man isn’t very fond of Chilton. 

“Fine,” Chilton responds. “But don’t expect to be getting your books back any time soon.” He adds.  

You’re left to speculate on the nature of their conversation, and you’re forced to make your escape once you notice Chilton leaving. You manage to make it out of the building before he returns, thankfully. As you drive home, you can’t help but think about the interaction you just witnessed. While you don’t know what the two men discussed, you do know that Hannibal will likely get his way. 

And indeed, he does. Unbeknownst to you, within three hours, Jack Crawford is standing before Hannibal Lecter’s enclosure with an annoyed pull to his lips. Moreover, the next time you visit Hannibal, you will notice that all of his books have been returned to him—in addition to the toilet seat and his drawings, which were both removed as punishments. These occurrences will serve as yet another reminder of the power Hannibal holds. He is no ordinary prisoner—no ordinary killer, no ordinary man. 

“You are far from ordinary,” Hannibal had told you once. Even now, years later and separated by a seemingly impenetrable wall of glass, his voice echoes down the halls of your mind palace and slips right past your defenses. You spend the rest of the evening trying to suppress old memories.

next chapter

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[senlinyu]

Hiya— forgive me, this is a big one!

Something I really appreciate about your work on both Manacled and LTDI is your approach to the wizarding world’s oppressive systems. I recently read a bit about how the caste system in India parallels to Jewish and African American oppression (there’s a great film on this too) and it made me go back and re-read Manacled just to look at it from this perspective.

I’m not sure how this fandom usually talks about wizarding world oppression since I don’t really engage, so I apologize if this is rehashing old metas haha. I mostly only see the direct parallels to “wizard nazis,” but I like that your work is more nuanced and detailed. I think it’s fascinating how the blood purity systems of oppression basically operate as a form of caste.

And in HP canon, the statue of secrecy is also very interesting, but you made it so much more engaging. Came for the enemies to lovers smut drama, stayed for the intellectual commentary haha!

I really like what you did in LTDI by exploring deeper how oppression looks like in a magical world, and the history behind the witch trials and dark magic. I *loved* the way dark magic was forbidden for muggle-borns, and the sickening and so realistic rationale that pure-bloods are taught about it.

And HOLY SHIT!—— You do such a good job at showcasing every aspect of this on LTDI through Hogwarts, Dumstrang, the archives, bullies, the press, and especially our two leads! Your depiction of the casual violence of oppression with Hermione and her journey learning about muggle-borns is devastating. and Draco’s absolute misery through the very oppressive system that’s supposed to put him on top is so true and also so brilliantly written. And it doesn’t hit me over the head with a shovel either, it’s just…human. It’s well done!! It reminds me why I like Dramione, besides the tension and the subtext, there’s so much richness that canon simply doesn’t have.

Sorry for the ramble! What I’m getting to is that when it comes to positive societal values (education, riches, peace, access to water and resources) and negative ones (lack of education, poverty, lack of resources, vulnerability to violence, incarceration,) the oppressor class is always going to rationalize that they earned it, and the subjugated second class deserves their lot. Here in America, the rationale was that people of color deserved subjugation because they were dirtier, meaner, stupider than their white counterparts; and these beliefs were upheld by religion, politics and incorrect science. But all of these are rationalizations and fabrications, because there is obviously nothing inherently superior about race (or in the case for white Jews— and here in HP— caste.) I think you translate that so beautifully to pure-bloods; but I was wondering how this works in relation to muggleborns.

On my reread of Let the Dark, I saw that muggle borns that didn’t manifest into Obscurus and went on to become wizards almost always grew into mastering black magic when they have access into the dark arts, while native-born wizards did not. The records of the fic also showed that black magic was corruptive to pure-bloods who tried it, and very hard to achieve at all even when put in similar nurture conditions when growing up.

So I guess this is all a really long-winded way of asking haha—— is Hermione’s muggle-born proficiency in black magic derived from nurturing or nature? and does that mean it’s vice versa for half/pure-bloods? Sorry I know you had a passage on exactly this but I just didn’t really know what you meant.

Anyway, these two are soooo fricking stupid horny for each other, I love the way you write them. Kudos ++ and thanks for all the work.

Can’t wait to see what’s next for LTDI ! ! ! !

Hi, thank you for the long ask. Am I correct in guessing that you saw the movie Caste? It's based on Isabel Wilkerson's book by the same name, which is one of the books that I read that was partially responsible for my inspiration for LTDI. A few years ago now, I was on a sort of journey reading about historical systemic oppression, but I didn't want to be limited to only American oppression and discrimination. I don't feel comfortable drawing absolutely direct parallels from real world in literature just because I feel like a lot of the times such attempts can perpetuate the very things they're trying to deconstruct (looking at you Zootopia), but the story is influenced by various reading I've done on discrimination and oppression throughout various colonial and class heavy cultures.

So as a result, I really didn't want to actually create a 'rational reason' for muggle-born oppression that had a legitimate basis, I wanted it to be a nurture based distinction. Yes muggle-borns have a unique ability that results from the trauma of their upbringing altering how their magic manifests, but that's not because they're actually naturally different, and in fact there's a very simple solution to preventing Black Magic by pre-emptively reaching out to muggleborns and preventing that formative trauma from occurring, but that would necessitate wizarding culture giving up their false sense of superiority and entitlement, and so they won't, and they let Muggle-born children and their families die where they don't have to see it.

[poundcakecrm]

‼️ MHA SPOILERS ‼️ SPOILERS FOR EPILOGUE ‼️

Can You || dabihawks drabble || 1k || aka the exploitation of the new chapter for some angst before entering my usual canon compliant "fix it" excuse & headcanon era 🤡

Can you still hear it?

Amongst the black noise of your flames that still eternally ring in your ears. Amongst the beeping of the machine that keeps your heart pumping, and the machine that keeps your lungs breathing, and the machine that keeps your kidneys filtering — but just barely, and just barely, and just barely. Can you still hear the promise you made him, smoke spilling from your seams, smile scabrous? More importantly, can you still hear his own right back?

Freedom.

Together.

Fly.

Can you still see it?

That potential future you both shared but never dared utter. The alternate ending to the story you both already knew the ending to. Can you still see the what if? Where he keeps his wings, and you keep your skin, and he smiles bright, and your fire burns brighter, and both outshine the brand that Endeavor seared into your soul. Your actual future, of course, will bear that mark to your grave. Your scarlet letter. But the maybes had been fantastical to envision, once upon a time.

Do you still feel it?

Like it’s still rubbing against the skin of your palms after the flames die down, a thousand ashes for a thousand dead, a thousand grains of sand slipping to the bottom of the hourglass. Can you still feel time running out? Or, alternately, can you still feel his calloused hands on your hips, or his silver tongue on your neck, or his lips against your own?

Can you still feel anything at all?

He won’t do it unless you don’t. He won’t do it if the answer is yes to any of these queries, or the countless others he’s posed over the past few months while the monitors beeped and your heart slowed and your lungs weakened and your kidneys tired. Kiego. Exhausting optimist. You hate how much hero is left in his eyes and his hope every time he comes to visit your prison disguised as a medical facility. You wish the war, you wish you, had burned it all out of him until only the cinders of those manacles remained.

But he still wears his old uniform beneath his fancy little suit and bandages from various continued surgeries, and the wings of freedom (together, fly) are gone for good. At least in this life.

“Touya.”

He speaks, bringing your mind away from his attire and back to his face. There is no smile today, actually. And there is barely the ghost of any hope left. What remains of that ghost is what keeps his hands frozen above the control panel, a mere breath away from all the buttons that glow red with warning. Right. He won’t do it if you give him even the barest, most remote reason not to. It’s why your eyes stay half-lidded and listless. Why your fingers slightly twitch as if aching to make a fist. Why your lips remain still (although you haven’t been able to utter a word in the past two weeks, not since you’d managed to whisper your request before the last of your vocal chords gave out).

You can’t still hear it. 

You can’t still see it. 

You can’t still feel him.

Liar.

Fine.

But that’s why you need him to do this.

He doesn’t want to. The past two weeks have made that perfectly clear. He’s argued. He’s urged. He’s refused — and yet he’s kept coming back. You’ve waited him out — not that you have any choice, near-corpse in a tube that you are. 

C’mon, Kiego Takami. You’ve done worse. 

He hasn’t argued today, though. Everything he has asked and promised and pleaded has been with his eyes, and the quiet uttering of his name. You’ve continued to wait, because he has a track record of burning himself out, and this battle will be no different. 

Icarus. Please.

After several more minutes tick on top of the weeks that have passed, you must finally look tired enough. Dead enough. Because Kiego swallows and it looks like it hurts, and his fingers tremble just slightly over the computer. 

“Are you sure, Touya?”

What is the alternative? To die later tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day, or the next? Because you will die, as the doctors have predicted (promised), and it will be soon. It may be alone. It may be amongst stiff white lab coats and cold, unforgiving stares. Or it may be in front of only your father and his apologies and mundane updates of his mundane life; sweet words and acknowledgments that had once soothed the wounds to his soul before they caked on too thick, losing their potency and meaning with every visit. It had only taken three months before he wouldn’t meet your eyes anymore, as if he were speaking more to his own reflection than his greatest mistake behind the glass. “I’m sorry,” he’d once said to you. “I’m sorry,” he now says to himself. He’d missed a visit three weeks ago, and two the last. It will only be a matter of time before this life support machine becomes Sekoto Peak; you will be thirteen again, except this time, you will see it coming.

No. You won’t die as a mere balm, a bandage, for a fallen hero and his fight for repentance. And you won’t break Fuyumi’s heart, or Shouto’s forgiveness, or Natsuo’s new life, or your mother’s fragile mind.

Him. It has to be him. 

You want it to be him. 

You’re sure.

He understands. His shoulders slump, and his breath holds, and his fingers descend to touch the keypad. The light in those big, bright, golden eyes die like he’s ending himself as he ends you, but then again, freedom, together, fly.

Those eyes never leave yours as he presses down on the keypad - click, click, click - and the room falls completely and utterly silent.

He speaks. His lips mouth something, and you can’t make it out, but the knot in your stomach hears it anyway. Meanwhile, his eyes continue on, glistening and screaming I still hear it. I still see it. I still feel it.

If you could smile, you might’ve. If you could respond, you would. The silence fills your ears. Your vision vignettes to the man on the other side of the glass. And yes, you still feel his calloused hands on your hips, and his silver tongue on your neck, and his lips against your own. He still feels it. You do too. He must finally tell because suddenly he’s only inches away, one hand on your glass coffin, one last spark igniting in his eyes in a plume of frustration and understanding and tragedy. You’re glad. You wouldn’t have wanted to see anything else in those last moments.

He burns out. You do too. As all destined heroes do.

Freedom.

Together.

Fly.

Maybe someday.

--- --- ---

This is probably the only time I’ll play with the idea he actually dies and from this point forward the headcanon is hawks stole funds and helped touya fake his death to appease the public, push endeavor on his way, and let touya recover in peace with the help of expensive hero society medical miracles. 🥲👍🏻

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

This or That: Everlark Edition

Katniss has a upturned nose or a hooked nose

Katniss is under 5’3 or over 5’7

Peeta is strong and muscular or chubby and round

Peeta has two dimples or dozens of freckles

They grow back together in less than 1 year or after 2 years

They’re very vanilla or they like to try spice

Ooooh I sign on to post a belated six sentence sunday and find this little treat in my inbox. Thanks for the ask, Anon!

Hooked nose for Katniss, and she is definitely 5'3" or shorter.

Peeta is always strong and muscular, but I usually picture him as being more chonky than ripped. There's some pudge on top of those muscles. A few years post war, he's a little more chubby and round than he was before. Can still totally throw his wife over his shoulder and carry her around like she's... a sack of flour. ;)

I usually don't picture him with dimples in canon because I feel like Katniss would've mentioned those. In au fanfic though, I sometimes give him dimples, as a treat. A sprinkling of freckles.

Okay so unpopular opinion, most likely, but I think that there's so much that they will be grieving and working through that at around the one year mark they aren't yet officially married. They're definitely in a serious relationship, but to me it's... argh okay. When they send her back to 12, Katniss is told that she's being exiled their indefinitely. Then she never mentions it again, not to tell us that the exile has been lifted, not to tell us that it's more of a lax exile just don't cause trouble wink wink nudg nudge, kind of deal. So to me, she and Peeta need to grieve, need to heal significantly, need to grow back together while doing all of that, which in a way includes relearning who the other person is. They need to renew their commitments to each other, make sure the other person does not doubt their love is real, and also Katniss has to somehow make sure Peeta knows she actually wants to stay in 12 with him and that she's not just staying there with him because she's exiled.

BUT at that one year mark, even if they're not fully married and living together, utilizing every horizontal and several vertical surfaces for nefarious purposes... the entirety of district 12 knows they're basically married anyways.

I feel like that needs some clarification. A lot of the district 12 residents post war will have been in 13, so they would've known or suspected that something was Not Right with K&P after Peeta's rescue. He's not seen for a long time, and then when he is, he's got guards and he's wearing manacles. He's rarely ever close to Katniss. The cafeteria scene happens in front of a crowd. There's no way rumors weren't a flying after Katniss books it out of there and Delly winds up screeching at Peeta and he's dragged out by his guards. So they knew something was up in 13, but they also know that Everlark is endgame at the end of a year after the war.

I don't think it'd take more than two years tho, if that makes sense. I like giving them that wiggle room to heal.

As for you last question, I hesitate to put a name to it because to me, modern day tumblr's concept of "spicy" is not canon Everlark's concept of "spicy." I know what kind of kinky mofo's you all are, and I don't think they get up to that level of spice. But I also don't think they fit modern day tumblr's idea of vanilla either. I think they get up to plenty of spicy shenanigan's. It's not always sweet and tender and two positions with them. Also Peeta has a dirty dirty mouth and once Katniss gets Peeta in her bed for good, they discover that she is insatiably curious.

Maybe that's a copout answer, but that's what I think!

<3 kdnfb

[silvrash-797]

Glassbound

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Chapter 2: The Rescue

Disclaimer: I'm trying to stay canon-compliant with the way Jojo says Four's colors work, that they're his 'true colors' and not individual beings. That said, I've read a lot of fics with the Colors as separate individuals, so I can't say I haven't been influenced.

So, I like to think that, when Four mentions one of his Colors, he's not actually talking about the Color, but the feelings he associates with the color (like how my oldest kid used to associate her internal anger with yellow dragons). Therefore, Red's mentioned a few times because of how relieved Four is to find Hyrule :)

Four crept on silent paws through the abandoned keep, nose twitching and ears swiveling for any sign of trouble. The Forest Minish he’d been visiting had mentioned seeing some scary men dragging a boy inside, and with no better lead to go off of, he’d made the trek, hoping to find Hyrule.

His feathery tail swished behind him in consternation as he came to a crossroads. Exploring this place would be much easier as a Hylian, but he hadn’t found another Minish portal, and it was much easier to stay unnoticed when he was the size of a mouse.

Left, right, or straight ahead? He didn’t have time to make a mistake – Hyrule had been missing for almost four full days, now, and if this place was as empty as the Minish seemed to think, then Hyrule'd been abandoned with nothing to sustain himself.

He wrung his paws together as he thought, looking around the floor for any clues. The barest, dusty remnant of formerly muddy footprints led down the hall to his left, and he made his choice. His heart pounded as he scampered down the hall, following the traces of mud as they wound deeper into the keep.

The trail ended at the top of a steep set of stairs.

Four sniffed cautiously at the air wafting from below – stale, musty, a bit of mold or mildew, but just underneath, Hylian.

Hang on, Rulie! he thought as he carefully slid down the stairs, chattering quietly to himself as the cold enveloped him.

Taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the relative darkness, Four finally looked around. The room appeared to be a cellar, although no scents came from the barrels and boxes. A cracked, overturned pot hidden in the corner sent a thrill of excitement through him - a Minish portal!

Once through the portal, his additional several feet of height allowed him to see another room annexed to the main cellar. Still alert for any disturbances, Four crept on cautious feet through the boxes towards the new room.

Rounding the corner, he let out an involuntary gasp. “Rulie!” No response from the Traveler, but after this long alone he hardly expected one.

Heavy manacles encircled the Traveler's wrists and bare ankles, holding him suspended about a foot off the ground. Weak breaths rasped through dry, cracked lips, but he was breathing, if unconscious.

Hesitantly, Four reached up and patted Hyrule’s cheek. “Rulie? Link?”

Dull, exhausted eyes fluttered open, and the rasping breaths hitched slightly. “…Four?” the Traveler slurred painfully, voice dry as the desert winds, “’s that you?”

Four was already reaching for his waterskin, carefully holding it to the Traveler’s lips. “Shh, it’s me, I’m here. Drink. Slowly,” he advised, as the Traveler attempted to inhale the water his body had been denied for so long. He pulled the skin away slightly, heart breaking at the desperate keen that followed, until Hyrule was aware enough to sip at the water without drowning himself.

Four pulled the water away again after a few minutes. Hyrule, survivalist that he was, grumbled a bit but didn’t chase after it again, instead giving Four a watery smile. “Missed you,” he whispered.

The Red part of Four's soul wanted to hug the Traveler tight and never let go, but to do that he had to get him down. Reaching for the lock picks he kept under his belt, he set to work. “I’m so glad I found you, Rulie, we’ve been worried sick,” he admitted, wincing at the bruises that were revealed as the manacles around Hyrule's ankles fell away. “What happened? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Hyrule made a noise of uncertainty. “Can’t tell,” he murmured. “They weren’t gentle, but I don’t remember anything more than some bumps and scrapes. Can’t feel my shoulders, though,” he smiled wryly.

Four winced, looking around for a suitable box to drag over, both to support Hyrule and allow him to reach the manacles around his wrists. “Has anyone been by since they left you here?” he asked as he shoved the box in place, climbing up.

“Once,” Hyrule hummed, staggering as his arms fell.

Four caught him around the waist, sneaking in Red's hug as he helped the Traveler sit.

Hyrule grimaced as he leaned into the Smithy's hold. “They brought a bit of water…made sure I wasn’t going anywhere…” he sighed, drooping in exhaustion. “Then they left. Not a word spoken.”

Four offered his last potion – the red liquid glistening in the bulbous glass bottle – and his waterskin again, and Hyrule took them gratefully. His eyes were clearer when he finally handed them back. “Thank you, Four.”

Four smiled back. “Don’t mention it. Are you ready to get out of here? How’re your shoulders now?”

Hyrule sat up and stretched cautiously. “Much better, thanks. Let’s go.”

Four led the way through the boxes in the cellar, opting to stay Hylian for now. “I didn’t notice anyone nearby while I was looking for you, so hopefully we’re in the clear.” They reached the base of the steps and began the ascent.

“That’s good,” Hyrule breathed, “I can’t wait to get back to everyone. How long have I been gone?”

“Nearly four days. Not even Wolfie could get a lead on you; if I hadn’t met the Minish I don’t–” He stopped when Hyrule tugged on his arm. “What is it?”

Hyrule’s eyes were wide and scared. “You said four days?” he whispered.

Four blinked at him, confused. “Yeah, why does that…” A shadow fell across Hyrule's eyes – no, that was a shadow across the whole stairwell!

Four turned, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to defend his brother from the hulking giant of a man that obscured the head of the stairs.

“Little rat,” the man growled, gimlet eyes narrowed, “how’d you get in here?”

[daisychainsandbowties]

thinking a normal amount about a treasure planet au. Beatrice on her solar kiteboard, doing the daredevil flip sequence framed against the setting sun and then getting hauled kicking and screaming back to her parents’ house in manacles with a defiant expression on her perpetually dirt-smudged face.

climbing out the window at the first opportunity to go down to the dockside inn, making nebulous plans to steal her kiteboard back but ending up down at the edge of the dock staring past her boots and into the mists. gripping tight to the wood beneath her as she looks up at the sky and dreams of anywhere but here, of stealing a skiff to get off this planet. a reluctant twinge at the thought of going alone.

Bea with all her star maps and her intricate knowledge of spaceships and their solar sails and how to navigate out there where the artigrav net is all that stands between you and floating through nothing, forever.

startling when she hears the familiar sound of someone booking it down the pier on wooden crutches. night has already started to speckle the sky above, and as she listens to the thunk of the crutches on the pier, Bea thinks of the complicated metallic lattice she has on her desk at home, partly disassembled because she’s still trying to work out parts of the engineering. Ava’s birthday is in a month.

she has to stay that long, and then she’ll leave. she will.

turning to watch as Ava races towards her with soup stains on her shirt and messy hair jammed flat beneath a ‘pirate’ hat she bought off of a traveling salesman last year. the tricorn wobbles precariously on her head as she moves. Beatrice just waits, a slight smile on her face.

there are bruises high on each of her arms, from the pincer-like grip of the police bots, manhandling her away from her kiteboard to snap manacles around each wrist.

she rubs at the skin there, but ignores the bruises.

when Ava arrives, a little out of breath, Beatrice holds up a hand so she can help herself down onto the pier. there’s no water beneath them, only a few hundred meters of empty air and curling mist.

Ava keeps one hand on Bea’s and the other on her shoulder, letting the crutches clatter down between them as she sits.

“Mom says you got arrested again,” Ava says cheerfully. “She says they’re threatening to send you to prison.”

Beatrice shrugs, “I wouldn’t mind it, so long as my parents did not visit.”

Ava’s fingers are covered in bright red band-aids, from chopping vegetables all day with her poor hand dexterity. Beatrice watches the colours blur as Ava punches her in the arm, right on the bruises. “Liar, I know you’d miss me.”

her arm throbs painfully, but Beatrice’s expression is carefully neutral as she responds. 

“I might.”

she stays with Ava that night, both of them reading her old book with its floating images of ships and canons and pirates leaping from vessel to vessel. Captain Flint, materialising out of empty space to steal away gems and gold, “the loot of a thousand worlds.” Ava traces the projected lines of the solar sails with her fingers as they flicker into being. 

Beatrice has repaired the book over and over, making the colours brighter and sharper. the tiny shapes of pirates all made up of light. Ava has the book open on Bea’s chest as she lies next to her, legs all entangled in the sheets they’ve kicked off because the night is so warm.

she seems oblivious to how Beatrice’s breath hitches at almost every touch.

they’re almost asleep when they hear the explosion, a ship crashing into the cliff-side, tumbling over and over before they hear the pop and hiss of heated metal. a bloom of smoke outside the window.

Beatrice gives Ava a piggyback ride down the stairs just before Ava’s ‘mom’, Suzanne, emerges with her pulse-rifle primed, hair loose around her shoulders.

they stumble into the yard and discover a pirate, a robot, still bleeding from a wound in his abdomen, crawling from the wreck of his ship. Beatrice heaves a shard of twisted metal away from him and finds the surface slippery with blood.

behind her, Ava sways a little, shivers in the cold air, but she’s still standing when Beatrice turns back to her.

the dying pirate tells them almost nothing useful. he’s half-mad, cluching at Beatrice’s shirt until the seams tear at the collar, then turning to Ava. he fetches out a lockbox from his ship, blood spilling onto the ground at the movement. unlocks it and takes odd sphere from inside.

it drops into Ava’s palm as he rasps, “Whatever you do, don’t let them find it.”

then he wheezes, shudders, stills.

they stare at him, Ava’s free hand finding Bea’s, holding tight.

“Is he… dead?” Ava’s voice in the silence and the dark.

“I think so.”

then, in a burst of light and sound, in a shockwave of displaced air, a ship plummets down out of the clouds, pulling up an instant from the ground.

this second ship looms down out of the sky, pirates dropping from it and suddenly Suzanne is screaming at them to “GET INSIDE” from an upstairs window as she takes potshots at the misshapen shapes swarming down lines of hempen rope.

the air lights up with orange and yellow as explosions ripple down towards the crashed ship, towards the inn. Bea flings one of Ava’s arms around her neck and sprints for the door, Ava holding the sphere (or map?) tightly against her chest.

she sets Ava down gently onto one of the bar stools, runs back to barricade the door. her face is flushed, streaked somehow with engine grease and robot blood, which is black and slightly acidic. 

they exchange a wide-eyed look, too much meaning in it to parse as explosions rock the floor. Ava has both hands clutched around the sphere. 

they both almost scream as Suzanne runs down the stairs in a blur of dressing gown and gun. she has Ava’s crutches in one hand and her rifle in the other. she kisses Ava quickly on the forehead, “Thank the tides you’re safe.” leaves her with the crutches and then goes to fetch an ancient-looking blaster pistol out from behind the bar, presses it into Beatrice’s hands. “You know how to use this?”

“No!”

“Aim it away from your own face.”

and then there are pirates all around the house, glass breaking and fire crackling. Beatrice takes up the rear, pistol pointed at the front door as it bulges under the pressure of pirates flinging their bulk into it again and again. 

they climb out of a window, Suzanne producing a kitchen knife and jamming it into the neck of a pirate loitering uncertainly outside the bolted shutters. there, covered by a tarp, is Suzanne’s old motorcycle with a sidecar attached. lantern-bugs scatter out from under it as Suzanne throws the old tarp away, gestures for Beatrice and Ava to climb in as she covers them with her rifle.

there’s a roar from somewhere in the dark and Suzanne fires a shot, hops onto the motorcycle and revs the engine. then they’re moving, pirates parting before them like the ocean neither of them have ever seen, the vast bodies of water that don’t even exist on this planet.

they seek refuge with Jillian, an archaeologist who frequents the old inn, claiming that she can’t make her coffee taste of anything but soap. she examines the orb, reluctantly passed into her hands by Ava, her and Bea wrapped in an old blanket, sitting by the fire in Jillian’s immense study.

Jillian fiddles with it for an age before sighing, looking almost angry with herself.

“I can’t… seem to make this work.”  

Ava holds out her hand, silent. “let me try,” and Beatrice makes a face at Jillian when she hesitates.

the pirate gave the sphere to Ava; it’s hers. 

it seems much larger in Ava’s small grip. she looks down at it for a while before her fingers start to move, slow but gathering momentum as she presses the little grooves and switches and indents on the sphere. 

until it lights up, showing a map of the known universe, and parts of it that are unknown.

“Is that-” Beatrice feels her words drop away, like the ground beneath the pier where she has passed so many hours sitting with Ava’s hand in hers.

Ava turns to Beatrice, eyes bright as a pair of stars, “It’s treasure planet.”

[viilpstick]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑?

How can a story never die? It is love we must hold onto, the origins brought to you by love. When a story like hers with such dedicated meaning and strong roots manacled into your DNA, it is a hard task to simply leave it all behind. Never easy, but we try. Minutes turn to hours, days to years and gone the moments that pass shall never be forgotten, especially for spiteful people, but may love live on inside our hearts keeping to those who you can be sure to never leave and always will stay.

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔: Adeline Rosique, Twisted Wonderland oc

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Major character death (background), a bit of oc x canon (relationships), the section "appearance" still not added, warn me if I forgot any

𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: Angst, hurt, hopeful ending (background), fluff and angsty (relationships)

𝒂/𝒏: She is kinda inspired by the Archer, from Taylor Swift and Belle's backstory on the live action movie

OFFICIAL INTRODUCTION: "I need to get... Excuse me. I need to pass. What? I don't care if it's a fight, I have important matters to solve. Isabelle and Leona are the one fighting? Sevens, and they try to make me believe they are not in love."

Adeline Rosique, the vice-housewander at Rosantée, the Royal Sword Academy's dorm, channels the spirit of the Fearless princess.

Despite her initial aloofness and strict demeanor, it doesn't take long to discover Adeline's kind and warm side, with an energy of big sister of everyone and all, intertwined with a playful and cunning sense of humor.

While rumors circulate about a dark past, Adeline appears unfazed, insisting it doesn't bother her – or so she tells herself.

BACKGROUND

Adeline, destined to be the future heir of the illustrious kingdom of Westerian Beau, faced a turbulent beginning marked by the disdain of her father, Grendel Enchanta. Born to a union between a human and a fae, Adeline's arrival into the world was met not with joy but with Grendel's palpable disgust. His dismay, however, went beyond the mere disappointment of having a daughter; it was rooted in the perception that she was, in his eyes, aesthetically displeasing.

Grendel, harboring a profound resentment toward his fae spouse, concocted a sinister plan in response to his daughter's perceived flaws. In a calculated move, he aimed to turn the entire kingdom against Adeline's mother, leveraging prejudice and deceit to manipulate public opinion. The ultimate goal was to isolate and abandon Adeline, leaving her to face the world alone and vulnerable. The twisted plot orchestrated by Grendel Enchanta wove an intricate web of familial betrayal and political intrigue within the kingdom. Shockingly, the malevolent plan proved successful as the sentiment in the kingdom gradually shifted, and animosity festered against their once-beloved queen.

Grendel seized the opportunity and, with his daughter Adeline in tow, clandestinely retreated to a secluded cottage nestled in the enigmatic Shaftlands. In this isolated haven, Adeline's formative years unfolded amidst the shadows of her father's manipulative schemes. The idyllic facade of the cottage belied the harsh reality that she grew up mostly alone, isolated from the warmth of familial bonds and the camaraderie of the outside world. The villagers' aversion to her, cast Adeline into a lonely existence, as even the village children shunned her. Ultimately for her appearance.

Left to her own devices, Adeline found solace in the companionship of a single friend, well, an animal, who proved steadfast in the face of her isolation.

With her father often absent from her life, the cottage in the Shaftlands became both a sanctuary and a prison for Adeline, a place where the echoes of betrayal and deceit lingered. As she navigated the challenges of her solitary existence, Adeline's resilience and the bond she forged with her lone confidant would come to define her journey in the shadowy aftermath of her father's malevolence.

Adeline grew to study in Sword Academy at the dorm of Rosantée. Despite the challenges imposed by her tumultuous upbringing, Adeline persevered and pursued her education at the esteemed Sword Academy. However, the corrosive environment of constant bullying during her initial years took a toll on her resilience. By the second year, the weight of relentless mistreatment became unbearable.

In a decisive act of self-empowerment, Adeline chose to take control of her narrative. She embarked on a journey of radical transformation, altering her appearance in a way that defied societal expectations and norms. This drastic change became a catalyst for a profound shift in the dynamics of her interactions. The very individuals who once subjected her to ridicule and cruelty now found themselves confronted with a version of Adeline that defied their preconceived notions. The newfound strength emanating from her transformed appearance not only shielded her from further mistreatment but also became a symbol of her resilience and defiance.

PERSONALITY

Possessing a personality like Adeline Rosique is having a personality like a mirror that has a duality of her heritage. Bold and resilient, she faces the world with a determination forged in the crucible of adversity. Despite the hardships she has endured, Adeline carries herself with an innate sense of grace and poise, a testament to the influence of both her human and faye lineage. We may say, Adeline is a bold and sassy girl, however, most of the time she acts serious, with a rare smile on her face. This is just a façade though to a girl who loves to talk and seems mostly happy to meet new people.

Adeline's disdain for those who judge her based solely on her appearance fuels her resolve to defy expectations. So, it is to be seen that through Shaftlands a poor old lady that wanders all night and day long is actually Adeline, hiding for those who seek her power for illness. To move through the city undisturbed, a seemingly unassuming old lady, free from the superficial attention that often accompanies her true form. But even so, during the night she no longer uses the disguise, and only walks with a big dark green hoodie. 

Her boldness is evident in the way, unafraid to voice her opinions and stand up for what she believes is right. Some people who know the truth about the “lady” say that Adeline fear is to be denied by people who surround her for only her appearance, that leads her to act most as somehow rudely towards people. Adeline's boldness, however, is not a mask for arrogance; rather, it is a reflection of her unwavering confidence in her abilities and her refusal to be defined by the narrow judgments of others. Despite that, Adeline is not without empathy. Her experiences have cultivated a deep understanding of the struggles faced by those who don't fit neatly into societal norms. She is quick to lend a helping hand to those in need, a trait that endears her to those who truly see beyond the surface. Another noticeable trait is the thought of never needing help from anyone, she can help everyone, never the opposite.

In the intricate tapestry of her personality, Adeline Rosique emerges as a symbol of resilience, grace, and defiance. Bold, polite, and unapologetically herself, Adeline stands as a beacon of inspiration for those who dare to embrace their uniqueness in a world that often seeks conformity. Adeline believes, that people can’t leave her, if she leaves first, so she tends to be somehow rude and stern to others who she doesn’t know.

RELATIONSHIPS (main ones)

Sebek Zigvolt: Sebek has low tolerance over her, mostly by the fact how ironic she is with Malleus, it takes a lot of patience for him to let her be around himself and Malleus, especially when Malleus says that he doesn’t mind her jokes and sarcasm, which is unbelievable! He is the heir to the throne and he shouldn't let her talk to him like that. Sebek wonders if the Young Master has a reason.

Epel Femier: This one is hard, she knows she comes off as annoying to him, so, when he acted more rude than he should with her, Adeline used her UM on him. He stayed inside all day long, only leaving when Poppy helped him to get the forgiveness of her. By the end of the second day he was back to normal. Adeline apologises by the way she acted, yet, she keeps an eye in both Poppy and Epel after it, with a sly hint of amusement.

Poppy Cosette (Oc made by @justm3di0cr3): At first, Adeline admits that she was a bit antipathetic, and she knows it. It was mostly her first side showing up, but once she had to spend time with Poppy alone, they both had a sisterly bound; and from that moment from time to time Poppy and her would spend evenings together, maybe making apple or lemon pies. That's when, Poppy doesn't bring baskets with flowers and bread to Adeline, the half faye melts on the spot.

Che’nya: Although she sees him as a weird guy, he does make her flash a bright smile accompanied with a loud laugh from time to time. Adeline thinks he is just the class clown. But when he catches the eye of one of her friends she comes off to be rather amused by him more easily than before.

Fauna De Lis (Oc made by @shinysparklesapphires): Fauna and Adeline are great friends, and in general Adeline has a bit of admiration for the kindness of the girl, with that she becomes somehow like a protective sister like she is with most of her friends.

Isabelle Desroisiers (Oc made by @midnightmah07): Adeline says that one of the purest hearts of all the people she has met was Isabelle’s, due to the lovely like and kind yet stubborn and curious was what drew Adeline close to Isabelle. The usual dates with the friends are in a cozy room with books, a chess game, snacks and some small gossip here and there. She was the only one to break the rule of “if I leave first, no one can leave me” because Adeline knows Isabelle would stay.

Leona Kingscholar: Although the truth about his and Isabelle’s weeding, Adeline always had a feeling of something that was within hidden between them too. In her head all the hatred was a uncovered love for each other (she turns out to be right, but at first she comes out as annoying). But, she can't lie when says she finds Leona mostly like an annoying bastard, yet, she had to pull up with his attitude.

Rook Hunt: Though Rook may stir a hint of unease in Adeline, their shared cunning and sly nature forms a common ground; That is the matchmaking couples, this is how they got to make "an apple tart" couple along, all part of their cupid-inspired scheming.

Adriano Mélombre: It sounds like a positive transformation in the relationship between the half-siblings, Adriano and the person you're referring to. Overcoming the past and developing a sweeter relationship can be a rewarding and healing experience for both individuals involved. The fact that Adriano has extended an invitation for them to live together, along with their mother, suggests a desire for closer family bonds and mutual support. Such developments often require open communication, understanding, and forgiveness. Living together can provide an opportunity for them to deepen their connection, create new memories, and foster a sense of belonging within the family unit. Family dynamics can be complex, and positive changes like this one demonstrate resilience and a commitment to building stronger relationships.

MALLEUS DRACONIA

Will wait for Book 7 to finish!

TRIVIA:

Adeline is twisted on the Enchantress from "Beauty and the Beast"

Adeline means “noble” or “nobility” from German

Rosique means both “Rose” and “magique” that is “magic” in french

18 years old, born in June 24th (Adeline’s birthday is national fairy’s day)

Adeline's dominant hand is right

Fav. drink + food: Cranberry juice, lemon pie.

Least fav. drink + food: Warm water, boiled eggs.

Hobbies: Dancing

Pet peeves: Overly judgemental people

Likes: Long walks in a breeze days, parties

Talent: Fast learner

Adeline is twisted on the Enchantress from "Beauty and the Beast"

Adeline means “noble” or “nobility” from German

Rosique means both “Rose” and “magique” that is “magic” in french

18 years old, born in June 24th (Adeline’s birthday is national fairy’s day)

Adeline's dominant hand is right

Fav. drink + food: Cranberry juice, lemon pie.

Least fav. drink + food: Warm water, boiled eggs.

Hobbies: Dancing

Pet peeves: Overly judgemental people

Likes: Long walks in a breeze days, parties

Talent: Fast learner

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST IN OTHER MEDIA MY WORK viilpstick © copyright 2023

[silverwings22]

Song of the Sea: Chapter 12: Swandive

Chapter Warnings: almost getting eaten, mind control, profanity, venom Series warning: explicit smut, alien anatomy (it's a monsterfucker fic, guys), major character injury, grief, canon typical violence, autistic meltdowns, and my terrible attempts at Mando'a.

Previous Chapter:

Next chapter:

"Bracca is a junk planet." Echo grumbled. "I trust Rex, but I'm not sure what he's getting at here."

“He had to have found something.” Hunter sighed. “Not thrilled we’ll be picking through garbage, though.”

Shiani looked up from where she was fiddling with the scanner she’d helped Tech build, going through the settings while he piloted. “Garbage isn’t so bad. I lived in the garbage for four years under Tipoca City.” 

Hunter and Echo looked uncomfortable at that. Tech just glanced at her face as she kept working on the scanner. The sergeant knew Tech had wanted to bring her onboard the ship far sooner than they had, but he’d refused for the sake of their missions. He hadn’t thought too much about what her life looked like when they weren’t on Kamino. Now it was a glaring realization that punched him in the gut; Shiani had been alone in a scrap heap underwater. Abandoned in the garbage of Tipoca City. 

"Shiani… I've got something for you. Stay put a minute." The sergeant got up and walked back towards the hold. 

"Where would I go?" She smiled with a shrug at Tech. 

Tech shook his head. "I am not sure what he's up to."

When Hunter came back, he handed two rattling lengths of chain to her. "I couldn't make myself sell them. I meant to give them back sooner, but things got a little distracted."

Shiani set the scanner aside and picked up the durasteel, running her thumbs over the links. She smiled slowly, bringing them to her forehead after a moment. "Thank you." She said in a quiet voice. "Good to have them back. Feel like a siren again."

Tech gave Hunter a grateful look as she stood and put the manacles back on her wrists, adjusting the wire armbands carefully. "Meshla." He told her, getting a grin from her and a smirk from his brothers. She’d been scouring every resource she could find on Mandalorian language, customs, and history for weeks.

"Ready for the garbage planet." She patted the blaster on her hip with a grin. 

Echo chuckled. "Good. Cause we're here."

Tech sat the ship down and they all stepped out, Hunter doing his best to shield Omega's eyes from the harsh sun and dust. Shiani giggled next to Tech. "Hunter’s such a dad." She whispered. 

"He is simply being responsible for her well-being as the leader… is the dry air going to be alright on your skin?"

"Now Tech's being a mother tooka." Wrecker grinned. 

"Tech is a good friend." Shiani gave him an adoring look, one of many the rest of the Batch were getting to be familiar with, and gave his arm a quick trio of squeezes. I love you. "There’s Captain Rex."

Sure enough, the blue painted white armor was trudging towards them eagerly. She realized after a moment that Rex must have been the captain Echo had told her about when he’d told her what cyar’ika meant. He had Mandalorian jaig eyes on his helmet, which she hadn’t seen when he’d come to the Parlor. It spoke to the type of brave he must have been, and filled in a few blanks she’d been wondering over since she’d first met the blonde clone. Namely how the squad notorious for not getting along with “regs” seemed to have so much respect for him. "Good to see you boys. And ladies." 

Omega beamed at the recognition, Shiani just nodded with a smile. "What treasure did you find in the trash?"

"The Venator over this way. The medical pods inside should be intact… it's the only way I know to get those chips out."

The group went silent and nodded, remembering the very real reason they were there. Wrecker squirmed uncomfortably. "I hate this."

"It'll be okay." Omega took his hand, and Shiani saw her giving him three squeezes.

Wrecker looked at her curiously. “What are you doing?”

Omega waved for him to lean down to her so she could whisper. “It’s a secret code Shiani taught me. Three squishes means I love you.”

Wrecker smiled a little. “Aww, Omega…”

“So don’t worry! Everyone will be right there with you." She went back to normal volume after sharing her “secret”. 

"Easy for you to say. No one's cutting open your head." Wrecker’s worried frown returned immediately.

"Technically, all of our heads except for her and Shiani." Tech sighed. "But the alternative is unacceptably risky."

"You’re going to be okay. Me and Baby Mega will protect you." The siren patted the big clone's back. "Come on."

They followed Rex through the sand, having to duck once to hide from Scrapper guildsmen. "They won't like it if we're operating on their turf. And they'll have no problem contacting the Empire." The captain explained. 

Shiani hissed softly at the mention of the Empire, covering her mouth. Her personal experience was relatively limited, but the story Tech had told about Tarkin and the fate of the regs was enough to make her fangs glisten with venom. The Empire was no better than the long-necks of centuries ago, who'd stripped everything from her people. Now a new evil did it to the clones. . 

"Here it is. Original Venator class, first off the line." Rex looked up at the scrapped ship when they reached it, and they could almost hear the smile under his helmet. 

"Kinda like you, Rex." Wrecker teased. 

"Knock it off and climb." Rex huffed and they started their ascent inside. Tech frowned when both Hunter and Shiani stiffened at a miniature lake that had formed in the belly of the ship. 

"What's wrong?" Omega tugged the sergeant's hand.

"Just stay above the waterline." He cautioned, getting between her and the murky puddle. 

Tech looked at Shiani. "Is everything alright?"

She nodded, pushing him slightly further from the water. "You stay close to me, okay?."

They worked their ways up, until they reached an open chasm from a collapsed deck. Rex pulled a large cable up. "Guess it's time to make a bridge. Wrecker, throw this over."

"You know, my head doesn't hurt anymore… you guys go on without me." He squirmed.

"Need me to sing?" The siren offered gently. "Don’t be scared, Wrecker."

He nodded, helmet pushed up on his head to reveal very unhappy eyes. "I hate heights…"

Shiani smiled and wrapped herself around the end of the cable. "Throw me. I’ll sing for you when you go across."

Wrecker swallowed hard and nodded, picking up the end. "Okay…"

When he tossed the cable, she let out a delighted little noise on her flight across before securing the end for the others. "Be careful!"

Rex went first, followed by Omega and Hunter. Echo sighed at his one hand and made it using his elbows, cursing in Mando’a under his breath. Tech followed, focused and calm, leaving only Wrecker. 

"I could really use that song now." Wrecker mumbled. 

Shiani stood on the edge and cupped her hands around her mouth, pouring out an echo of that emboldening note from before. Echo nudged Rex as Wrecker started inching his way over. "It's pretty, and damn does it help. But it sounds like this herding call I saw on the holonet once, and now all I can think is she's bantha-calling us."

Rex laughed. 

Wrecker was feeling a bit better about this whole adventure when the cable popped, and he went plummeting down. Omega was screaming his name when the cable caught, fortunately around his ankle instead of his neck.

"Wrecker, you okay?!" Shiani yelled.

"It smells awful down here! Pull me up!" He groaned, trying to bend at the waist to get his hands on the cable. His bulky armor made it difficult. 

The rest of the squad started pulling obediently when Hunter spotted a shadow under the surface. "Shit! It's a dianoga."

He grabbed Omega when she started to run for the edge in a panic. Nobody, however, grabbed Shiani. 

The siren took a running leap and dove off the ledge headfirst, dropping like a dart into the water just as a pink tentacle grabbed Wrecker and dragged him under. Tech darted to the edge, eyes wide. "Shiani!"

The water was roiling viciously, too murky to see clearly, until Wrecker popped up with a terrified gasp. Then Shiani appeared, wrapped entirely around one of the dianoga's limbs. She was holding on with her own tentacles, teeth clamped hard into its flesh as her claws ripped at it. When she glanced up and saw Wrecker had cleared the water, she disappeared again and let go, shooting down to the bottom and letting the creature chase her while she delivered another series of bites anywhere she could reach. It chased her around for a while, unable to match her speed, until the venom did its work and it passed out at the bottom of the pool.

Wrecker anxiously waited, clinging to the cable with wide eyes, until she surfaced. "You okay?" She peeped.

"Are you?" He reached a hand down and she took it, pulling herself up with him and wrapping her tentacles around the cable to secure them both. 

She wiped her mouth on her hand, smearing dirty water and dianoga blood across her face. "Ick."

The rest of the clones hauled them to safety, Omega tackling Wrecker in a hug. Tech had definitely been scared, as he grabbed Shiani and pulled her to his chest without even a second glance at the mess all over her. He was usually so particular about dir. "Are you injured?" He cupped her face in both hands to inspect it.

"No. I’m okay." She smiled. 

"What were you thinking? That was a fully grown dianoga, it could have eaten you."

"Nothing’s faster than a siren in the water." She nuzzled into his hands. "Wrecker was in trouble, so I helped."

Tech sighed and hugged her to him again. "Do not… scare me that way. I thought you would be killed."

“I’m okay, Tech." She headbutted his shoulder, but hugged back with a trio of squeezes. Wrecker and Omega both saw it, and exchanged a slow grin.

Tech just nodded, squeezing her a little tighter before letting go. "Just… please be cautious."

They turned around to find everyone else smirking at them. "Alright, you two. Just a little further to the med bay." Rex chuckled. 

The men all turned to follow, back to business like they hadn't almost seen two people get eaten. Omega reached for Shiani. "How do they just get over stuff so fast?" The little girl whispered. 

"Soldiers see lots of bad things." Shiani shook her head sadly. "Just got used to it. The only thing we can do is try to keep up, and try to be brave."

Omega nodded and clung to her hand as they entered the med bay. It was a dark, creepy place with a clear womp rat problem. Even soaked to the skin with stagnant water and dianoga blood, Shiani picked her tentacles up off the floor and wrapped them around her waist. 

"This is not what I would consider sterile." Tech adjusted his goggles. 

"You want to try the facility on Kamino?" Rex huffed.

"... point taken." He sighed. "Wrecker, come here. I've analyzed the data from our scans and compared it to Rex and Omega's. With this, I should be able to identify the chip location for removal."

An unhappy Wrecker sat down on a gurney, rubbing his temple as Tech scanned him. Shiani was distracting Omega by holding her in the air with her tentacles and rotating her like a puzzle cube, since the girl was clearly nervous about the whole situation, when she felt something shift in the air. Like the sudden presence of a barracuda among a batch of eggs, it had her spinning on her heel and pushing Omega back behind her. Wrecker’s face had shifted, his typical sheepish smile now a vicious glower. "Get that away from me." He hissed.

Tech blinked, looking up just as his brother caught him by the throat and hurled him into the wall. 

Hunter, Echo, and Rex jumped. "Wrecker, what the hell?!" Hunter’s voice was tight, realizing very quickly that Wrecker was much too big to be fucking with when he was determined to hurt them.

"You're all in violation of Order 66! You're all traitors!" Wrecker snarled.

“The chip.” Shiani swallowed hard. Fuck.

He rushed the guys, who were scrambling for their blasters, when Shiani jumped on his back. Her arms locked tight around his neck, legs at his hips and her tentacles pinning his arms to his sides before he could get to his weapon. "Wrecker stop. Stop!" She tried to keep her voice level in his ear, clinging as he bucked and struggled to throw her off him. "This isn’t you. It’s the chip!"

She didn't want to hurt him. He was her friend, Tech's brother, but she couldn't let him hurt everyone else. So she hung on even as he threatened to tear every tendon she had with his strength. They’d wrestled before, but he seemed stronger now. Maybe it was because he didn’t care if he hurt her right now. When he finally wised up and slammed his back into the wall, she whimpered painfully. "Let go, bitch!"

"Don’t talk like that… in front of Baby Mega." She wheezed before resorting to drastic measures and sinking her teeth into the side of his neck. 

Wrecker yowled at the bite, slamming her into the wall twice more before his brothers hit him with several stun rounds and he finally went limp from the combination of shocks and venom. Shiani rolled off him and lay on her back, blinking up at the dingy durasteel ceiling until Hunter and Echo’s concerned faces appeared. "Hey. You okay?" The cyborg fretted.

"Ow." She mumbled, letting him help her upright and covering her mouth in the crook of her elbow. "He’s strong..."

"Yeah. Lemme see, kid." He pulled up the back of her shirt and winced at the immediate display of green coloring bruises. "Shit. I gotta check your ribs."

“Where’s Tech?” She winced. “Is he okay?”

"He's coming to." The captain sighed. "This is what I was worried about."

"Better here than Ord Mantell." Shiani grumbled as a cold scomp prodded her sore but surprisingly unbroken ribcage. "Wrecker’s gonna be itchy when he wake up… Sorry, didn't want to bite…"

"You did what you had to. We'll get him in the pod. You and Tech lay down for a minute." Hunter ordered. Echo helped her to the gurney Rex had dumped Tech in unceremoniously. She curled up against him, checking his neck as he came mostly back to consciousness.

"You okay?" She breathed, fingers moving against his newly acquired bruises. 

"I am mostly unharmed." He winced when he spotted the greening marks coming out from under her crop top. "I cannot say the same for you."

"Just bruises. I’ll be fine." She put her head against his shoulder, holding onto him worriedly. Tech just sighed and let her as the others dragged Wrecker into a pod and got to work on his head. 

"I should have anticipated this being a possibility, with what we knew of the chips and the trauma of that fight with the dianoga." He finally muttered. "But violence against any of us is still so far out of Wrecker’s nature…"

"Not Wrecker. The chip." Shiani mumbled, not lifting her head. "Wrecker’s gonna be upset when he realizes what he did. He didn’t want to hurt anyone… just like Crosshair."

"Wise words, cyar’ika." Tech put his chin on her head. Public displays were not his thing, but after almost getting murdered by his big little brother… maybe a cuddle was in order. They watched in silence as Wrecker’s procedure went through, him coming out unconscious. Echo went next, then Hunter. Rex explained the process as he worked the pod controls, Tech nodding and making notes on his datapad until it was his turn. "I'll be right back." He finally untangled himself begrudgingly from the siren’s limbs.

She nodded, hands squeezing his three times before finally letting go. I love you.

He smiled heedlessly and returned the gesture before he climbed into the pod. She knew he didn’t understand what it meant, but that was okay. She could pretend, and keep pretending as long as he came out of that pod safely.

Rex glanced over at the siren as she walked over to watch him go under. "He's gonna be fine."

"Better be. I’d fight the Melody and Harmony themselves for Tech." She smiled, standing beside him to watch Tech's face. Even if the scalpel moving towards him made her uncomfortable, she'd be right there next to him for every unpleasant moment. 

"That was brave, kid. Jumping on Wrecker like that." The captain commented after a minute. "You're no soldier, I'd expect you to freeze up."

"I promised… if I ever got off Kamino, I’d never let anything happen to my new family." She touched her chains lightly. "I was scared, yes. But being scared doesn’t mean stop. Chainbreakers were scared, but they kept going. I have to keep going too, for what really matters."

"I could use a fighter like you, you know. Against the Empire." He glanced back where Hunter was starting to wake up. "All of you would be a great asset."

"Hunter’s not going to take Baby Mega into war." She shook her head. "He wants better for her. And Tech won’t leave his brothers. I won’t leave Tech."

"That's a pity, but I get it. I don't like fighting another war… but for me, it's the right thing to do."

Shiani patted his back. "I know. You have brave hearts, and you’ll do what you can to help other clones. If we can, Hunter will probably let us help you sometimes. He has good hearts too, just other things to worry about now. A Mandalorian took one look at the scared little one and had to adopt them. I read about it, just like I read about those eyes on your helmet."

Rex chuckled. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

When Tech came out of the pod, Shiani climbed into the gurney with him and made herself into a backpack once again. Echo, now awake, nudged Hunter and smiled. "Girls are something else, vod."

"Yeah they are." Hunter agreed, looking over where Omega was sitting vigil by Wrecker and had refused to move. 

 They really were. And they deserved that loyalty in return… he'd overheard some of what Rex had said to Shiani. He knew what the captain was going to ask him. And Shiani had been right about his answer. 

Shiani was laying in front of Tech now, eyes closed as he gently ran his fingers down her bruised back and inspected it. They were still waiting for Wrecker to wake, but he'd assured everyone that the giant's vitals were stable. "Venom should wear off soon." She mumbled sleepily.

"Good. I will get you some bacta as soon as we return to the Marauder." He breathed. "This appears painful."

"Touching feels nice though." She smiled. Her head was pillowed on his bicep, and he'd kindly removed that armor to make it more comfortable for her. "I remember when you didn’t like touching."

"I generally do not. You are special." He paused. “I recognize that I am still less physically affectionate with you than you are with me.” He sounded like he was thinking. “Is that a siren trait?”

“We touch a lot. Some of our language is touch based.” She shrugged and winced at the motion. “We share feelings between touch and song. Especially strong emotions.”

“Such as?” He paused, fingers splayed across her scapula.

“Sharing grief. Comforting fear. Soothing anger. Showing love.” She hesitated on the last part, but decided she couldn’t lie. He didn’t have to think too hard about how she felt about him. They were only talking about sirens in general, right?

“I see.” He murmured. “I suppose it is a good thing I tolerate your touch better than most others. You are special, as I said.” His fingers went back to moving soothingly over her aching back.

"I like being special." She turned to look up at him. "Your neck okay?"

"Yes." He reassured her. 

Behind him, he heard a groan. Shiani turned back around to see Wrecker wake up slowly and put his hand on Omega's head where she napped fitfully in the chair beside him. 

Her eyes opened immediately. "Wrecker! You're okay!"

"Hey kid…" He blinked when she dove into his arms, hugging her impossibly gently for such a big man. "I'm sorry, Omega. I tried to stop it, I really did…"

"It wasn't your fault." She sniffled. "I'm just glad you're okay."

He rubbed his neck when he let her go, wincing at the sting and itch of the blackened siren bite. "Everyone else okay?"

"We’re okay." Shiani got up and walked over. "Sorry I bit you."

"I kinda deserved it." He shrugged sheepishly. He got a six limbed hug for his troubles. "I'm sorry, Shiani…"

"It wasn’t you. And the chip is gone now, so it's okay." She smiled, squishing his arm with her hands three times and giving him a wink when he looked at her. “You’re a good brother. I know that.” 

Beside her, Omega held up a handful of something sweet smelling. "The mission is over… we can't break tradition."

Wrecker nodded and took a piece of the offered snack before Omega offered one to Shiani. "What is this, Baby Mega?" The siren picked a piece up in her claws.

"Mantell Mix!" The girl grinned. 

Shiani blinked. "That explains the charges on our account from Cid." She popped the snack in her mouth. "You two eat lots of snacks."

"We can probably find something in this scrap to pay Cid off." Hunter sighed and walked over. "Good to have you back, Wrecker. Stop putting snacks on tab."

Wrecker just grinned weakly. "I'll make it up to you guys."

"You better." Echo huffed, but he was glad Wrecker was back to himself too. And when Omega gave him some Mantell Mix, he could kind of see the appeal. 

[actress4him]

The Shadow of Death - Soldier Boy AU - Part 1

This is the start of another Kamaria and Bruno (aka Brumaria) AU set in modern day. Not to be confused with the College AU, this one is my attempt at sticking a human Kamaria into something as close as I could get to Bruno’s canon story.

As always, the lovely and fabulous Bruno (aka Soldier Boy) belongs to the lovely and fabulous @painful-pooch , and is used with permission.

If anyone else wants to be tagged in the other parts of this AU or in other various future Kamaria fics, lmk!

Contains: lady whump, guns, dead body mention, mild blood, dislocation mention, restraints

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Part of her knew it would happen one day. The sudden bangs of doors being kicked in, the shouts and screams and staccato of gunfire. People in uniform spilling through the hallways of the only place she could call home, hunting down every last member and either putting them down or leading them away in cuffs.

But if Kamaria had given the idea any more thought, she would have imagined herself out among them, having to decide whether to throw up her hands or put up a fight. She’d never have envisioned herself listening to it all happen through a locked door, while she dangled from bleeding wrists with only her bare toes brushing the floor.

She probably should have. Sometimes it seems like she spends more time in this room than anywhere else.

Soon enough they inevitably discover the basement rooms. It’s only the footsteps in the hallway that keep her from jumping too hard when the door flies open with a sound like an explosion, slamming into the wall and bouncing back almost closed again. The man’s eyes widen with surprise when he sees her. She can’t help but automatically glare back at him.

She’s too helpless like this. Too exposed. Her tank top mocks her from the other side of the room, folded neatly next to her boots and a row of her knives. Roderick had insisted that she strip down to her sports bra before he’d taken the strap to her, and now this man is staring at far too much bare skin for her liking. And she doesn’t know if she has the energy to try and fight him from this position if he starts coming too close.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” the man says after stepping further into the room and pointing his gun into every corner. He’s white with a tan from working outdoors, with blue eyes and a scruffy brown beard. More importantly, though, he’s wearing military garb.

They’ve caught that kind of attention, hm?

“I’m here to help you, okay?”

Oh. He thinks she’s a victim.

He definitely won’t be helping her if he finds out who she actually is.

“I’m gonna get you down from there.” He holsters his gun and circles around behind her, giving her a wide berth, but she’s still anxious about not being able to see him anymore.

A moment later she hears the clank of the pulley being released, and she’s lowered slowly onto her feet, arms finally allowed to come down in front of her. Her shoulders ache, but at least they both stayed in socket this time. Immediately she turns to face him, though he’s already coming back around to the front.

“You alright? Can you stand okay?” He looks her over, hands slightly outstretched as if she’s about to fall and he’s planning on catching her. When she continues to simply stare at him, obviously standing just fine, he nods and looks around the room. “Okay, I’m gonna find the key for those cuffs, just give me a minute.”

The room is littered with chains and ropes and various tools of punishment. Unless he gets lucky, it’ll take him far more than a minute, and she can’t really go anywhere until he does.

“They’re right there.” Lifting her manacled hands, she points to where Roderick dropped them.

“Ah.” He gives her a sideways glance, expression unreadable, before crossing over to where she pointed and scooping up the key ring.

It takes everything in her to silently hold out her hands and let this stranger - this soldier - unlock the cuffs. As soon as her wrists are free, though, she snatches the keys from his hand without warning, bending to release her own ankles. He makes some small noise in response that might simply be surprise, but almost sounds like a laugh.

“Are you injured anywhere?”

The inflamed skin on her back burns where she’s stretching it. Straightening, she deposits the keys back in his hand without a word and walks past him to the bench where her belongings are waiting.

“How long have they kept you here?”

She can feel his eyes digging into her from behind. Whether he’s taking in the red welts the strap left behind, or the myriad of old scars beneath them, who knows. Her back is one of the few expanses of skin that remains untouched by ink. Any tattoos she put there would just get ruined. Her back has always been Roderick’s canvas, not her own.

Before he can look any harder, she yanks the shirt off the bench and quickly pulls it over her head.

“You might not want to put that on, you could aggravate -”

She tugs the hem down to her waist and moves on to her boots.

“Right.” He huffs what is definitely a laugh this time. “Okay, Miss ‘I Don’t Need Any Help’, you obviously don’t want my advice. But you’ve just been through something traumatic, so I’m not gonna just leave you alone. As soon as you get dressed I’ll take you outside, there’s an ambulance waiting where you can get checked out, see if you need to go to the hospital.”

If she doesn’t take any of these knives with her, it’s the last time she’ll ever see them. This place is now a crime scene, and everything important in it will be confiscated by…whoever is heading this operation. She can’t load all of them up without Soldier Boy getting suspicious, though, so she slips one into each boot as she puts them on, plus one more into a hidden pocket in her pants. The rest will have to stay. They’re clean, at least, she’s confident of that. There won’t be anything to trace back to her.

“After that we’ll need to get your statement. We knew that Alaric Greaves was guilty of a lot of crimes, but I personally didn’t know that kidnapping was one of them. Not sure anyone else did, either.”

Kamaria hasn’t worked under the thumb of a crime lord for fourteen years without learning her rights. Finished lacing the last boot, she turns and faces him with a sigh. “You don’t need my statement. Obviously you already have enough on these guys to raid the place and arrest them, so I’ll be going now.”

Maybe it’s because she’s finally speaking more than three words, or maybe he isn’t used to women contradicting him, but the man looks taken aback. To his credit, he recovers quickly. “We don’t need your statement to arrest them, no. But the more charges we can bring against him, the less likely he is to walk. Besides, don’t you want justice for what they did to you?”

“No.” She’s seeking justice for something far more important. What happens to her in the meantime is of little consequence.

Pushing past him, Kamaria exits the room. Her own tiny little bedroom is right there, conveniently located next door to the punishment room, but she has to pretend that she doesn’t live here if she wants to continue leaving freely. There isn’t much in there, anyway. A couple of changes of clothes, a few more weapons. Nothing personal.

The soldier hurries out right behind her, which, while a bit annoying, is probably a good thing. She’ll need an escort to make sure she’s not arrested or shot on the way out, and with him eager to help she won’t have to go through too much trouble pretending she isn’t familiar with the layout of the place.

“Here, we can go out this way.” He ushers her forward and she strides away, reluctantly making sure to pause at each junction until he can tell her which way to go. Soon they start passing other soldiers, most milling around and digging through the various rooms, a couple still finishing up cuffing the people they’d taken down. In one room she sees two dead bodies out of the corner of her eye, blood pooled around them. She can’t tell from the distance who it is, nor does she really care.

Though if one of them is Roderick, she’d be more than okay with that.

It’s a strange sight, coming out into the sunshine and seeing military vehicles strewn all over the street and yard. She’s basically watching everyone’s worst nightmare unfold. Somehow it makes her want to laugh aloud, even though her plans are crumbling around her just as much as the rest. Disbelief, she supposes. Sometime later today this will all sink in and she’ll be left floundering and trying to figure out what’s next.

“Can you tell me your name, at least?”

She pretends not to hear him, skirting along the edge of the building, trying not to openly stare at the van where one of the lower cronies is being loaded. Her father might already be in there. Or maybe he got his own, personal vehicle and was quickly whisked away. She’s pretty sure he was present for the raid, at least, and he wouldn’t have tried to fight.

Soldier Boy has fallen behind, talking to one of his comrades, probably explaining how he found this poor, hapless victim chained up in the basement. He probably fancies himself a hero. Whatever, if he wants the ego boost that’s no real harm to her. She doesn’t plan on ever seeing him again in order for him to rub the ‘rescue’ in her face.

“Look.” He grabs her arm to stop her and she whirls around, jerking it back out of his grasp, just barely refraining from pulling a knife on him.

His hands go up and he takes a step backwards. “Sorry. But you really need to come let the paramedics take a look at you, at least. And I know you don’t want to talk about what happened to you, it’s tough. But you could help make sure he’s put away for good.”

There’s so much about his spiel that’s laughable, she wouldn’t even know where to start. She has no plans of indulging him with a response, anyway, if for no other reason than she’s already lingering too long. She can’t help another sideways glance at the van. Are they watching? Are they wondering why she’s walking free, why she’s talking with the enemy?

She needs to shake this man and get out of here.

He must follow her gaze, because he looks at the van, too. His expression creases, then softens. “Are you afraid they’ll come after you?”

The question is so startlingly close to the truth that she immediately blurts out, “No.” Scowling, she takes a step back, arms crossed, hoping to make it abundantly clear that she wants him to leave her alone. “Listen, I don’t need anything that you’re suggesting. All I need is to go.” She takes two more steps away, eyes narrowed, daring him to keep following her.

He heaves a sigh, crossing his own arms. “Fine. I can’t force you. But I’ll need your name in case they need to get in contact with you for the investigation. I can’t let you leave until you give me that.”

“What are you going to do if I don’t…shoot me?”

The man starts to say something else, but she doesn’t bother listening. Spinning around, Kamaria walks quickly away from her home, her father, and the people who finally brought him down.

For now.

[xviruserrorx]

Title: "So Discarded So Disgraced"

This is just a fic to go along with my Edit that I made for the poly Ship Day thingy because brain worms wouldn't leave where they have become imbedded. Anyway enjoy!! (Please read ALL the warnings before continuing!)

Poly Ship Day - Tumblr | Ao3 - [Prev <- • -> Next]

Fandom: BBC Merlin

Prompt(s): De-stress

Relationship(s): Gwaine/Lancelot/Morgana Pendragon

Character(s): Gwaine, Lancelot, Morgana Pendragon

Important Tag(s): Canon Divergence, Hurt Lancelot, Hurt Gwaine, Protective Gwaine, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt no comfort, Referenced Dubious Consent, Evil Morgana (don't take this as me hating the character please), No Beta We Die Like The Rat That Got Made Into Stew

Rating: Mature (more so Teen & Up but because of the subjects that are referenced/talked about I felt more comfortable tagging this as mature)

Warning(s): No Archive Warnings Apply, referenced violence, blood, bruises, abuse, Stockholm Syndrome

Word Count: 1,403

"Nothing will change any of this." Gwaine gently grabbed his wrist of that hand, tilting his head and kissing the inside of his palm. "Then we have each other." "And Morgana?" "She's here too. She's not so soft though." Lancelot shook his head. "Nor rough." "Balance each other out then don't we?" Or Kidnapped, Lancelot and Gwaine find comfort in one another but... they're not so illy inclined to Morgana either.

Continue reading below or over on Ao3

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Lancelot felt his body move, a shift bringing him to try and open his eyes. Failing at first against his sleepy haze, he tried again, using the rustling noise he heard to latch onto and drag him out to find out where it was coming from.

He immediately became aware of the cold weightlessness beside him and looked around for the person he knew had lied there.

"My lady?"

Morgana stood at the end of the bed, slipping her dress over her shoulder and smoothing it out, no more than a glance spared towards him as she muttered a firm, "stay."

He did as told as she left the room leaving him and a sleeping Gwaine, alone, and only source of covering, the thick furs still draped over the both of them.

Waiting till the doors were shut and he was sure she left for good, he looked to the other man still asleep. He knew he needed the rest but a part of him didn't want to lie there alone in his thoughts.

He bit his lip. "Gwaine," he called, hitting the bed when he didn't stir much.

"Hm?" He hummed.

He waited for him to open his eyes more and look at him before cocking his head in the direction of the empty spot between them and the door.

Gwaine lifted his head and looked around the room. "Gone?"

He nodded. He reached for his hand and stopped, resting his hand on the bed a touch away from his. 

Gwaine looked over at him.

"Come here?" He asked.

He nodded. "Give me a second."

He watched as Gwaine slowly pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Marks of all sizes, small cuts, scuffs, to large slices made purposely, littered across his skin. Bruises, as though paint on his canvased skin, were an array of colors of old to new to a light red that he knew would lay future bruises till they were allowed to heal over, or not at all.

Lancelot almost wished his body mirrored Gwaine's, to share his pain and feel the same level of responsibility of shared harm. But it didn't. The most his body reflected was the consequences of wearing manacles for hours to days on end, rings of bruises and scars lining his neck, wrist, and ankles. Fingernails and fingertips were all the same with little damage he caused himself from clawing and pulling at chains and metal till the pain became an equally drowning numbness.

Gwaine winced as he stretched out the small nap they both had, favoring his left side as the right was stained black with a broken rib Lancelot knew was hidden underneath.

"I thought that was healing?" He spoke when he heard Gwaine attempt to take a few extra deep breaths.

He chuckled. "It was." He turned, and looked at him. "Don't worry about it, you were asleep." He smiled past his grimace and leaned back, falling onto his good side to be laying close looking up at Lancelot.

He looked at Gwaine, smile and all, despite anything being such a warrant to smile. He reached out, gently pulling the front lock of hair away from the rest of his hair and playing with it.

"Maybe… it was your fault." He dawdled the idea he knew was wrong that thinking it hurt him, but saying it was all the worse.

"Maybe," Gwaine agreed. "I'll take the blame."

"Just to do it again?"

"Just to do it again," he repeated. His smile never once falling past his words.

Lancelot wrapped the lock of hair loosely around his finger, letting it unravel before doing it again. "Maybe it's my fault."

"No.…" Gwaine softly shook his head.

He scoffed. "You do something wrong, you get hurt. I do something wrong, you still get hurt." 

"But it's not you."

He dropped his hand. "You can't take the blame for both of us."

"I can and I have," he stated once again, his words leaving no room for any argument.

"And if I disagree?"

Gwaine brought his fingers to Lancelot's hand and brushed them across his palm. "It won't do anything to change us."

"Us?" Lancelot asked.

"Me, you, and…." The absence of body and his word made her presence all the more known.

As if that was too much, Lancelot shook his head, sitting up and waiting as Gwaine followed his move.

"Just stop fighting back." He wanted to beg, to plead with him not to do anything else to get hurt, but he knew how little begging, no matter how much done, was futile.

"You like it when I fight back," Gwaine joked. Holding his side as his breath picked up from the sudden movement.

Lancelot grimaced. "Gwaine…" 

There was a sigh.

"She likes it," Gwaine corrected himself. "And you…" he brought his hand up, a finger brushing Lancelot's lower cheek. His eyes wandered and graced every feature as a smile made its way to his face. "You make everything better."

Gwaine leaned in, his finger going with the rest as his hand wrapped the back of his neck, thumb resting now on his lower jaw as he pulled him in the remaining distance, lips meeting with gentle utterance.

The kiss, like a gasp of air after suffocating, Lancelot took it in all at once. Every touch, making itself deeper and known, with no worry of harm attached at Gwaine's expense.

But Lancelot dared very little to even so much as to misplace a hair on his head. He knew every move, every breath, and every touch would ache through Gwaine's body, with sight of every mark and bruise or simply the memory of what was once there.

Lancelot braced his arms back on the bed as Gwaine pushed more into the kiss. Both out of breath, they broke for a second before continuing. Lancelot now returned some of the force Gwaine used and earned a small groan from the other man, from pleasure or pain being beyond what he could fathom.

Both of their lips were dry and cracked. The corner of Lancelot's lower lip was chewed up where he'd gotten into the habit of worrying it when he waited with his back to the door and Morgana and Gwaine on the other side. 

A stinging sensation evident as they continued on.

And Gwaine's were still slightly swollen from the busted lip that was only a few days into healing. The corner of his mouth barely passed a scab from where it was cut and the newest wound, only a day old. 

That one evident as Lancelots felt the rough edge of the scab press into his own lip. 

The cut that had been purposely made with a sharp small dagger at a meal, a memory he couldn't remember past the scene of blood pouring down Gwaine's mouth and chin, blood that seemed to last hours but was a matter of minutes.

He pulled back and broke the kiss, that memory at the forefront as a wave of nausea tidal waved over him.

Gwaine pulled back, eyebrows furrowed with concern written all over.

Lancelot hated it. He raised up his hand, thumb coming to his lip as he rubbed at the scab rougher than he planned.

Gwaine winced.

"Nothing will change any of this."

Gwaine gently grabbed his wrist of that hand, tilting his head and kissing the inside of his palm. "Then we have each other." 

"And Morgana?"

"She's here too." Another kiss. "She's not so soft though." He rubbed his thumb across the scarred bruised skin around his wrist, barely brushing past to leave any sort of feeling.

Lancelot shook his head. "Nor rough."

Gwaine scoffed out a small laugh. "Balance each other out then don't we?" He cocked that grin of his, waiting for the wanted inevitable as Lancelot began to close in.

Though that never came.

They both startled as the double doors swung open, two guards at the doors as Morgana walked through. One guard behind her handed her a small pile of clothes, that of which he tossed towards the both of them.

"Get changed."

"My lady?" Lancelot spoke.

She tossed both of their swords and swords belts down onto the edge of the bed. "Ready to prove yourselves?"

He looked at Gwaine then back to Morgana. Unsurety creeping under his skin as Gwaine wrapped his hand tighter and tighter around his.

[jaeltree]

What made you pick up this character? And would you say that your portrayal is canon divergent or not?

The fact that he scared me as a little kid, and that I fell in love with his character when I rediscovered the Aladdin series as a teenager. I... hjchytf he's just a really fun character to watch and write. Stylish, sassy, kinda creepy, dangerous... he checks all the boxes!

I also try to stay as close to canon as possible, but he's kinda canon divergent. For one, I hate how he repeatedly strangled Xerxes in the series, and I never understood why some villains were shown mistreating their pets/familiars. Yes, it's used as a tool to show the villain's cruelty for beating on the helpless, but to me it doesn't make sense why a magic user would abuse theirs. Especially if the animal is an extension of their power, status and authority. And as an animal lover, myself, animal cruelty is a no-go.

Two, I would say I normally try and get him to act more like a conceited noble, since he is a noble. He's the lord of his land. But the show doesn't really expand on that other than him introducing himself as a lord, and mentioning he owns the Black Sands and that's it. My Mozenrath is proud to be a lord, and he'll wave his social status around whenever he likes.

Three, we're told that Mozenrath does his homework when it comes to anything magic adjacent; whether it be creatures, artefacts, or his inventions/improvements. We even see a few glimpses of him researching. He'll explain how that particular artefact works, how this type of magical contraption will capture/extract so-and-so, and oh, do you see those anti-magic collar and manacles over there that he inVeNtEd~~?? He's not-so-subtly been hinted at as being innovative and ready to learn as much as he can. So, I write him as wanting to further his academic knowledge and understanding of science and magical theory by engaging in good faith conversation with other expert practitioners, as one aspect of his research. Even if it does involve beliefs or morality he doesn't live by or agree with. And in general, if he likes what he hears, he'll find a way to incorporate it into his own work/practice.