#fae caretaker

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 268

Fright Knight sighs, running a clawed hand through his hair in an attempt to stop the flames from flickering into being. It had been far too long since he had taken a human-ish form. His human-ish form. Ugh. He didn’t exactly care for his human form after so long as a ghost, but needs must he supposed. 

Especially with the whole, we’re going to punch a backdoor into the literal daycare part of the Infinite Realms and be surprised when literal toddlers go exploring. 

Well, at least it got him off of guard duty for a bit, which was relieving. Not that he didn’t love the darkness, but it got boring in the shadow of his sword for literal centuries with nothing else happening. He was a warrior for Realm’s sake! Borderline an Ancient in both power and age! He wasn’t meant to stay so still for so long. 

So while ghostling wrangling wasn’t exactly in his area of expertise, he could definitely gather them back up to the Realms. And deal with the curs who had decided to attack literal babies. 

The Daycare area was already understaffed due to just how large it was, and the one in charge of this section had practically sobbed to the Council (In another world they would have been put on hold for a century in line for their concerns, and then more once a Sarcophagus was opened, but they had told the other ghosts in distress, causing others to let them go up in said line) how they were almost certain they had felt at least one core form Outside the realms thanks to the breach. 

Which had understandably put everyone at an uproar. 

So here he was slipping between shadows to do reconnaissance and take stock of if any Ghostlings had left the city. And gently scruffing those he comes across in exasperation because what are you doing, ghostling? Look at the mess, what would your caretaker say? 

[a-class-attempter]

Whumper is a fae creature and they decided to curse Whumpee for daring to free their captive human.

The curse makes the victim to feel an intense itching sensation in the skin. This causes the victim to uncontrollably scratch until they break skin. Once the skin splits, a flower blooms in place of the skin. This spreads throughout the whole body until the victim is nothing but flesh beneath a bush of beautiful flora. If the flowers are removed, they grow back, and it is quite painful for the victim. Similar to pulling hair or nails out.

Whumpee tells their friends to tie them up so they can’t scratch while their friends search for a cure. But when Whumpee doesn’t scratch, the flowers force themselves through their skin anyway. One night, it happens in Whumpee’s mouth. They can no longer speak and can barely breathe. They have to communicate with their friends with their eyes, and all their friends can see is pain and terror. Whumpee’s friends desperately search for a cure, Caretaker searching the hardest, barely sleeping or eating.

Another night passes and the friends find Whumpee’s eye on the ground, replaced with bloody flowers in their eye socket. They can hear Whumper trying to sob but barely any sound comes out.

Eventually, Caretaker makes a deal with the fae. They sacrifice the freedom of one of Whumpee’s friends to save Whumpee.

This friend is turned into the fae’s personal pet and Whumpee, though free from the curse, is hammered with guilt for the loss of their friend and the whole group splits because of Caretaker’s actions.

Caretaker knows what they did was right. Friend wasn’t exactly an angel and Caretaker loved Whumpee more than anything and couldn’t bear to part with them. And Whumpee would learn that. Soon enough.

[smileysuh]

it's the way I legit just got in my first motorcycle crash with my boyfriend, got out of that ditch completely unscaled, with not so much as a broken nail 💅 and I'm right back to writing smut not four hours later so I can get out this month's fics 😂

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #18

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: domestic abuse

Kit escorted David inside.

“I shouldn’t be here,” David mumbled. “I should go home.”

“Hush,” soothed Kit. “You’ll feel better after some food.”

The servant’s entrance was less crowded, but the hall where the staff ate was full of people. Eyes landed on him and David, and he tried not to make contact with any of them.

David sniffed as they sidestepped the crowd, and Kit grabbed a napkin for his tears. He grabbed two plates of food for them as they sat in a corner.

“I don’t know what to do,” David whispered, picking at his meal.

Kit took a sip of his water. He was already finished; and his stomach yearned to ask if David was going to eat the rest of his food. He should probably eat another nighttime meal later if he didn’t want to wake up hungry.

“Why not stay in the castle? There’s servants quarters. Surely there’s space.”

“I can’t just abandon him.” David put his fork down, hanging his head. “What would Mom say?”

Kit didn’t know much about mothers and fathers. He was a proximity child, raised communally, but he knew this was wrong.

“I don’t think your mother would want you to stay with someone who hurts you.”

“He’s my father,” David weakly protested.

“What does it matter? He hits you. He takes your money. Family isn’t always good for you.”

“He’s sick!”

Kit hesitated. He didn’t know if humans died of grief like fae could, and perhaps David’s father was afflicted. “Sick with what?”

David shook his head. “He drinks, and loses his temper. It’s not his fault.”

“It isn’t your fault either.”

David worried his lip. “It isn’t your fault,” Kit repeated.

“I- If I were a better son-”

“Don’t say that,” Kit said, firm. “You are a good son. You love your father. You’ve been taking care of him.” He reached for David’s hand, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles over his hand. “He hasn’t been a good father to you.”

David sobbed, his hand coming up to hide his face. “He’s going to be so mad at me,” he wept. “He’ll hurt me.”

Kit hummed low and soft. “I won’t let him,” he said. “Mistress won’t let him.”

“As if you could stop him,” David muttered bitterly.

“What?”

“You- I mean,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry. I was going to say something rude. I didn’t mean it.”

Kit’s gut twisted. He knew what David was thinking.

 If you couldn’t protect yourself, how could you protect him?

“It’s o-” Kit choked on the lie squeezing his throat. He took a sip of water to wash it out.

“I forgive you,” he said instead, the pain settling down to a dull throb.

David took one of the napkins to wipe his face, gingerly avoiding his black eye. “Her- her majesty knows?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I told her someone was hurting you. I didn’t tell her anything else.”

“Okay.” 

They sat in silence, the roar of the room filling in the lapse.

“Would you like to come to my room?” asked Kit. “You might relax more there.”

“Okay.”

___________________

The hallways were mostly clear, as everyone was at lunch. Only a few guards were posted, and a bad feeling weighed in his mind like a stone when he realized how few of them they had passed.

His intuition was rarely wrong.

They rounded a corner, and in the hall was a lone man. A stranger.

David stopped up short behind him. David’s breath caught in his throat, and Kit knew this was his father.

He was almost the same height as Kit, with a head of graying hair and a thin build. Kit could smell the alcohol coming off of him in waves, mixed with stale sweat.

He must have come in from a side entrance. Perhaps a guard had recognized him as David’s dad, and thought he was harmless enough.

David whimpered behind him, and the man turned. He was sober, guessed Kit, based on his eyes and posture. A rare occurrence from what David had told him.

“David!” he said, a smile on his face. “There you are. I was so worried when you weren’t at the house.”

“Dad? Are you… okay?” David stepped out from behind Kit, tremble gone.

“Of course, bud.” The man’s eyes wandered to the small sack in David’s hands. “Are you okay? Some of your things are missing.” 

Kit narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe the man’s concern was based in worry for his son, but rather for himself.

“Uh- yeah-”

David’s father advanced on them, his stride controlled underneath the relaxed veneer.

“Are you… moving out, son?” his voice was tight and unnerving.

“W-well,” David stuttered. “I just thought- I mean, I’m an adult now, and-”

The man kept coming, and Kit stepped forward.

The stranger drew up short. “Excuse me,” he said. “Step aside.”

“No.”

The man stared at him. “I’m only trying to talk to my kid.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“What the hell do you know?” snapped the man, his temper flaring.

“Dad, please,” David pleaded.

The man turned on David. “Did this faerie try and convince you to leave? Huh?!”

David stepped back. He shook his head. “No-”

David’s father stepped forward, raised a hand-

Kit dove in front of David, shoving the boy behind him.

The blow landed across his face.

David gasped, and Kit felt himself leave his own body, as if watching from far away.

David’s father started shouting at him, but a high-pitched buzzing in his head drowned out the words.

He could feel the sting on his cheek, and he could barely make out David clutching at the back of his shirt.

Tears ran down Kit’s face, but no sound left his throat. He could hardly breathe.

“Answer me!” screamed the man in his face, and spit landed on his shirt. He couldn’t move.

“What the hell?” said a guard from the end of the hall, and sensation rushed back into Kit’s body. He stumbled back, sucking in air.

David’s father started making excuses, and Kit couldn’t be bothered to listen. The guard’s eyes flicked between the three of them. Her gaze landed on David’s black eye, Kit’s burning cheek, and David’s father’s furious expression.

She drew up tall. “You need to leave,” she informed him. “Or you’re under arrest for assault and trespassing.”

“Assault?” he sputtered. “I was disciplining my son! It’s not my fault this creature got in the way!”

“Leave,” the guard pressed. “I’ve warned you once; you won’t get another.”

The man turned on David. “Your mother would be disgusted with you,” he spat. “I hope you’re happy. Don’t bother coming home.”

He turned and stalked away, the guard escorting him out.

David broke down, his hands on his knees, hunched over and his breath quick and shallow.

Kit watched helplessly, his own breathing irregular.

“I- oh god-” David clutched his chest. “I’m dying.”

“No,” Kit said, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. “You’re panicking.”

“Oh,” laughed David hysterically. “Is that all?”

Kit pulled at his arms, helping him stand. “Come one. You can sit on the couch in my room.”

David nodded, and shakily followed him deeper into the castle.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1 @cupcakes-and-pain @loserwithsyle @cepheusgalaxy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@hellodecisionparalysis @bitchaknso @starfields08000 @honeycollectswhump

@why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @currentlyinthesprial

[angrelysimpping]

what would briar bailey eden and remy do if they found a fairy pc

oh my god SO

Contents: bodily harm; farm shit; Eden being the fucker we all know and love; dubcon; probably noncon tbh

standard "Fairy"

small

tiny

oh so little

wings

Bailey

weird

fuck it, they don't care, not really

just wants to figure out how to make money off the situation

otherwise, they couldn't give a shit

are there more of these fuckers? do they have to, like, call pest control or something?

Briar

oh interesting

they're sure they can use you in the brothel

surely there's some perverts out there willing to pay a pretty penny to see something like you, maybe even try to fuck something like you

and you're oh so tiny, can you really fight anyone off?

don't think they're not above clipping your wings

Eden

rip fairy pc

threatens to clip your wings a lot, will do it

this fucker will rip your wings off if you keep leaving them

doesn't like you leaving the cabin, like, at all

will okay you going into the clearing around their cabin after a while but keeps an eye on you

has to really like you to even bother with keeping you, tbh

a lot of work goes into keeping your tiny ass safe and Eden has a lot on their plate already

Remy

Alex's Farm

lol

the fuck is this?

they're going to have their men target you during raids

crush you literally

Farm

lol

also tries to make money off you

you produce fairy dust like tinker bell from the disney version of peter pan? prepared to get shaken up every night

tries to cow-ify you

fairy cow, cute

would like to keep you in like, a jar on their person, i think?

show you off, yknow?

this could be my wishful thinking, though

def has Harper look over you

keeps you quarantined for a while from the other farm goers, just in case

also a wing clipper

Riding School

what???

no, they're not teaching you???

go away????

you're gonna get crushed and they're not dealing with that mess

The Fae

can't lie

can't touch iron

shouldn't accept their gifts

doesn't like being told "thank you"

name stealer

Bailey

oh, they do not wanna get near you

tries not to interact with you as much as possible

wears iron

fuck you

they don't want to deal with fae contracts and they're doing their best not to

but, well, they will if they can make a good bit of money off it

but they're not enjoying it for a single second

Briar

tbh, i think they'd like it

they like trying to outwit you, make loopholes for themself

wants you to work at the brothel, of course

pretty thing like you, you'll attract crowds

doesn't mind too much if you trick customers but don't drag them and the brothel into it

you make a contract with a customer? you take their name? well, that's on them

don't steal their money tho

Eden

knows a good deal about the fae

careful around you, wears iron for a long time until they trust you

this does not stop them from fucking you, btw. iron chain across their neck burning against your skin as it hangs down while Eden is on top of you, iron rings stinging against your thighs where their fingers squeeze

keeps iron across the doors and windows until they trust you, too

Remy

also knows a bunch about the fae

Alex, Eden, and Remy know the most about the fae, i think

not in that order

mmmm

Eden and Remy might be tied, but maybe Eden a little over Remy

then Alex

(maybe Sydney after that, from reading purely though, they don't believe any of it)

Alex's Farm

oh, fuck you

hates having to deal with you

doesn't want to even talk to you

again, has their men target you during raids

they want you out of the picture, asap

Farm

breaking in cattle speed run

don't fucking talk to them

will lose their shit if you escape

wears iron

has iron around your stall

so pleased if you become an obedient beastie

your milk is so sweet, so thick and creamy

the best of the best

might keep you extra close to them, just in case

Riding School

no

wants to refuse service

can't figure out a polite way to do so

lets you in as a student but tries to keep their interactions with you to an absolute minimum

[anulithots]

My dear, you are so perfectionistic it's eating you up inside.

My dear, your emotions fluctuate and that is okay, they are not to be managed and controlled, analyzed to tiny pieces, cut up with a knife so they may be 'right'. The more difficult, the icky ones which clog and clump over every available area are not to be scraped away so the remaining edges are raw and bloodied. It is okay, it is okay, little one, to let them remain and let them be. Beasts of sorts. That's what they are, behemoths to be observed from afar

My dear, not every word has to be presentable, not every action and every expression and every day of lazy butterflies must be boxed so a bow of loose glitter may be placed atop. You are allowed to exist. You are not a waste of space. For the stars, black holes, galaxies and colorful nothings fill it, yet the space remains regardless of its wonders. You are not what you can give, nor do you give little. This does not justify your existence because your life does not need justification.

My dear, what is this life if not a collection? Why must you gather all the lights and scatter them across the aesthetic pages of a worn sketchbook and call that worthwhile? Why when it brings you nothing but burnt hands and a sky without its stars. Is there not something poetic within this, icky and almost-disgusting as it may be? Does there need to be poetry in this? Ah, I see you write this down but even so does it need to be in fancy words? Is there not something beautiful in it when you step away for a moment to gaze upon what has amassed?

My dear, this body has emotions and those emotions fluctuate and what is it if not a dance of sorts? Breathe and let yourself rest. It is okay.

[whumporama]

Hello! Sorry to bother you if this isn’t your thing, but do you have any ideas or prompts for a Fair Folk whumpee? Perhaps with a human caretaker, if you don’t mind?

Thank you kindly in advance!

Oh yesss (though forgive me if it's not accurate, because how Fair Folk work seem to be different depending on which source you check...)

Just imagine a human caretaker who doesn't know what to do, because they don't know exactly what they're dealing with. Maybe they try to patch up their wounds, but they use iron tools and only hurt Whumpee more.

Maybe the Whumpee slowly gets poisoned by the human world, as they don't belong here. Caretaker tries to help them heal and get them back, but they don't know how. Whumpee tries to help, but their condition gets worse and worse, until they're not making sense anymore. They're calling out names that Caretaker doesn't know, begging for help. Caretaker can't ask anyone else for help either, as that would put Whumpee in danger.

Adding to that, maybe caretaker can delay Whumpee's poisoning by getting them magical objects, just to get them some more magic from their world, so they can hang on.

Maybe Caretaker is hiding Whumpee from human who want to hurt them. Caretaker struggling between taking care of Whumpee, and also keeping them hiding.

Or Caretaker and Whumpee do not trust each other, but Caretaker won't let Whumpee suffer either. So they help, but the distrust between the two is making it difficult.

Or maybe Whumpee really needs help or they die, but Caretaker knows how dangerous Whumpee's kind is. So they will only help if Whumpee agrees to a deal, so they're bound by their word. Whumpee hates it, but they have no choice. (Does this backfire later?)

[loverofwhump216]

Series: Cafae Latte (tiktok)

Title: Taking Care Of Cyrus

Characters: Cyrus (he/him, fairy), Bob (she/her, fairy), Patrick (he/him, werewolf) Jennifer 'JC' Charles (they/them, human)

Summary: After the fairy circle is broken, Cyrus collapses and has to be taken to the hospital. SickFic

[wispy-candyshop]

Violeta, The Caretaker of Spring "Only Summer intrudes on Springtide, I push away lingering winter Fae who hide, and lead the land of wild to a flourishing ride."

Her glamoured form(left) is complete finally, only been a year near to the date. Her fae form(right) has been done for a while.

Her bio is complete too!

[xeneric-shrooms]

🍓fr ask game!

🍓Biggest dragon in your lair (based on in-game sizes) and biggest dragon in your lair (based on lore sizes

In terms of ON-SITE size Cassette here would be my largest with a Length of 30.99m and a Wingspan of 18.52m

But for lore/headcanon my dragon PlanetaryFizzANYWAYS

In lore PlanetaryFizz (name given to it by the head scientist) is the largest

It's a transdimensional entity that infiltrated the Aether Orbiter and assumed the appearance of the Aethers inside. It's not malignant, but it's not overly friendly. You could approach it but it's very dangerous to, it could kill you in an instant.

It's held in some sort of cell in the laboratory and is being studied. The head scientist, Hollunuo, has appointed himself the task of understanding this... Thing.

It's driving him mad though. At first he thought the cell actually contained the entity, but he quickly realized that no. The entity is staying in there willingly. It can leave whenever it wants to.

(↑↑This guy right here↑↑)

PlanetaryFizz' true size is unknown, but after the Orbiter returned to Sornieth and the entity was taken to the lab it grew in size. Significantly. It's about the size of a 3–4 story house currently.

[feral-fae-writes]

Remove with a Cleft, Rewire the Dread || Trompe l'oeil

A/N: I was peer-pressured into posting this. Just as well, because lighting a fire under my ass is the only way to get my brain to cooperate. This was difficult for me to write, but nothing easy is worth doing. Features my OC and @anotherdayinchuckletown's OC, Olivia. As always, enjoy, or don't; I don't know how fucked up y'all are. Again, Minors DNI, please.

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Courtland Gentry x Female!OC, Sierra Six x Female!OC

Wordcount: 6,508

Type: Multi-Parter

Rating: Mature Content / 18+ || tw: whump, injury, torture, non-con, imprisonment, sexual assault, hospitalization, homicide, evil doppelgänger, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

Summary: Creatures of the ash, ghosts he thought were long dead, come back to haunt Courtland Gentry. It was foolish to think that he could run — ironic, given his line of work — and it was foolish for him to not trust his instincts, and now the consequences were rippling out, and blood was mixed with water. And it was all because of him, and she could see no one else.

Trompe l'oeil

It wasn’t meant to happen like this. She wasn’t supposed to get hurt. Six was the one that always got hurt, that was his role. An asset, a weapon — a grey man. Disposable. All he could do was wait; he’d fought to keep her with him, but she’d been dragged away to another part of the damn prison compound, and it was like a maze race, and Six was Algernon, and he couldn’t even get to the starting line. 

Shit. Shit!

Six slammed the weight of his whole body against the bars of the cell, and let out a scream of rage. He was bloody, and — he had to admit, beaten — and he didn’t even have his usual ingenuity on hand. He knew how he thought; it was in his blood. He’d taken her, stolen her senses from her too, and was doing God knew what. He hoped, he prayed, but he knew how deep the poison ran. He could only imagine — and imagination was often so much worse.

------------------------------------------------------

He’d removed her blindfold. His painfully iron grip around her was secure, and still familiar; it looked like him, but it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him at all — but it was his touch, it was his lips, his hands, voice, body… but it wasn’t him at all. She didn’t know what to think anymore.

“Please…” She whimpered, nails digging into his arms, “please stop…” “I thought I said you weren’t allowed to talk. I’ll have to torture you more for that.”

She vehemently shook her head in abject fear, then, in spite of herself, the begging fell from her lips.

“No, no, no, no…”

“Punishment it is, then.” Her cries of agony echoed throughout the entire building, pure anguish given a pitiful, hoarse voice. Thinking wasn’t an option. She had to retreat within herself, had to find some way to cope, to survive. The pieces of her could be picked up later.

------------------------------------------------------

When she was finally thrown into the cell beside him, in the dim light, he breathed a tentative sigh of relief. At least she was within his line of sight. He’d heard everything through the walls, faint echoes of every moan and sob and sound of pain from her mouth. He felt a strange sort of shame; even though he knew he wasn’t the one responsible, his expression crumpled. He never wanted to hear that pain coming from her mouth, but he had no choice but to listen.

Now, she was completely silent, her eyes glassy and dissociative. Unresponsive. She pitifully crawled to one corner of her cell, dragging one leg behind. It wasn’t broken, as far as Six could tell — god forbid — but she certainly had a limp. He couldn’t bear to look, but couldn’t look away. The anger settled further underneath his skin, intertwining itself with every fibre of his being, as he took in her condition. Among all the signs of physical torture, the bruises and the cuts, the wound at her neck — as if a creature had tried to sink its nails into her throat and never let go ���  the one thing that didn't escape him was how wet she was, soaked through, arousal crawling down her right leg, slightly pinkish from her own blood. 

He’d left his marks: several royally purple bruises and animalistic bite wounds at her inner thigh, groin, and just shy of inside her. He’d tried to force his way with almost every part of her… Six would kill him slowly, then. He wasn’t usually one for making things personal — his work demanded that — but this was from the moment he premeditated. Deep down inside, Six was horrified, too. He knew why she’d been so violently raped, that Caleb wanted to fuck with him, knew it’d fuck with him. A faint whimper of fear snapped Six back to reality. She was curled up, trying to make herself as small as possible, her eyes huge with panic. And she was trying to get away from him. Her lip was split. He wanted to comfort her, but he had no idea what to say. So he just whispered.

“Fiona.”

------------------------------------------------------

She froze, zeroing in on her name in the darkness. It was his voice. For just a second, she relaxed, but the creeping anxiety and fear were hard to fight. She wasn’t safe. She would never be, or feel, safe again. But she had to be strong for both of them. She had to.

“S’okay,” she slurred, distantly. But the word was a flat, monotonous thing, falling from her tongue like lead. It was a lie: a big, ugly, stupid lie that was betrayed by her blood, and the streak of wet, and the smears of shame, and the angry, purple blotches on her battered skin. She was numb, so very numb. Too numb to feel much of anything, now. Just a creeping sense of caustic shame that made it impossible to meet Six's eyes.

A choked sob escaped her shaking body.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I... I couldn't fight; I— I... didn't want to— I'm sorry..." She cracked then, incapable of saying anything more, and broke down, sobbing in confusion. When he tried to reach through the bars to comfort her, she couldn’t stop herself from pulling away. It was instinct. It was him. She knew she was shattering his heart with every word, but she couldn’t repair the damage, nor could she live bandaging open wounds.

------------------------------------------------------

He heard his twin brother’s footsteps before she did. Six slammed himself against the bars, prompting, regrettably, a flinch from Fiona, but now was not the time to waste time pondering this turn of events. He was going to kill — no, violently murder — Caleb. He rattled the bars, tried to brute-force his way out, to no avail. The eventual realisation sunk in like dead weight, which he was in this situation. He was helpless.

He was helpless as Caleb picked her up like a ragdoll — a scared, limp body who reflexively curled against a monster who looked like the person she loved. She didn’t fight. He could tell she had no fight left in her, not anymore. She couldn’t even pick her head up as he shifted her weight in his arms, only letting out a pitiful moan of fear.

And what could he do? Nothing.

Caleb was smiling like he was insane, a hell-bent thing that only wanted revenge. It was disconcerting, seeing his own face wear such an evil grin. And then he laughed, like nothing was wrong. Like he didn’t have their lives and their love in the palm of his hand.

“She’s so pretty, Court. Pretty fucking fragile, too,” he hummed, tilting his head. “How do you feel right now?”

“I feel like kicking your ass,” Six replied immediately, tongue darting out to lick his own lips. Reflexively, he clenched his fingers into a fist. He was ready to fight to the death if he had to. He’d done it before, more than once, but he’d never had to fight himself. This was just another Thursday. It had to be. “Why?” he asked, voice measured.

“‘Why?’ ‘Why?’” Caleb repeated, tone burning with rage. “I don’t know, asshole, maybe because you fucking betrayed me! You left! I was shoved into foster for three damn years, then orphaned and homeless once I aged out of the system, and it was hell on earth,” he finished, laughing shakily. “I saved your life,” Six growled. 

“Only to leave me to fend for myself,” Caleb shot back. “I was in prison. You were there when I was on trial. In fact, I think you belong behind bars, not me.” Six replied, spitting through the divide between them. The spit landed on his twin’s right shoe, exactly on target. Caleb didn’t continue to verbally spar. He had no more words. The sound of a switchblade was audible in the proceeding silence. He put the blade to Fiona’s already wounded throat, and gently pressed, letting a few droplets of blood. When he spoke, his voice was turbulent, unstable, a hiss through twin teeth. He was taunting his brother.

“You didn’t save me. You killed me. And now I’m gonna do the same to you, from the inside out. It would be so easy to just… take her apart now. Wanna see how?” He asked.

“No, Caleb. I don’t.” Six fell quiet, then, blue-grey eyes suddenly burning with tears. Caleb continued as if Six hadn’t replied, left brow raising in mock-curiousity.

“No? Hey, how about this: if you don't comply exactly with what I want, I might get bored of our little game, and decide to end it — and her — for good! So if you care at all, you better not take your eyes off her for a fucking second.”

Six roared in pure rage. It was all he could do. He didn’t want to beg, or plead, or stoop to his brother’s level. He was beaten by the person who knew him best: himself. When he finally replied, voice raspy, it was with more strength and composure than he felt.

“Fine.”

------------------------------------------------------

The twin’s black-gloved fingers cruelly dug into her chin, as he turned her face towards Six; he wanted his brother to see everything as she came undone, weeping and whining. She struggled in his grip, to at least turn her face away, but the twin — Caleb — didn't budge. 

“Don’t look,” she whispered, pleading to no one. “Don’t look…” she repeated, meeting the grey gaze she knew so well. Caleb’s expression turned dark, he dug his nails in further, and she yelped.

“That’s not how we’re playing our game. Let him see you, doll,” he said scathingly.

“I’m— not your…” Doll.

Fiona couldn’t finish her sentence, instead letting out a mournful gasp. Again, she tried to struggle out of his grip to no avail.

“Au contraire, if you’re his, which I can tell you’re all too happy to be, you’re mine.”

Fiona shook her head weakly, breathing shallow and fast. He was waiting for something. She craned her head to look at Six, tried to twist away from him and towards him; the shame in her heart stretched out into her limbs, but there was nothing left for her to hold onto. 

“Please, Six—”

“Watch me fuck your girl.” Caleb said, cutting her off. She heard a short, tiny gasp from between her own lips, before the pain of forced entry bloomed between her legs. That didn’t sound like her, and this wasn’t Six. The gasp turned into cries of pain. She couldn’t speak, but her sobs said everything without words behind them.

“That’s right, doll. Beg for this to stop.”

This wasn’t Six, but his hands were cradling her jaw, were combing her hair back — his hips were angling to kill, peeling back her defences like the smoky curl of a burning cigarette. This wasn’t him. He was pistoning into her, tearing her apart, but she was only conscious of him — in that messy, disparaging, desperate way that the body understands more than the mind. This wasn’t him. Through the haze and the tears, she tried to crawl towards that thought, but it kept slipping just as her fingertips ghosted the grey.

Fiona felt hot liquid inch down her leg. Was that blood, or her body betraying her again? She didn’t want this. But the tiny knot in her abs was there regardless. It would unwind itself eventually, but, for now, it coiled tighter and tighter.

“Beg!” he growled, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust. She felt it on the inside, hitting against her cervix. She saw white. Beg. She couldn’t stop the sounds of both pain and pleasure leaving her lips. She didn’t want to beg. She just wanted to return the pain somehow, and that need crystallised into a not-so distant plan.

Her hands found his throat, weakly scratched for attention. His eyes were on hers. Perfect. Gasping and moaning as if in desire, she reached up and kissed him, then bit down on his lip in retaliation, as hard as she could. She wasn’t necessarily thinking. She knew what it looked like.

Six… The thought trailed into an unspoken apology.

The monster who looked like the man she loved let out a scream of pain, pulling back. It did not equate to hers. His bottom lip was bleeding, two vampire bites leaking his own blood. He spat it back into her face. She flinched, losing her nerve, and the knot frayed. She came on herself, a weak orgasm rippling through. She felt cold. “You— you bitch!” He yelled, breathing heavily, before pulling her off him, holding the girl up like a kitten. He threw her to her knees, and she didn’t move a muscle, looking up at him. Her eyes were glassy. That last ditch effort had been just that; she didn’t know why she did it, but he was only observing her like a predator, one gloved hand covering his wounded mouth, before something dark — something devilish — appeared behind his eyes. He lowered his gloved hand, and smiled. His voice was soft, almost comforting. “I made your girl cum, Court,” he goaded. “She’s my tortured sex doll, and she’ll never be anything else. I won. And now, just to rub it in, I’m gonna make her suck my cock.”

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As much as it pained him, Sierra Six — Courtland Gentry — didn’t look away, even though hot tears were trailing down his face and into his beard. He was too strong for her to fight off, and he knew that, because she was against him — those same arms that always held her securely were now a selfish vice, treating her like an object. She was on her knees now. 

He kicked her closer to him, and shoved himself down her throat. She’d already been crying, but now she was too fragile to even react, reflexively gagging with that same numb stare. Out of the corner of his eye, Six watched more wetness escape between her legs, before Caleb demanded his attention. “You’ve trained your bitch well, haven’t you?” Caleb asked, laughing. It was more of a bark than anything, bitter and vindictive. “How much do you want to bet I can make her cum again?”

Six’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t going to give his brother the satisfaction of getting a reply, but the tears continued.

“Suck me off, darlin’,” Caleb commanded, a self-satisfied southern drawl creeping in on darlin’. 

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Numbly, Fiona did as he asked, like a robot. The growly moans that left her torturer’s mouth— God, she knew them. She’d heard them vibrate against her own chest, shaking her whole world and the body that belonged to it. She wasn’t really there, not anymore. He’d already tortured her, used her, and there wasn’t anything left behind. So when he shoved her off him, just as he was about to cum, she was both confused and indifferent. He was breathing heavily, ragged and taut. The twin’s gaze drifted to the ghost in the metal shell, and he tilted his head. Another idea had occurred to him, darker than the last. She saw it in his eyes. “No!” The scream that left Courtland Gentry’s throat was one possessed. Fiona felt more than heard his heavy body sliding down the cell bars, but his eyes never left hers — both pairs of them.

He picked her up again, and she didn’t dissent. This time, he flipped her over, onto her stomach, positioning her on her hands and knees — a bruised Barbie to his killer Ken. She was staring into his eyes, but he was behind her, and she was so lost and confused and afraid, and he was enraged and afraid, and there was nothing but fear and pain within that moment of waiting for what they both knew was about to happen. I’m so sorry.

She screamed.

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She screamed, just like he knew she would. She screamed, despite the fact that he was lubed from her own spit, despite the fact that every movement against her body was familiar. She screamed, because they’d never done anal; that was her line, her hard No, Never, Not For Fifteen Million Merits thing, because she was terrified of the pain.

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And, God, was it painful. It was worse than when he’d rammed against her cervix; she was no longer seeing white, she was seeing static grey blooms that were the precursor to unconsciousness. She was too weak to move, to speak, to feel. 

But he didn’t care. The distant, hyper-aware part of her knew that. All he cared about was ensuring the three two of them knew that he unequivocally owned her now, that he’d ravaged and forced himself into every part of her, taken up the space where her heart used to be and replaced it with absence. 

He broke her. ------------------------------------------------------ She hadn’t moved after his brother came inside her ass. She was gone. In the moment he came and she left, Six had made a plan. His brother didn’t bother to clean her up, but he did have the grace to dump her in the corner of the cell beside him. She was in a tangled heap in her own wetness, his cum, and her own blood. Her breathing was so shallow, her chest was barely able to rise and fall.

Six scanned his cell, scanned Fiona’s and Fiona herself, before spotting the ring on her left hand. Her ring. It had been Dani’s idea, and he’d had it custom-made: the band could lock and and unlock, splitting into two halves to reveal a blade that could cut through most anything as if it were a hot knife through butter. He prayed it could melt through steel beams. Stretching to reach her hand, he ever-so-gently slid it off her finger. She didn’t respond, but he could see in her eyes that she was afraid, not of him, but of him, and he could do nothing except watch from the outside as she fell apart within. He got to work, fingers and hands delicately breaking one into two. The blade was as precise as Six was lethal. He slipped it back onto her finger when he was done.

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Caleb knew as soon as Courtland managed to escape, the latter would go after him, and Courtland knew he knew. They cornered each other in the stairwell, below fluorescent red light. Neither twin spoke, waiting for the other. Caleb was the one who eventually broke the silence, his words slurred from a wounded mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, panting, but he looked violently alive.

“What do you say, Six, you wanna dance?” He asked, swallowing his own blood with a gasp. Six must’ve betrayed something within his expression, because Caleb began to laugh. “Yeah, I know all about you — the infamous Sierra Six…” Caleb said, trailing off to breathe, panting a bit before he continued further. “She doesn’t even know your real name, does she?” 

Courtland Gentry — Sierra Six — didn’t reply, only let out a small sniff. His right hand clenched into a fist. “She does,” he whispered.

“Does she call you Six in bed, too?” His brother asked, mocking.

“No, she doesn’t,” he replied, expression turning grim; his jaw clenched in barely withheld rage.

“Do you even know who you are anymore? More importantly, does she?” He pressed, a low, gurgling chuckle escaping his throat.

“Shut up!” Six roared. He threw the first punch, which his brother ducked. Six grabbed him with his other hand, using his brother’s momentum against him. He threw his twin down the stairs, and they rolled together, Caleb spitting blood into Six’s face; they both groaned in pain when they hit the basement floor. Six got to his feet first, offered out a gloved hand to his brother, only to throw his weight back to the floor. Caleb swung his legs outward to trip Six, who fell face-first onto concrete. The sharp sound of breaking bone echoed outwards, but he wasn’t going to waste time. Six dizzily got to his feet, adrenaline keeping him up. The blood from his nose trickled into his mouth. It tasted of iron, and regret. They were evenly matched, and circled one another like vultures would the twin corpse.

He tasted blood, but his brother would choke on it.

This time, Caleb was the one who swung — a left hook, which Six blocked with his right forearm, twisting around to capture his brother in a headlock. Caleb began to laugh, spitting his own blood onto Six’s arms. He wasn’t fighting back. Six began to growl, a deep thing from his ribcage, before he gasped. He felt the shot before he heard it, stumbling back with a grunt as the bullet grazed his side.

“You’re a shit shot,” He managed to quip, ducking as Caleb let off another. “Who brings a gun to a fistfight?” 

“What makes you think I’d give up a loaded gun?” Caleb asked.

“Nobody throws a loaded gun, Caleb,” Six gasped in reply, gritting his teeth against the white-hot pain blooming from his side.

“My point exactly! You know me so well,” Caleb replied tauntingly, as he removed the shells and tossed the pistol aside. “Happy now?”

Six paused to catch his breath, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Like hell he was going to walk away.

“What do you think?” Six asked, a ghost of a grimace on his face. “Probably not,” Caleb replied, chuckling weakly, shaking his head. For a second, the ghost of who he used to be came back to life. 

With a roar and tears biting at his eyes, Six ran full-tilt towards his twin, tackling him against the opposite wall. Caleb landed on hard concrete with a heavy thump, groaning as more blood escaped his mouth, spraying Six in the face with dark red droplets. Six saw nothing but red, in more ways than one. The pair stood there, grappling, breaths ragged and heavy and wrapped in the grey, each trying to find purchase to hurt the other. Caleb tried to gouge Six’s eyes out, failed, gouged the skin of his temples instead; Six pressed his palms flat against his brother’s windpipe in return, gradually collapsing the airway. He watched the light leave his own eyes, and Caleb’s hands fell away. 

The asphyxiation was quick, as much as he’d intended otherwise. Sierra Six had saved his brother, and now, he had killed him. Revenge was a hollow thing; they’d both suffered enough, and he couldn’t bring himself to continue it. After everything, he had been merciful. Neither of them deserved mercy. 

The door to the basement stairwell slammed shut before the body hit the floor. ------------------------------------------------------

Fiona heard the basement door slam from two floors above. She flinched, jolting out of her dissociation with a whimper. Pulling her knees to her chest, she could only stare at her condition, limp limbs tangled up. She could still feel his cum dripping out of her, and feel her own sticky shame. She pressed her thighs together. 

She didn’t want to feel the mingling and swirling around underneath her. It was already shameful enough that she was collapsed there, in that pool of cum and blood, curled up in the corner of her cell. She began to wail. No one answered. Eventually, she exhausted what little energy she had left. 

She passed out, holding herself for comfort.

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Sierra Six — Courtland Gentry — took the time to find clothes and patch himself up, courtesy of the abandoned prison compound’s amenities and the retrieval of his backpack. There was no running water, but he wasn’t focused on looking nice just yet; he had to get Fiona gone. He’d found a janitorial cap to hide his face, and a jacket to cover and staunch his wounds. That would do.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to touch her. He had to find something — anything — to wrap her in, assuming she still wasn’t responsive. If she was, he just hoped she wouldn’t gouge his eye out. He ended up finding a spare tarp — presumably to protect the front lawn foliage against heavy rain — buried behind the linens in the janitorial closet. That would do. 

God, would he kill for a honey bun right now.

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She didn’t hear his footsteps, but she saw them, out of slitted, barely open eyes. Maybe he was Death, here to claim her, too. He kept his head low, a dark brown baseball cap hiding his face, but she recognised his build. She tried to play dead, but he must’ve seen her flinch back, because as soon as she shifted, he froze, hands up.

“Get away from me, you monster,” she croaked, but nothing came out from between her lips, besides a weak mewling. 

“Fiona,” he whispered, stepping forward a few paces. “I’m here to get you out of here. Get you gone. Okay? We’re gonna get you cleaned up.”

“Don’t— don’t touch me,” she tried again. Again, no words left her mouth. She was effectively mute. She stared at him, eyes big orbs of fear, as he knelt down and gently picked her up. She flinched again, more violent than the last, in his arms. She knew those arms… But there was no torture this time. He just wrapped her up in a giant, plasticky blanket. She had a hard time believing it, but she could barely move, let alone escape his grip. She could barely see under the cap — he kept his face carefully angled away from her field of view — but she knew. His face was already burnt into her brain as the face of the man who hurt her beyond belief.

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And Six knew this. He heard and saw it all — both when it happened, and, currently, in her eyes. He could tell by the way she looked at him that she was right back with his brother with every attempted glance towards his face. And it broke his heart. 

He was Sisyphus, punished by the gods, but here he was a pantheon. He walked out of the compound and out of hell, silent as Death but as determined as Hades, his Persephone in his arms.

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He took her to a hospital. It wasn’t a normal hospital; she could tell that solely based on the atmosphere. They went into an elevator, down, down, down. She watched him tap his ear, and then he spoke, voice still quiet.

“I’m here, Dani. Is Claire safe?”

They must’ve spoken before. She didn’t know anyone named Dani. Did she? “Things got loud, that’s all. Be glad you’re not going to either of our funerals.”

Fiona didn’t want to die, not yet. Sometimes, she felt like she was — like ghosts and ghouls were wrapping around her head. 

“Fiona… Fiona’s been better.” His voice broke slightly, on better, but he continued. “You know what, Miranda? I’m trying to figure out what answer it is that you want.”

A pause in the conversation, as she responded.

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He asked. He hung up on Dani, whoever she was.

The elevator doors opened up into an emergency wing. There were soldiers stationed at every corner, in every hallway. He took her to a room at the end of the main hall. It was empty. He opened up the plastic blanket, peeling back the bedsheet at the same time, and laid her down. She wanted to fall asleep right there, but she couldn’t. She stared up at the ceiling, and watched him out of the corner of her eye. He couldn’t look at her; instead, he pressed the button that called for a nurse. 

His hand shook, ever so slightly.

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When the nurse arrived, Six stepped out of the room. He stayed by the doorway to keep an eye on Fiona, but kept his eyes to the floor and his head low. He spoke to the nurse in a whispered tone — not to hide anything, but to spare Fiona more pain. The nurse, Maggie — Six felt a pang of sorrow, remembering Cahill for just a moment — listened with a sympathetic ear. She couldn’t understand what had happened during the op, not really. But she did understand the situation. She knew the line of work she was in.

“So you can help her recover?”

“Of course, Mr. Gentry.”

“Thanks,” he replied. The exhaustion settled in then, along with the relief, but he had something left to do. “And where can I get cleaned up?”

“You don’t want to use the patient restroom just in here…?” She paused, glancing at Fiona’s prone form in concern, before the realisation settled behind her eyes. “Ah. I understand, Mr. Gentry. I can direct you to a guest bathroom,” she whispered.

“Thanks.” ------------------------------------------------------

A pair of female nurse examiners came in, asking permission to spread her legs apart. Fiona let them. When they examined the inside of her mouth, her vagina, and her asshole, she let them. When they combed samples of hair, spit, blood, cum, and sweat off her body, she let them. When they took forensic images of her sore skin and bruised body, she let them. When they traded her clothes and lace for a hospital gown over clinically white underwear, she let them. She accepted whatever they wanted to do to her without question. It’s not like she could’ve disagreed. It’s not like she could’ve fought them.

However, when they asked her questions, she could say nothing. She couldn’t move a muscle. He’d left. He couldn’t speak for her, and nor did she want him to, but at least he could explain himself. When they left, promising to come back when she was ready, he still wasn’t back. She saw them exchange a look on their way out.

When the orderlies came in, they took her out of bed and into the bathroom. They bathed her under the spray of a thin, hard-water antiseptic shower. She let them. She listened to them arrange follow-up procedures for preventative care, their voices echoing around the bathroom, though none of it mattered to her. She watched a fly buzz on the mirror light. When they took her back to bed, Fiona just laid there. They’d turned the television on, but she had no interest in it. She kept her eyes on the triple-padlocked door and the red keycard light above it, and simply waited for red to turn green.

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Under the yellowish glare of the locked guest bathroom, Six finally removed the janitor’s cap. He scanned himself in the mirror, angling his face this way and that, fingers pressed to his throat, then nose. With a grunt, he set the broken bone back into place. More blood gushed over his lips; he coughed as dark blood splattered white porcelain. “Shit,” he gasped. The word came out a reaction instead of a response. He’d never broken his nose this badly before. There was dried blood on the left side of his face, rivulets of red like rain down a car window. He combed back sweaty, dirty blonde hair, then turned the tap, as far as it could go. Cold water gushed, turning redrum into pink — under the light, his blood could’ve been mistaken for too-sour lemonade. He took stock of the tiny half-bath. It'd be another shower with a washrag. Fine by him. His backpack was in the corner; he knelt down with a small groan, unzipped it. He took out what he needed, methodically laying everything out on top of the toilet’s tank, then tossed the jacket and his black shirt to the floor. It took all of five minutes, washrag tap bath included, and then, when he was dressed again, he picked up the razor.

Always look like shit, always clean up nice. 

Six stared at himself in the mirror, letting out an exhausted sniff. The soreness was really settling in now. He lifted the razor to his right cheek, then his left, going with the grain and trying to be as careful as he could on each side. He had no shaving cream, so when he eventually nicked himself, it was a sharp stab of dull pain. He sucked in a hiss through his teeth, let out another sniffle, then continued. The cut was a small and shallow one, along his jaw. It didn’t bleed, just glistened, mocking him for being unable to cry. 

When he left the guest bathroom, the janitorial cap was back on, along with his shirt, jacket, and backpack. He kept his head low and his hands in his pockets.

------------------------------------------------------- When the keycard light finally turned green, Fiona braced herself for the person that would walk through the door. She knew who it would be. She was scared of who it was.

He opened the door with a click-click-click; it swung inwards, then back. The door locked itself. Green turned red. Fiona followed him with only her eyes. He walked past her bed, into the opposing bedside chair, head low and hands in pockets. 

He’d shaved. There was a skin-deep cut along his jawline. She could see just slightly past the brim of the cap, too; his nose was bruised.

He adjusted in his seat, pulled the cap lower over his face, and attempted to sleep, assuming he wasn’t pretending. Fiona let out a held breath. Her bangs fluttered in front of her face. She could escape, maybe, but that would require stealing his keycard, and she didn’t want to risk that.

He’d rape her again.

The television, though its volume was low, felt loud. It was the elephant in the room, taking up silent, empty space with its sound. Fiona refused to look away from him. She wouldn’t take her eyes off of him for a goddamn second.

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He could feel her distrust. It radiated off her in waves, her eyes fearfully baleful as she stared a hole into his janitorial cap. On the T.V. was an old movie, from a few years after Courtland was born; he knew it, but he had no idea how. Three boys were in an old beater; all three were greasers. Two were eating like they were starving, one was smoking. The smoker took a drag, then laughed grimly.

“Man, that broad sure does hate me. I offered to take her over to The Dingo for a Coke, and she told me to go to hell.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that — a dark, bittersweet, wounded thing — from underneath his cap. Even to his own ears, it sounded weird. He felt hollow.

A second later, her heart monitor flatlined.

No, no, no…!

Shoving down his panic, Courtland rushed towards the door, keycard already in hand. On his way, he punched the button for the on-call nurse.

As soon as he was out the door, the heart monitor peaked from nothing and returned to normal, as if she was coming back from the dead. He wasn’t around to hear it. The door was already locked behind him: click-click-click.

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“Aline! Que fais-tu, ma fille?” “Rien! Je promet!”

“Non, non, tu fais quelque chose,” her father replied, teasing her.

Aline pouted. “Qu'est-ce que je fais, papa?”

“Tu es... trop adorable!” Aline’s father said, going in for the kill; he began to tickle her. In spite of trying, Aline couldn’t keep a straight face, and fell into a fit of giggles.

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Courtland ran past the nurse that was going in the opposite direction. He didn’t know exactly where he was headed, just that he needed to find her records. He was listed as her emergency contact, so he had access to them, within reason. He just had to talk to the right people, pull the right strings. He would wait. He had no choice but to wait, but he would wait for her. Someone grabbed him by the shoulder. He resisted the sudden urge to retaliate and fight back; it was only a doctor.

“Mr. Gentry?” The doctor asked. After a moment, Courtland recognised her as the residential physician for the floor — her name card said as much: Dr. Olivia Holland.

“Dr. Holland,” he replied, catching his composure in his throat. 

“May I speak with you for a moment? Concerning your fiancée?”

Courtland blinked, taken aback for a moment. He suddenly felt so juvenile, and in a few ways, maybe he was. Growing up in a jail cell made you tough, but in none of the right ways. He’d had no say in his life.

“I was just—”

“Going to find the patient records room?” Dr. Holland asked in reply, raising an amused brow. “You know you need only ask. You have prior authorisation.” She reminded him, giving a wink. He did not have prior authorisation. Dr. Holland was only a handful or two years older than him, yet it was as if she knew something he didn’t, or that they shared something unsaid.

“I know,” Courtland exhaled. The exhaustion was in his bones. “I just don’t have time to ask.”

“Come with me, then.”

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Fiona came back to herself in the same white hospital bed. Her eyes flickered to the door. The keycard light was red, and the door was locked. Her eyes moved to the bedside. He had left. She was alone. Her eyes flickered to the television.

“I liked you from the start. The way we talked. Wouldn't you try to help me if you could?”

“Can you see the sunset from the Southside very good?”

“Yeah. Real good.”

“You can see it from the Northside, too.” 

“Thanks, Ponyboy. You dig okay.” Fiona let a whimper out into the silence. She felt so faint, so fragile, but there was nowhere she could go. Where would she go? She’d left her papa across the ocean, and her mama was in the grave. Her papa probably was, too, at this point. Fiona heard a small beep. A machine had picked up some response from her internal system. Was she panicking? She only felt numb and so, so sleepy. She saw the haze crawl over her eyes before she fell back into memory.

“You want to go to America, ma cherie? What for?”

“I want to live, papa! I don’t want to stay here and rot, you know. Mama said—”

“I don’t care what she said. You think America will give you excitement? That it will give you an adventure? C’est dangereux!” He wasn’t angry; rather there were tears in his eyes. He wanted to respect his wife’s dying wish, but he couldn’t let his Aline go, he just couldn’t. She could see it in his eyes; that was precisely why she was being so adamant.

“I will go; Mama wished for me to go, and I am going to fulfill it, whether you like it or not!”

“Then go. Don’t come back here, ma fille. I will not be here when you come back.”

He wasn’t angry. Aline almost wished he was. Even so, she turned and walked away, bags and luggage on her arm, and began the long walk to the airport. She was going to fly to America.

[rosewriteswhump]

Mistake ch 3

CW: Lady whump (whumper and whumpee), fairy whump, immortal whumpee, non-human whumpee, flashback, panic attack, begging, implied wing whump, burning, mild gore, implied past abuse Let me know if I forget anything!

Dawn looked out the window, glaring at the storm clouds as they formed. All she could think about was the human responsible for hurting Marlie. Her adopted twin had gone to the store for new clothes with Harley and Cedar. Harley was a noble, offering to take Marlie shopping so her clothes could work. Cedar offered to go with them, wanting to leave the house for a few days. 

"Glaring at the clouds isn't going to make a difference. Marlie didn't want to talk about her problems before meeting Alice. Dawn, listen, you saved Marlie. Seriously, she would be dead if you hadn't found her." Bear handed Dawn a mug of tea, watching as she sipped slowly. He watched her gaze shift back to the clouds, both jumping as the door opened.

"Dawn! Bear! We have food!" Cedar shouted, cursing when Leader knocked his hat from his head.  

The two walked over from the window, Cedar offering to help set the table and Dawn following Marlie as she placed a few bags in her room. When Marlie and Dawn were out of earshot, Cedar looked at the two faeries. "Okay, so what should we do for their birthday? Make a cake and flower crowns like usual?" Bear asked, setting several plates out as Cedar used magic to set the food out. 

Cedar smiled softly. "Yes, and Marlie talked about going crystal mining when shopping. Dawn can use the magic in some of them. It would be a nice team outing! Harley wanted to go cave diving, too, right?" Cedar pumped his fist in the air as Harley nodded, turning their back to the boys as they went to find Marlie and Dawn. 

Marlie took a small jewelry box and hid it in the nightstand drawer; she smiled at the gift for Dawn inside. Marlie had always been small, so being a head shorter than Dawn was normal. However, fraternal twins always looked different, unlike the boys. 

Dawn smiled softly, knocking on the open door. Marlie flinched but smiled at her. "Hey, how was shopping? Get that dress you wanted?" The healer giggled when Marlie nodded excitedly, taking the dress from the bag and showing it to her sister. 

"Yes, and it was on sale too! There was a matching one in red, but they didn't have your size, but I can make you one." Marlie set the bags out of the way and crossed the room to hug Dawn tightly. "I missed you. Dawn, what should we do for our birthday? We always have a little thing for just us. I m-missed the last two, and I won't let that happen again."

Harley poked their head in, smiling when Dawn and Marlie pulled away. "Dinner's ready. Marlie, I need to talk to you for a second; can you stay back?" Harley brushed the hair back to the left, showing off their side shave and new purple dye job. 

Marlie stiffened, already knowing what Harley wanted to discuss. She knew she'd fucked up when she panicked at the mall, and they had managed to calm her before too much attention was drawn. That didn't change the fact that her lack of control caused her friends embarrassment, and embarrassing others was always the worst. 

Whumper's voice taunted her in her head, repeating herself over and over. 

"How dare you humiliate me! I have a reputation to uphold and refuse to let something like you ruin it. Silver doesn't kill the fae, so your chains are made from it instead of iron." Alice dragged Marlie by her wings. They always hurt now, even if she was asleep. Whumper laughed when Marlie's legs buckled beneath her, the silver weakening her strength even more. 

It burns. Marlie could feel her blood boiling against the silver as it ate away at her wrists. Bone was the only thing it didn't melt. Instead, it sat there burning like lemon juice had gotten in a paper cut. 

Marlie returned to reality when Harley touched her back, guiding her to sit. "N-no! Anyth-ing but my w-wings. Please, please, please."  

"I'm not going to hurt you. Your wings are safe, okay?" Harley crouched to meet Marlie's gaze. The glint of hope and trust was heart-wrenching. "I promise no one will ever hurt you here." They smiled gently, relieved when Marlie leaned forwards to hug them. 

Several long moments passed before Marlie pulled back, taking a deep shaking breath. "You weren't embarrassed?" Harley shook their head, standing and offering a hand to their short friend. Marlie hesitated for a moment, gently placing her hand in Harley's. 

"No, I was worried. Something triggered you, and I wanted to ask what it was. Are you ready to talk about it?" Harley gently pulled her to her feet, ruffling her hair. 

Marlie thought momentarily, questioning if she was ready to bring up her trigger. "N-not yet. Can we eat now?" The young fairy changed the subject, wanting to process and think independently. Harley smiled gently, guiding Marlie to the dining room. 

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Ask box is open for anything you'd like to ask me or my characters! /gen

[pupmusebox]

Tag dump 6/?

{ First Brother and Avatar of Pride - Lucifer } { Second Brother and Avatar of Greed - Mammon } { Third Brother and Avatar of Envy - Leviathan } { Fourth Brother and Avatar of Wrath - Satan } { Fifth Brother and Avatar of Lust - Asmodeus } { Sixth Brother and Avatar of Gluttony - Beelzebub } { Seventh Brother and Avatar of Sloth - Belphegor } { Human Exchange Student Among Demons - Yuki/Male!MC } { Royal Demon and Future King of Devildom - Lord Diavolo } { Loyal and Impeccable Demon Butler - Barbatos } { Powerful and Immortal Sorcerer - Solomon } { Calm and Serious Archangel - Simeon } { Quiet Spear Wielding Seraphim - Raphael } { Reaper and Caretaker of Life Candles - Thirteen } { Young Devil Bird of a Son - Lucius } { Playful Half Demon and Prideful Bird - Dante } { Royal Heir and Half Demon Dragon - Caius } { Crafty Bird of a Half Demon and Fae - Mael } { Mystery Demon of a Moth Pet - Samuel } { Warm Heart of Royal Dragon - Silas } { Sharp Witted Bird of Pride - Ignatius } { Noble Demon of Wickedness - Belial } { Shepherding Archangel of Justice - Raguel } { King of Knights - Arthur Pendragon } { Solitude Psychic of a Legendary - Vero/Mewtwo } { Tech Talented Alibaba and Oracle - Futaba Sakura } { Team Rocket Boss and Former Gym Leader - Giovanni } { Cold Eyed Rocket Executive - Archer } { Team Rocket's Master of Disguise - Petrel } { Team Magma's Boss - Maxie }

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #17

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: implied domestic abuse

Iris woke up with a throbbing headache. She had been tucked into bed, which she didn’t remember doing.

The morning light filtered through her windows, and it made her head pound.

But in order to close the curtains, she’d have to get up.

Iris groaned and pulled her blanket over her head.

“Oh good,” said a quiet voice. “You’re awake.”

It took her a moment to recognize that it was Kit. “What time is it?” she mumbled. 

“Twelve after ten.”

Alarm ran through her, and she shot up. She winced.

“Take it easy,” said Kit. “It’s your day off.”

“Oh thank god.” Iris fell back against her pillows, vaguely nauseous. Kit stood next to her bed, amused. 

“Did you even go to bed?” she asked. 

“I slept.”

“In your room?”

“You were drunk. I wanted to keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks,” she said, closing her eyes. “Could you go get me some breakfast? With orange juice?”

Iris was aware she was whining, but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment. She could have asked Kit to magic away her hangover, but she deserved it for drinking so much. Served her right.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Kit left, and Iris lay in her bed, trying to will herself to shower. 

The need to use the bathroom eventually forced her out of bed.

Showering did make her feel better, and the floral soap lifted her mood.

By the time she had finished and gotten dressed, Kit had breakfast waiting for her.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, uncovering the french toast and pouring herself coffee.

“Yes,” he said.

“Good.”

Kit sat on the floor as she ate, and Iris could see a strong dark green coming in at his scalp.

“Your hair isn’t black, is it?”

He seemed startled by the question. “No,” he said simply.

“It’s changing color,” she continued, “You’ve got some green coming in. I take it that’s good?”

A faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Mhm.”

Slight disappointment coursed through her.

It seemed that for every day Kit had a conversation with her, he’d be nearly silent the next.

“Let’s get some sun after breakfast,” she suggested. “I’ve been inside all week, and you need to pick out where your garden will be.”

“I get to choose?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Kit shrugged halfheartedly. Getting words out of him would be difficult today; she could tell.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he had said that first evening. Maybe he just needed a topic.

“Have you thought about what you want to do with it?” she asked.

“A little.” Iris waited, taking a sip of her orange juice.

“I… I’d like it to look like home,” he explained, fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. “Just a bit.”

“Are you going to plant some wild roses?”

Kit nodded. “If I’m allowed.”

Iris stood from her chair. “You can plant whatever you want, Kit.”

“Even a tree? Ivy? Berry bushes?” he asked, following her out the door.

“I did say whatever you want.” Brennan greeted them with a nod, and they headed down the hall. “I’m not particularly interested in gardening, Kit. I don’t care what you plant; go wild.”

Kit brightened beside her, and Iris hid a smile. He was sweet, and he deserved a place that was his; that he could choose himself.

The late morning air was warm, slightly humid, and she assumed that was good for a plant fae like Kit.

He seemed to soak in the sun, and he truly looked much better than before.

Jeff was weeding a flower bed, wheelbarrow beside him and trowel in hand.

“Good morning, Jeff.”

Jeff looked up, and squinted in the bright sun.

“Morning, your majesty.” His eyes slid over to Kit, who winced. “Morning… you.”

“Hello,” said Kit. 

“I’ve offered Kit a spot on the grounds. Something just for him to look over.”

Jeff didn’t look pleased, but he knew better than to argue with her. “Fine with me,” he said tightly. 

“Great,” Iris gave him a sunny smile. “Thank you for understanding.”

Jeff softened a little before turning back to his work.

They wandered the gardens; Kit looking around for the perfect spot.

“Anything catch your eye yet?”

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s fine,” she reassured him. “I don’t mind. I could use the exercise.”

They rounded a corner, and Kit stopped.

“What is it?”

“I, uh, I like that corner over there.”

Iris followed his gaze. The high garden wall met the castle, and the castle wall curved inwards, creating a small nook. It was empty, save for a tree that created a patch of shade against the sun.

“What do you like about it?” she asked lightly, curious.

Pink tinged Kit’s cheeks. “It’s quiet,” he said. “And out of the way. And, um, it looks nice for a nap,” he added quickly. “And the walls… I don’t have to worry about someone sneaking up on me.”

Iris recalled how James Harbor had boasted about catching Kit with an iron-laced net while he slept.

“Then it’s yours.”

___________________

Three days later, and Kit dozed under the oak. It was the perfect temperature; warm but not hot, and he curled into the protective roots of the tree.

A robin sang sweetly in the branches, and Kit hummed along.

Iris was busy in a meeting, and he had wanted a nap to pass the time.

He was right about how peaceful it was.

It seemed like this spot had been forgotten about, and he liked it that way. The perfect little oasis; where he could be left alone.

“Mr. Kit?”

Or not.

Kit yawned, stretching out. “Hm?”

“I- I need some help.”

Kit’s eyes flew open, and in front of him stood the red-haired maid from before. David.

He had a black eye, and he was holding a rucksack.

Kit sat up. “What happened?”

David sniffed, lip trembling, and Kit noticed his slight sway.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “Come here.”

David sank into the grass, and Kit scooted over to sit next to him.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” said David. “I- I should b-be at home. But I don’t want to go home anymore.”

His breath smelled like alcohol.

“Have you been drinking?”

David nodded, resting his chin on his legs. “I thought it would help,” he said. “It always helps Dad.”

“It doesn’t really work that way.”

David burst into tears.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he sobbed. “My face hurts and he takes all my money and now we don’t have anything for food because he spent it all and he gets mad at me for it and-”

David gasped for air, and Kit pulled him close. David wept into his shirt.

“I-” Kit worked his jaw, trying to sort out what he could and couldn’t say. “Are you hungry?” he settled on. Food never hurt anyone.

David nodded. “Y-yeah. We- we ran out of… I really tried. I really did.” His voice was so small, and anger bubbled in Kit’s chest.

“Let’s go get some lunch, and we’ll figure something out.”

David sniffled. “Okay.”

taglist: @paintedpigeon1 @cupcakes-and-pain @loserwithsyle @cepheusgalaxy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @virtualbreadtale @bitchaknso @starfields08000 @honeycollectswhump @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question

[stitchedup-rot]

My bet's on etho would be the best to go to first for kittycat persuasion

you might think that but I'm not quite sure she won't maybe fight the kittycat? or look at it very strangely. it's hard to tell how he'll act around various creatures

[theveryworstthing]

SpaceDancer's request for parasitic roses and Camille Alexander's request for unicorn fops created Angelique.

i now present my newest Charming Little Freak ✨

Angelique is one of those beings that isn't cleanly classified as a fae or a demon. he/it/whatever (roses are perfect plants and so it mostly goes by the pronouns common for the additional sex of his host body in human society because they couldn't care less) is a Rampant. a type of sapient parasitic rose that, over time, transforms the body of their host from a simple quadruped beast to bipedal humanoid (kinda) monster. every Rampant seems to mold themselves into unique forms, and designs often carry over if they somehow manage to get "uprooted" without dying and have to start over with a new flesh body. if Rampants stay rooted then they're borderline immortal even though their hosts are...dead? it's unclear. the Rampant certainly carries memories of what it was like being an animal and their flesh and blood is altered, but alive. the body keeps the score whether they like it or not. but the beast itself, its mind, dies quickly after a Rampant takes root. either from the trauma from becoming a Flowerbed or from the Rampant purposefully putting a thorn through its brain. whether fae or demon, Rampants take. they do not possess. they do not imprison.

Angelique currently lives in a small dying village, spending his time checking in on the aging population as a kind of town housemaid/caretaker and tending to his flower shop/apothecary. most people would say that having a creature like him around isn't a great idea, but this eldritch horror has basically been adopted by every lonely old person in town so good luck getting rid of him.

Fun Facts:

he loves nice soft clothes, meat (blood sausage is his favorite), and (in spite of his goth everything all the time) sunlight.

buzzing sounds make him flustered while prolonged exposure to cut grass smells and cold weather make him anxious.

he's an scary good climber and will forgo a door if he knows someone is on a higher floor of a building and he sees an open window.

always well hydrated. carries around a flask of water at all times and likes to sit outside naked when it rains.

he has many little leafy assistants which are also just him. he's like an octopus. the people in the community assign them all little names and give them unique decorations and he thinks it's really cute.

what is he getting out of staying in this village? none of your business.

he's currently in a weird situationship with 2 local gravekeepers from rival graveyards/religions and the recently widowed agnostic town doctor. everyone in this polycule hates everyone else but him. he's also friends with benefits with my character Brooke, who finds all of this hilarious and is eager to hear about the latest disaster every time he passes through town.